by Harlan Coben
"Just about. I have tickets on the fifty-yard line. After every game, I have sex with two players--one from the defense, and one from the offense."
"Sort of like the game MVPs?"
"Exactly."
Myron shrugged. "Beats getting the game ball, I guess."
"Yes," she said slowly. "It definitely beats getting a game ball."
Myron rubbed his eyes. Ground control to Major Tom. He studied her for a moment. She seemed to be doing the same thing to him. "So how did you get the nickname Thumper?" he asked.
"It's not what you think."
"What's not what I think?"
"How I got the nickname. Everyone assumes it has something to do with screwing like a rabbit."
"And it doesn't?"
"No, it doesn't." She looked up in the air. "How do I explain this delicately?"
"You're worried about delicacy?"
She gave him a mildly disapproving look. "Don't be like that."
"Like what?"
"Like some right-wing, narrow-minded, Pat Buchanan-type Neanderthal. I have feelings."
"I didn't say you didn't."
"No, but you're acting like it. I don't hurt anyone. I'm honest. I'm forward. I'm direct. I control what I do and to whom. And I'm happy."
"Not to mention disease-ridden," he heard himself say and immediately regretted it. The words had just slipped out; that happened to him sometimes.
"What?"
"I'm sorry," he said. "That was uncalled for."
But he had hit a nerve. "The men I have sex with always wear condoms," she snapped. "I get tested frequently. I'm clean."
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."
She didn't stop. "And I don't sleep with anyone I think might be infected with something. I'm careful that way."
Myron bit his lip this time. No point. "My mistake," he said. "I didn't mean it; I'm sorry. Please accept my apology."
Her chest heaved, but she was calm now. "Okay," she said with an exhale. "Apology accepted."
Her eyes met his again. They smiled at each other for far too long. Myron felt like a game-show contestant. A thought thankfully interrupted the semitrance. "Did you sleep with Greg Downing?" he asked.
"In 1993," she said. "He was one of the first Dragons."
How that must swell his bosom with pride. "You still see him?"
"Sure. We're good friends. I'm friends with most of the guys afterwards. Not all, but most."
"Do you two talk a lot?"
"Sometimes."
"Recently?"
"Not the past month or two."
"Do you know if he's seeing anyone?"
Thumper gave him a curious look. "Why would you want to know about that?"
Myron shrugged. "Just making conversation." The Return of Mr. Lame.
"It's an odd topic," she said.
"I guess I've been thinking about him a lot. All this talk about my being on Greg's team and our history together. It just got me thinking."
"It got you thinking about Greg's love life?" She wasn't buying it.
Myron sort of shrugged and mumbled something even he didn't understand. A laugh broke out from the other side of the pool. A group of his new teammates were enjoying a joke. Leon White was one of them. He met Myron's eye and nodded a hello. Myron nodded back. Myron realized that while no one seemed to be staring at them, all of his teammates had to know why Thumper had approached him. Again he felt like he was back in college, but this time the feeling didn't bring on the same happy nostalgia.
Thumper was busy studying him again, her eyes narrowed and focused. Myron tried to look neutral, but he felt like a doofus. Being so openly inspected did that to him. He tried to meet her gaze.
Thumper suddenly smiled widely and folded her arms. "I get it now," she said.
"What?"
"It's obvious."
"What's obvious?"
"You want revenge," she said.
"Revenge for what?"
The smile grew a bit, then relaxed. "Greg stole Emily from you. Now you want to steal someone back."
"He didn't steal her from me," Myron said quickly. He heard the defensive tone in his voice and didn't like it. "Emily and I broke up before they started dating."
"If you say so."
"I say so." Mr. Snappy Retort.
She let loose a throaty laugh and put a hand on his arm. "Relax, Myron. I'm only teasing you." She looked at him again. All of this eye contact was beginning to give Myron a headache. He stared at her nose instead. "So are we going to do this?" she asked.
"No," Myron said.
"If it's the fear of disease--"
"It's not. I'm involved with someone."
"So?"
"So I don't cheat on her."
"Who wants you to cheat? I just want to have sex with you."
"And you think those two things are mutually exclusive?"
"Of course they are," Thumper said. "Our having sex should have absolutely no effect on your relationship. I don't want you to stop caring about your girlfriend. I don't want to be a part of your life. I don't even want to be intimate."
"Gee, you make it sound so romantic," Myron said.
"But that's just the point. It's not romantic. It's just a physical act. Sure, it feels great, but in the end it's just a physical act. Like shaking hands."
"Shaking hands," Myron repeated. "You should write greeting cards."
"I'm just telling you how it is. Past civilizations--ones far more intellectually advanced than us--understood that pleasure of the flesh was no sin. Associating sex with guilt is a modern, absurd hang-up. This whole concept of tying sex to possession is something we got from uptight Puritans who wanted to maintain control over their major possession: their wife."
A history scholar, Myron thought. Nice to see.
"Where is it written," she continued, "that two people can't reach heights of physical ecstasy without being in love? I mean, think about how ridiculous that is. It's silly, isn't it?"
"Maybe," Myron said. "But I'll still pass, thank you."
She shrugged a suit-yourself. "TC will be very disappointed."
"He'll get over it," he said.
Silence.
"Well," she said, clasping her hands together, "I think I'll mingle. It was nice chatting with you, Myron."
"A true experience," Myron agreed.
Myron mingled a bit too. He hooked up with Leon for a while. Leon introduced him to his wife, a blond sexpot named Fiona. Very Playmate-like. She had a breathy voice and was one of those women who made even the most casual conversation one long double entendre--so accustomed to using her physical charms that she did not know when to turn them off. Myron chatted with them both briefly and excused himself.
The bartender informed him that they were not stocking any Yoo-Hoo. He took an Orangina instead. Not just orange soda, but Orangina. How European. He took a sip. Pretty good.
A hand slapped Myron's back. It was TC. He had foregone the GQ-suit look, opting for white leather pants and a white leather vest. No shirt. He wore dark sunglasses.
"Having a good time?" he asked.
"It's been interesting," Myron said.
"Come on. I'll show you something."
They walked in silence up a grassy hill away from the party. The incline grew steadily steeper, the music fainter. The rap had been replaced with an alternative group called the Cranberries. Myron liked their music. "Zombie" was on right now. Dolores O'Riordan was repeatedly singing, "In your head, in your head," until she got tired and moved to repeating the word, "Zombie, zombie" several hundred times. Okay, the Cranberries could work on their chorus lyrics, but the song still worked. Good stuff.
There were no lights now, but a glow from the ones by the pool provided enough illumination. When they reached the plateau, TC motioned in front of them. "There."
Myron looked out, and the sight nearly took his breath away. They were up high enough to get an unimpeded, spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline. T
he sea of lights seemed to shimmer like beads of water. The George Washington Bridge looked close enough to touch. They both stood in silence for several moments.
"Nice, huh?" TC said.
"Very."
He took off his sunglasses. "I come up here a lot. By myself. It's a good place to think."
"I would think so."
They looked off again.
"Thumper talk to you yet?" Myron asked.
TC nodded.
"Were you disappointed?"
"No," TC said. "I knew you'd say no."
"How?"
He shrugged. "Just a feeling. But don't let her fool you. Thumper's good people. She's probably the closest thing I got to a friend."
"What about all those guys you were hanging out with?"
TC sort of smiled. "You mean the white boys?"
"Yeah."
"Not friends," he said. "If tomorrow I stopped playing ball, they'd all look at me like I'm pinching on a loaf on their sofa."
"Poetically put, TC."
"Just the truth, man. You in my position, you don't have no friends. Facts of life. White or black, it don't matter. People hang around me because I'm a rich superstar. They figure they can get something for free. That's all."
"And that's okay with you?"
"Don't matter if it's okay," TC said. "It's the way it is. I ain't complaining."
"Do you get lonely?" Myron asked.
"Too many people around to get lonely."
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I know what you mean." TC sort of jerked his head from side to side, like he was trying to loosen up his neck before a game. "Folks always talking about the price of fame, but you wanna know the real price? Forget that privacy shit. So I don't go out to the movies as much. Big fucking deal--where I come from you can't afford to go anyway. The real price is you ain't a person anymore. You're just a thing, a shiny thing like one of those Benzes out there. The poor brothers think I'm a golden ladder with goodies at every step up. The rich white boys think I'm a fancy pet. Like with OJ. Remember those guys who hung out in OJ's trophy room?"
Myron nodded.
"Look, I ain't complaining. Don't get me wrong. This is a whole lot better than pumping gas or working in a coal mine or something. But I always got to remember the truth: the only thing that separates me from any nigger on the street is a game. That's it. A knee going pop, like with what happened to you, and I'm back down there. I always remember that. Always." He gave Myron hard eyes, letting his words hang in the crisp air. "So when some hot babe acts like I'm something special, it ain't me she's after. You see what I'm saying? She's blinded by all that money and fame. Everyone is, male or female."
"So you and I could never be friends?" Myron asked.
"Would you be asking me that if I was just some ignorant fool pumping gas?"
"Maybe."
"Bullshit," he said with a smile. "People bitch about my attitude, you know. They say I act like everybody owes me. Like I'm a prima donna. But they just mad because I see through them. I know the truth. They all think I'm some ignorant nigger--the owners, the coaches, whatever--so why should I respect them? Only reason they even talk to me is because I can slam the ball through the hoop. I'm just a monkey making them money. Once I stop, that's it. I'm just another dumb slice of ghetto shit not fit to sit my black ass on their toilet." He stopped then, as though out of breath. He looked back at the skyline. The sight seemed to rejuvenate him. "You ever meet Isiah Thomas?" he asked.
"The Detroit Piston? Yeah, once."
"I heard him doing this interview one time, must have been when the Pistons won those championships. Some guy asked him what he'd be doing if he wasn't a basketball player. You know what Isiah said?"
Myron shook his head.
"He said he'd be a United States senator." TC laughed hard and high-pitched. The sound echoed in the still night. "I mean, is the brother crazy or what? Isiah really believe that shit. A United States senator--who the fuck is he kidding?" He laughed again, but the sound seemed more forced now. "Me, I know what I'd be. I'd be working in a steel mill, the midnight to ten A.M. shift, or maybe I'd be in jail or dead, I don't know." He shook his head. "United States senator. Shit."
"What about the game?" Myron asked.
"What about it?"
"Do you love playing basketball?"
He looked amused. "You do, don't you? You buy all that 'for the love of the game' bullshit."
"You don't?"
TC shook his head. The moon reflected off his shaved pate, giving his head an almost mystical glow. "It was never about that for me," he said. "Basketball was just a means to an end. It's about making money. It's about setting me up for life."
"Did you ever love the game?"
"Sure, I guess I must have. It was a good place to go, you know? But I don't think it was the game--I mean, not the running and jumping and shit. Basketball was just what I was all about. Everywhere else I was just another dumb black boy, but on the basketball court, I was, well, the man. A hero. It's an incredible high, everyone treating you like that. You know what I mean?"
Myron nodded. He knew. "Can I ask you something else?"
"Go ahead."
"What's with all the tattoos and rings?"
He smiled. "They bother you?"
"Not really. I'm just curious."
"Suppose I just like wearing them," TC said. "That enough?"
"Yes," Myron said.
"But you don't believe it, do you?"
Myron shrugged. "I guess not."
"Truth is, I do like them a little. The bigger truth is, it's business."
"Business?"
"Basketball business. Making money. Lots of it. You know how much money I make in endorsements? A shit load. Why? Because outrageousness sells. Look at Deon. Look at Rodman. The more crazy shit I do, the more they pay me."
"So it's just an act?"
"A lot of it, yeah. I like to shock, too, just my way. But mostly I do it for the press."
"But the press is always ripping you apart," Myron said.
"Don't matter. They write about me, they make me more money. Simple as that." He smiled. "Let me clue you in on something, Myron. The press is the dumbest animal on God's green earth. You know what I'm gonna do one day?"
Myron shook his head.
"One day I'll get rid of the rings and shit, and I'll start dressing nice. Then I'll start talking polite, you know, giving them all yes-sirs and yes-ma'ams and start spitting out all that team-effort bullshit they like to hear. You know what'll happen? These same fucks that say I'm destroying the integrity of the game will be kissing my black ass like it's the Blarney Stone. They be talking about how I went through some sort of miraculous transformation. How now I'm a hero. But only thing that's really changed is my act." TC gave him a big smile.
Myron said, "You're a piece of work, TC."
TC turned back to the water. Myron watched him in silence. He hadn't bought all of TC's rationalizations. There was more at work here. TC wasn't lying, but he wasn't exactly telling the truth either--or maybe he couldn't admit the truth even to himself. He hurt. He truly believed no one could love him, and no matter who you are, that hurts. It made you insecure. It made you want to hide and build fences. The sad thing was, TC was at least partially right. Who'd care about him if he wasn't playing professional basketball? If not for his ability to play a child's game, where would he be right now? TC was like the beautiful girl who wanted you to look down deep to find the soul within--but the only reason you'd bother trying was because she was beautiful. Get rid of that physical beauty--become the ugly girl--and nobody gives a damn about scratching the surface to find the beauty within. Get rid of TC's physical prowess and the same thing happens.
In the end, TC was not as off-the-wall as he appeared in public nor was he as put-together as he wanted Myron to think. Myron was no psychologist, but he was sure that there was more to the tattoos and body piercing than making money. They were too physically destructi
ve for so pat an explanation. With TC, there were a lot of factors at work. Being a former basketball star himself, Myron understood some of them; being that Myron and TC came from completely different worlds, there were others he could not so readily grasp.
TC interrupted their joint solitude. "Now I got a question for you," he said.
"Shoot."
"Why you really here?" TC asked.
"Here? As in your house--"
"On the team. Look, man, I saw you play when I was in junior high. In the NCAAs. You were great, okay? But that was a long time ago. You got to know you can't do it anymore. You had to see that at practice today."
Myron tried not to look stunned. Had he and TC been at the same practice? But of course they had, and of course, TC was right. Didn't Myron remember the days when he was the team's superstar? Didn't he remember scrimmaging against the last five guys who would play their butt off while the starting five screwed around and played with no incentive? Didn't he remember how disillusioned those last five became, fooling themselves into believing they were just as good as the first five when the first five were tired from real games and were just slacking off? And back then, Myron was in college. He played maybe twenty-five games a season--these guys played almost a hundred against vastly superior competition.
Good enough to play with these guys? Who had he been kidding?
"I'm just giving it a shot," Myron said softly.
"Can't let go, huh?"
Myron said nothing. They fell back into a brief silence.
"Hey, I almost forgot," TC said. "I hear you're good friends with a big hotshot at Lock-Horne Securities. That true?"
"Yes."
"Was he that slice of white bread you talking with after the game?"
Myron nodded. "His name is Win."
"You know Thumper works on Wall Street, right?"
"She told me," Myron said.
"Thumper wants to change jobs. Think your friend could talk to her?"
Myron shrugged. "I could ask him." Win would certainly appreciate her outlook on the role of sex in ancient civilizations. "Who does she work for now?"
"Small outfit. Called Kimmel Brothers. But she needs to move on, you know? They won't make her a partner, even though she busts her butt for them."
TC said something else but Myron was no longer listening. Kimmel Brothers. Myron remembered the name immediately. When he'd hit the redial button on the phone at Greg's house, a woman had answered and said, "Kimmel Brothers." Yet Thumper had just told Myron she hadn't spoken to Greg in a month or two.
Coincidence? Myron thought not.