Homecourt Advantage

by Rita Ewing

  The moment they entered the bathroom, Remy turned on Casey. “How do they know about the Flyers?!”

  “Shh! One sec, I gotta do the check,” Casey said, placing a long, slender finger over her lips before she walked by each toilet, kicking in the stall doors one by one. It reminded her of high-school days where the girls congregated in the bathrooms to gossip.

  “I bet most of the players in the league know. You know how fast word travels in the NBA,” Casey said solemnly. “I bet this whole threat to sell the team is part of the reason Collin’s been acting so strange lately,” Remy said thoughtfully. “That and his free agency blues.” She stood with her hands on her hips and started tapping one high-heeled foot. She watched as Casey looked at her own reflection in the mirror, as if she would see explanations etched in the glass.

  Casey looked up and caught Remy’s eyes watching her in the mirror. “I don’t know, Remy,” she said, looking at her friend’s reflection. “I don’t know what to make of anything anymore,” Casey made a face at the mirror. “But I’m not about to let it spoil our evening.”

  “Hey, me either,” Remy responded lightly. “Let’s get back out there; they’re probably worried about us by now.”

  “I know. Donnie and Gregory probably have a ton of women surrounding the table drinking our champagne,” Casey said.

  “Oh, hell no!” Remy said, laughing as she grabbed Casey’s arm and pulled her out of the ladies’ room. “They’re ours tonight.”

  “The champagne or the guys?” Casey asked playfully, casting a sideways glance at her partner in crime.

  “Both!” Remy declared, facing her friend with a wide Cheshire cat grin on her beautiful face.

  As Casey looked out onto the dance floor, she realized that she had lost track of how many glasses of champagne she’d had. Remy and Donnie were slow-dancing to an up-tempo song by Outkast. Remy was laughing and leaning into Donnie at the same time Gregory touched Casey’s hand.

  “Would you like to dance?” Gregory asked as he held her hand.

  Casey looked down at their hands, and something inside told her to say no thank you and walk away. But before she knew what was happening, he had intertwined his fingers with hers. She knew he had been flirting with her all night, she quickly rationalized, but she was just having a good time. What was the harm in being a little extra nice to Gregory Patrick?

  I’m only having fun.

  She did not have plans to go home with him or anything like that. Unlike her own husband, she fumed, who could choose to have a one-night stand with some stranger.

  Casey quickly stood up, casting away resentful thoughts of Brent and her marriage. She was forced to grab Gregory by his arm to stop herself from toppling facedown on the table. Regaining her balance, Casey sheepishly looked at her companion.

  “I’d love to dance with you,” Casey replied enthusiastically. “Plusthis is one of my favorite songs.” Casey started snapping her fingers and moving her shoulders to the rhythm of the club’s music.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Gregory asked her.

  “Maybe a few too many glasses of bubbly, but I’ll be fine,” she said, laughing. “Come on.”

  Casey led Gregory out onto the dance floor and felt the music course through her body. She moved to the beat with a rhythm all her own, dancing the latest steps with a funky precision and grace.

  “I didn’t know you were such a good dancer,” Gregory said, pulling Casey in closer to him so she could hear him over the music.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” Casey said, flattered.

  “I try to get my groove on,” he replied, bobbing his head to the music. “I bet you’re good at everything you do.”

  Casey looked up at the hint of suggestion in his voice and was struck again by Gregory Patrick’s handsome features. He placed one large hand on the small of her back, and Casey felt herself being pulled toward him until her breasts were flat against his hard, muscular chest. For a brief moment she wondered if anyone in the club was watching them. She prayed no one recognized her, because even through her drunken haze, Casey knew there would be hell to pay if it ever got back to Brent that she was out at a club slow-dragging with Gregory Patrick, of all people.

  As Tyrese’s “Zodiac Sign” started to play, Casey felt Gregory’s hot, wet tongue slip into her ear. He started to whisper something, but Casey couldn’t hear him over the noise and music in the club. She started to push him away and ask him to repeat whatever it was he was trying to tell her when she saw Donnie leading Remy off the dance floor. Casey watched as they walked through the EXIT door, which led to the club’s private offices.

  Just as Casey was about to yell at Gregory that he would have to shout for her to hear him, he put his arm around her waist and led her off the dance floor. Casey, drunk, giggled as she envisioned the two of them joining Remy and Donnie in the back for a private party.

  Gregory pulled the dark, heavy curtains draping an enclosed booth and sat down, nearly pulling Casey into his lap. Casey saw another bottle of Cristal champagne chilling in an ice bucket and two flutes in thecenter of the table. She couldn’t stop the smile that by now seemed plastered on her face.

  The Nets player poured the glasses full of the bubbling golden liquid, turned to Casey and said, “So, Mrs. Rogers, where were we?”

  Before Casey had time to even think about responding, Gregory wrapped his athletic arms around her and started nuzzling her neck with soft, warm kisses. Casey’s mind was like an electric panel that had short-circuited. Jumbled thoughts and emotions flew back and forth, and Casey could make no sense of her feelings as she let her head fall back onto her shoulders. She had never before cheated on Brent.

  She felt herself succumb with an almost reckless abandon to Gregory’s probing tongue and gentle hands. Casey realized the alcohol had taken its toll on her body and mind, and she seemed helpless to stop the attention being lavished upon her.

  As much as Casey wanted to blame her husband and his infidelity for what was happening to her, she knew, even in her drunken stupor, that there was no excuse in the world that would explain the wonderful physical sensations coursing through her body at that moment.

  Suddenly she felt Gregory place her hand in his lap to feel his rock-hard bulge. He rubbed her hand across it and leaned into her ear with his lips.

  “Can Brent Rogers ball like this?” he asked softly.

  “Can … can what?” she stuttered before realizing what was happening.

  Casey was shocked. She looked up through her drunken haze and was disgusted when she saw Gregory Patrick’s smirky, self-satisfied face smiling above her own.

  “You asshole!” she yelled as she jumped up and grabbed her purse. “I can’t believe you!” Casey was even more disgusted with herself.

  “Wait a minute, Casey! Damn, I didn’t mean …”

  Casey ignored Gregory’s pleas and pushed past the black curtains, trying to keep her balance. She glanced around and angrily swiped at her eyes, determined not to let the tears of shame and guilt fall.

  She remembered seeing Donnie and Remy as they headed back to the offices, and rushed off in that direction, bumping into several peo-pie who yelled as she shoved her way past them. She saw Donnie’s partner standing by the bar and asked him if he had seen her friends.

  “Yeah, babe. They’re in the office,” Mark said, clearly concerned as he noticed the fresh tears welling up in Casey’s eyes. “Want me to go get them for you?”

  “Would you please? I have to go,” Casey said, thankful that Mark did not ask her any questions.

  Standing there, waiting for Remy, Casey wondered what the hell she had been thinking of. She was almost as bad as Brent had been.

  What in the world got into me tonight, she thought. It seems like I’m trying to destroy my marriage and myself. She thought of all the drinks she’d consumed. She could not bring herself to think about how sick she would be in the morning.

  Casey was relieved when she saw Remy standing
beside her. She grabbed Remy’s hand and pulled her friend along behind her. Looking over her shoulder, Casey saw Donnie staring at them as he stood in conversation with Mark.

  “Thanks, Donnie,” Casey yelled out behind her. “I’ll call you later.”

  Remy stopped Casey outside the club and looked at her best friend. “What’s wrong, Casey? What happened?” she asked, concerned.

  “Come on,” Casey said. “I’ll tell you about it in the car. You’re gonna have to drive. God, I wish tonight never happened.”

  Chapter 21

  “Damn! She has some nice titties,” Kyle said, moving to the edge of his seat as the stripper maneuvered her body back and forth inches from his face.

  “Yeah, and I bet they only cost her a few grand.” Jake laughed as he slapped Paul on the back and winked at Brent across the table.

  Paul watched his big teammate Kyle getting worked up as the dancer quickened her pace.

  Kyle looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. Paul could see the drops of sweat oozing down his face even through the dense cigar smoke hovering over the gentlemen-only nightclub in Miami. Paul never went with the guys to strip clubs, but Jake had called a meeting with him and Brent, and the agent had selected Miami’s infamous Camelot Club. Paul was not surprised by Jake’s choice. Strip clubs, racetracks, massage houses; hot spots in every NBA city were Jake’s style.

  “Easy, Kyle, maybe you ought to take your act back to the hotel,” Brent said to his overzealous teammate.

  Paul looked at Kyle becoming increasingly excited. He had his hands on the dancer’s firm rear end now and he massaged her butt as his body swayed in rhythm to the music. Paul became worried watching Kyle go into overdrive and wondered if he should intervene. Even Paul knew, making physical contact with the strippers was strictly forbidden in these types of clubs. The last thing the team needed was a Patrick Ewing Gold Club scandal to hit the papers the night before game number three against Miami. They had expected to arrive in Miami two games up on the Heat, but had split the two home games in New York and were now tied at one game apiece. The best of a seven-game championship series had just gotten longer.

  “Looks like the two of you could use some lessons from your rookie. Michael’s showing both of you up,” Jake snickered as he lit up his huge Cohiba cigar and used it as a pointer to nod across the table.

  Paul followed Jake’s gaze and saw that Michael had two lap dancers at the same time. The young girls had each straddled one of Michael’s legs and were gyrating their pelvises in circular motion. Paul couldn’t help but smile at how well the women moved their bodies. If nothing else, they sure were talented dancers. It was too bad they were wasting their skills in a place like this.

  “Hey, Michael, give her a fifty for me,” Jake said, tossing the crisp bill across the table toward Michael.

  “You got some of that for me, Jake?” Kyle hollered over the music.

  “There’d be plenty more where that came from if you were my client, I guarantee you. You would have done much better with me.”

  “Yo! What’d you say, Jake?” Kyle asked.

  “Don’t pay him any mind, Kyle; he’s just dangling carrots,” Brent said.

  “Carrots?” Kyle said with a dopey expression on his face.

  Paul looked at Brent, and the two of them tried not to laugh in Kyle’s face. Kyle may have been one of the fastest players in the NBA, but when it came to intellectual quickness, he was one of the slowest.

  “I’d get him enrolled in an adult-education class too, maybe Conversation 101. Hell, I’d pay for it myself,” Jake said, taking a long hit from his stogie.

  “Well, considering how much of a commission you’d be makingoff of him, I’d say that’d be awfully generous of you, Jake,” said Brent.

  “Hey, I only collected two percent on both of your last deals, and I don’t agree to that low fee for all of my clients,” Jake said defensively.

  “Don’t worry, Jake, nobody’s trying to disparage your good name,” Paul said, looking at Brent out of the corner of his eye.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Rogers. I don’t mean to bother you, but has anyone ever told you that you look like the Ralph Lauren model Tyson?” It was the petite platinum blond cocktail waitress.

  Paul burst out laughing. No matter where they went together, it seemed as if every woman between the ages of fifteen and thirty-five told Brent that he resembled Tyson. Even Lorraine had told Brent that he had the same slanted bedroom eyes as Tyson. It never failed to embarrass Brent, especially since he had cleaned up his act. Brent rarely so much as looked in the direction of other women these days.

  “Actually, a few people have mentioned that to me,” Brent said politely.

  “I mean your eyes and your deep, dark chocolate skin and your bald head. Jee, you’re almost a dead ringer, and to think, you’re a professional ball player too.”

  “Yeah, we’re about to have a meeting right now, but it was nice talking to you too,” Brent said as gracefully as possible.

  “We could continue this conversation after your meeting. My shift is over in an hour,” the waitress said, leaning into Brent.

  “I don’t think so. But thank you just the same.”

  Paul noticed the look of disappointment on the woman’s face as she turned to walk away. She had the expression of someone who was just one number short of winning the lottery.

  “All right, Jake. What’s so important that you dragged us out tonight?” Paul asked, feeling antsy.

  He wanted to call the hospital and check on Lorraine to make sure she wasn’t volunteering to work any extra hours. She had been so exhausted lately. Maybe those terrible dreams would dissipate if she could get some uninterrupted sleep.

  “Yeah, I feel beat down. My lower back is killing me,” Brent said, stretching in his seat.

  “I know a good masseuse. She could come to your hotel room,” Jake offered.

  “I’ll pass. What gives, Jake?” Brent said.

  Jake took a deep puff of his cigar and looked back and forth between the two men before speaking.

  “I know I don’t need to tell you guys this, but that was not good losing to the Heat in New York. It’s one thing to lose down here, but the team can’t really afford any home losses.”

  “We know that, but that’s why we’re gonna return the favor. We’re heading back to New York to win game number five. No doubt about it,” said Brent with conviction.

  “How can you be so sure? Eddie Jones is eating Steve Tucker alive, and I don’t see any signs of things getting any better. It’s embarrassing.”

  “That’s why we have the other guys to take up the slack,” Paul began.

  “You guys have got to deliver. I shouldn’t tell you this, but Hirshfield is threatening to stop holding off Hightower Enterprises.”

  “Because of one loss … Thanks, Hal, we really appreciate the vote of confidence,” Brent said, making a toasting gesture with his beer mug.

  “No, not because of that exactly. Although the Flyers have been known to choke down the stretch. Leonard Hightower just keeps sweetening the deal. Word is, he may even try to pressure Hal into signing an agreement to sell before the end of the play-offs.”

  “How can he do that?” Paul asked.

  “Because he’s Leonard Hightower, and he’s no fool. He wants the Flyers, and he usually gets what he wants. He knows that if the Flyers actually do win the championship this year, New York City is going to absorb the bulk of Hirshfield’s costs to run the team. Hightower has no intention of taking a chance of that happening.”

  “I bet he’s up under Hal like white on rice,” Brent said in disgust.

  “And then some,” Jake added.

  “Greedy bastard. He thinks he can just buy up anything or anyone that he wants,” Paul said.

  “So far he’s had a damn near perfect track record,” Jake said. “Andfrom what I hear, Hightower’s close to making Hal an offer he can’t refuse. They’re already offering thirty percent more than a
ny other NBA team is valued.”

  “Jake, obviously you don’t understand Hal. It’s more than money to him. He wants to die owning this team. I just can’t believe he’d give up on us during the championship. It doesn’t ring true to me,” Brent said, shaking his head.

  “Brent, I’ve been around this league long enough to know that it’s a business. It’s not about family or sentiment or history—not anymore, and anybody that tries to convince you otherwise is lying to you,” Jake said.

  “You mean you don’t love me like family, Jake?” Paul said, pretending to be crushed.

  “Aww, that’s different, Paul. We’re on the same team. I’m always trying to do what’s in your best interest. With both of you guys, with all of my clients,” Jake said quickly.

  “Really, Jake. I’m glad you cleared that up for us, ‘cause my feelings were about to be hurt,” said Brent.

  “Listen, all I’m trying to get you guys to understand is that you’re under the gun. And I don’t know what you have to pull out of your arsenal to win, but whatever it is, you need to do it. Every game counts. You need to sweep every round of the play-offs to ensure that Hal doesn’t sell the team.”

  Paul and Brent looked at each other. They had played together long enough to read each other well without words.

  Coach was putting Jake on their asses just to crank them up some more—get the brain chemistry moving the body into overdrive. And it probably wasn’t a bad idea, not for the agent and the coach, that is. But for the players, it was total stress-out time. Paul felt the pain in his knees signal an SOS just to remind him how much it could hurt playing his heart out on the court.

  “Have either of you seen Blondie? I need a drink,” Jake said, indicating the meeting had ended.

  Paul looked around the room and saw the waitress standing by the bar. She caught his eye as he spotted her. “There she is,” he said.

  “Jake, on that note, I’m going back to the hotel to get some shut-eye. I wanna make sure we do sweep the rest of this series,” Brent said, standing up. “How much do I owe?” He began to reach into his pocket.