Warren: A novella

by Xyla Turner

  Why!

  I refused to look up and I absolutely made no eye contact with the asshole of the man. As a matter of fact, I planned to see if there was another class offered because this was not happening.

  As soon as class was over, I bolted out of the door and went to the scheduling department. They looked bored and irritated to see me but I was more irritated.

  “Hi, I would like to change a class.” I approached the frowning woman staring at a computer screen.

  “Fill out the add/drop form.” She replied without looking at me.

  “Where is that?” I asked.

  “On the forms table.” Her eyes didn't move.

  I looked around and there were five tables against the wall. After inspection, I saw no table that said forms, so I trotted back over to the woman and asked, “Can you tell me which table contains the form? There are five and each of them has papers on them.”

  This made her eyes turn to view me.

  “Above the table, it says forms.” Was her reply.

  I turned again and irritation cloaked over me within seconds.

  Raising my voice, I sternly stated, “Clearly, none of these tables have forms written over them, on them or around them. I wouldn't be asking if I didn't have a need. Now, can you show me the forms or tell me which table they are on.”

  This caused a few people to come out of their offices and one guy who probably was in charge looked at the two of us and asked, “What seems to be the problem?”

  The lazy woman jumped out of her chair and jabbed her finger at me, yelling, “She barged in here demanding that I show her the forms. I told her where they were and she starts raising her voice.”

  The manager looked at me and I shook my head since I couldn't believe this was how my day was turning out to be.

  “That's not what happened,” I said calmly. “I asked her for the add/drop form. She told me they were on the forms table and that it was marked.” I waved my hand in the direction of the tables and said, “it's not marked and when I told her this, she proceeded to tell me that it was. I just want to change my course and I've had a rough day. I apologize for raising my voice but I can read and none of these tables says forms.”

  The woman smirked and after the man looked around me l, he said, “Gretchen, the form sign isn't there.”

  She huffed and stomped over to the tables then said out loud, “where did it go?”

  After turning over some papers and looking on the floor, she slowly turned around and said, “it's not here.”

  “Right,” I nodded.

  Then she slammed her index finger on the table and said, “Here are the forms.”

  I shook my head and proceeded to walk out while saying, “Nother mind.”

  “Gretchen, my office.” The man said. “Now.”

  I was done.

  Like literally done.

  I summoned an Uber and went home, shut off all the lights and lied in bed. No sleep would come anytime soon but I'd had about enough. Tears threatened to fall but I kept thinking about where. I'd come from. Why I was there and my ultimate goals. No man, ignorant employee or anyone for that matter would keep me from achieving that goal.

  The next morning, when I left for class, on my porch were two sheets of paper being held down by rocks.

  On one sheet it had the scribbled word dinner and the other read breakfast with an arrow pointing to my black box that was sealed to the porch.

  Son of a bitch.

  I opened them both and saw Tupperware containers with food. One looked like it had a fried pork chop, string beans and mashed potatoes and the other container which was still hot held country sausages, omelet and a slice of fruit.

  I needed to move.

  *****

  Oddly enough, Mills didn't engage me in class but breakfast and dinner were on my porch daily for a week. I thought he would stop but when I saw he had no plans to. I marched over there and instead of encountering Mills, I was greeted by Pops.

  “See you got the food.” He noted my bags of empty and clean containers.

  “Yes,” I nodded. “Can you please tell your son to stop cooking food for me? I don't need his charity or his hospitality. If he was hospitable before this we wouldn't be here.”

  “Mills ain't cook nothing, I did.” He eyed me with curiosity. “That boy got a thang for you when he got other shit to be worrying about. I didn't like the way things ended when you were first here or your last visit and that's not how the Timms do. Wanted to show my apologies as I figured you're a working woman and may not be able to cook or can't cook. That spaghetti didn't taste too good.”

  No, the man didn't apologize and insult me all in the same sentence.

  “I can cook.” I corrected him. “That was from a can.”

  Pops head reared back as if I'd just slapped him.

  “A can?” He asked. “You had us eating food from a can. Nobody that can cook would serve food from a can.”

  The older man looked like he just swallowed a lemon.

  “Sir, I can but your son was beyond disrespectful. He's rude, arrogant and I didn't move here to deal with an ass. I just want to live my life and mind my business.”

  “Go ahead then.” He nodded as if he understood. “Mills means well. All my sons do but sometimes it just doesn't come out right. They get that shit from me. Stubborn as hell but they got good hearts. All of ‘em.”

  I smirked but he smiled and I swear I was looking at an older Mills or the one they called JD.

  I saw what Ms. Ida saw in him. The man was handsome and so were his sons.

  “So, you can cook, eh?” He asked.

  “Yes, sir.” I replied with a lot of pride.

  “What can you cook? Fried foods and breakfast!” He doubted my skills.

  “Actually, I can cook just about anything.” My hands found my hips. "What do you like?"

  "Meatloaf!" He declared. "I like meatloaf and everybody can't cook it."

  "You're right, but you haven't had mine." I mimicked his tone. "I'll cook it for you tomorrow if you want."

  The older man raised his eyebrows at me before he answered. "Darlin' you got yourself a date. But I'm telling you now, bring Rogers in my home and we goina to have a problem."

  "Well, I don't know where else to shop for food." I explained.

  "Horse shit." Pops hissed. "You shop here. My sons an ass but he ain't mean nothing by it. HIs girlfriend giving him hell and well, he has decisions to make. None of that has to do with you. It just so happened, you crossed him at the wrong time. He's actually the nicer one out of the bunch.”

  My heart sank.

  It felt like a dagger just pierced right through it when I heard the word girlfriend. Mill’s had a woman and he wrapped those luscious lips around mine.

  Heat radiated from my face as I’m sure even the brown tint of my skin turned orange as the blood flowed to the place that was visible. I felt hurt.

  Betrayed.

  Insulted.

  And most importantly, angry.

  “You know Mr. Timms,” I forced out. “I will cook you that dinner. Tomorrow.”

  I hoisted my bag on my shoulders and nodded towards the man.

  “Yup,” I continued. “Tomorrow.”

  The very same day that I hoped I saw his arrogant ass because I was going to give him a piece of my mind.

  A bad piece.

  End of Preview.

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  Take A Knee

  Chapter 1

  Zora McCoy

  “Ladies, I need to see you moving your asses up and down this damn court. If you think the New York Liberty is going to care that, you’re tired and out of shape, you’ve lost your goddamn minds. This is the big league, ladies,” I belted throughout the large arena size court. “Now, let’s go and move your asses!”

  Huffing, sighs, heavy breathing, sneakers scuffing the paint job of the waxed floor could be heard by the twenty-three playe
rs on the Philadelphia Vikings Basketball Team. The Semi-Pro team was an up and coming one, next to the Women’s National Basketball Association (WNBA). I was a ten-year coach but only served for two years with the Vikings.

  My goal was to get the national championship, move the ladies to the next division, even if that was overseas and make history. No female coach had the opportunity to take a semi-pro league and produce national and international players in this industry. It was still fairly new, and we were not as advanced as the National Basketball Association (NBA). They had been around for centuries, but we had made strides, thanks to the trailblazers like Sheryl Swoopes, Lisa Leslie and Dawn Staley.

  The practice ended with Shawn, the center, on the foul line, taking a free throw shot. If she missed, everyone ran three suicides. This was the method of running from the baseline to the foul line, back to the baseline, then to the half court line, then back to the baseline, then to the other foul line, then back to the baseline, and finally running to the other baseline, back to our baseline. If she made the shot, practice was over, if she missed it, three suicides for everyone.

  Her teammates encouraged her to take her time, but Shawn would always get in her head and usually choked under pressure. This fact had lost us several games, which is why my coaching staff and I picked, our number five, center player to end the practice on the free throw line. She had to get better, and it was my mission to have her be a dominating force and the best damn free throw shooter in the league.

  “Come on Shawn, you got this girl,” Joyce, the team captain yelled.

  Her hands were over her head, attempting to catch her breath the proper way. The rest of the team looked at Shawn with pleading eyes and hoped etched in their tired expressions.

  “Come on girl,” someone else yelled. “Up and swoosh.”

  Shawn looked around, her eyes met mine. I took two steps on the court.

  “Shawn, focus on the task at hand. No one else matters at this point.” I slapped my clipboard. “It’s you, the ball and the net. Focus!”

  She jerked her head with a quick nod, bounced the ball three times, exhaled and slowly raised the twenty-eight-point five-inch basketball in front of her face with her elbow in a ninety-degree angle. With one last inhale, Shawn bent her knees, and moved up in a fluid motion, extended her elbow as her body jumped to release the ball. It was the perfect form, her arched hand remained in the air along with the accompanying wrist snap to ensure it landed.

  The ball soared, it spun, and then it completely skipped the rim and hit the bottom of the net.

  “Son of a fucking bitch,” someone moaned, and all twenty-three players lined up to run their three suicides.

  It sucked but so did life. We play hard, but work harder.

  Twenty-three sweaty women came together in a huddle surrounding me. Some panting, some wheezing and others breathing heavy through their noses and mouths.

  I began my end of practice comments. “I know we’ve been working extremely hard and keep it up. This will pay off as the season progresses. We are five weeks out before our opener and Liberty is not one we can take lightly. They are playing us because we’re no threat to them. So, they think. Let’s show them different.” A few of the women grunted and nodded their heads. “Let’s get it in.”

  We all extended our hands together, one on top of the other, then Joyce started, “We play hard…”

  The women pushed down their hands then chanted, “But we work harder!”

  Everyone was dismissed.

  “See you all tomorrow. Get some rest and soak up.” I called as they left to gather their belongings and hit the showers.

  “Coach, you got a second?” my assistant coach of defense, Sasha called.

  “Yeah.” I nodded as I made my way to the side court bench. “What's on your mind?”

  Sasha was a strong player I worked with a while ago, at the college level. She was an All-American that had the skills to play at the professional level, but something put her off track. She’d always stayed connected with me. So, when she was available, I immediately scooped her up. Her leadership skills were a valued asset to any team she played with or coached. Therefore, hiring her wasn't even a thought.

  “I've been going over some press plays I think would be an added addition to our arsenal. Duke ran them successfully. I've watched twenty-five games already that could help us even with the pitfalls of how to recover if they break it,” she said holding her bag, signaling the videos were stored in her case. “Care to see them so you can give your thoughts?”

  This was why I liked Sasha. That woman was on her shit. She saw a problem, researched it thoroughly, and came with a solution. It was no secret our defense suffered. A lot due to a lack of coaches not focusing on the proper techniques. We came up in the Catholic league and they thrived on fundamentals. Shit like how to make a proper layup and foul shot. Now, it was about running up the score and going bucket for bucket.

  Nobody played defense, and this was something I set about to change with the Vikings.

  “Yes, most definitely. Tomorrow before practice, let's meet in my office, so we can look it over.”

  Sasha’s eyes beamed with satisfaction. “Okay, great. I'll come by early.”

  “Sounds good.” I nodded and went to my office.

  It was spacious, sterile but filled with many accolades of my accomplishments. They used to be my pride and joy but the older I grew, the more I no longer cared for the trophies, the competition or what I could get. It mattered, but that wasn't the sole purpose. I had other ambitions as I approached my forties. Trophies couldn't follow me to the grave, so they seemed to be more of a credential. Like a degree. I had two, so I knew. Your credentials opened doors experience wouldn't. It was a necessary evil, but I was fortunate enough to have both the experience and degrees. Though, my struggle was my greatest teacher.

  Sitting at my large oak desk, with the leather bound executive chair, I twirled the elegant, card stock invitation with gold embroidered words for the sports party held at the owner’s penthouse in downtown Philly. All the leadership, staff, coaches from the various leagues would be there. It was a huge networking opportunity, but I was not in the mood for mingling. A tall glass of wine, a good book or game would work and my trusty battery-operated boyfriend. I did not want to schmooze, smile, prance around or act social.

  I wasn't.

  More importantly, I did not want to have to deal with Desiree flirting with me through the goddamn night. The girl couldn't take a hint. Shit, she couldn't even take blunt as I had been in the past. She heard me tell a guy that I didn't date men. In her mind, that meant I dated women, which wasn't true either. I didn't date anyone. There were no plans to join a convent, but I'd sworn off all men since I had enough duds in my lifetime.

  ***

  Two hours later, I entered the penthouse. The buzzing of busybodies, wine, hors d'oeuvres, wait staff, suits and little black dresses surrounded me. I, on the other hand, wore a tailored, two-piece black suit with a burnt orange top and burnt orange shoe boots to match. I was very much like Matlock regarding my wardrobe. At least twenty different kinds of black pants suits hung in my closet and were rotated frequently. It was simple, and that was what I liked. People would tease but I never took offense. That was me and I made no apologies for it.

  Moving through the crowd, I was looking for the owner of the Vikings, Pete Wiser. My face had to be seen, before I left so the thought was to do that early enough, so I could make a speedy exit.

  After nabbing a glass of white wine from the waiter in a three-piece outfit, I took a sip. The goal was to look casual and as if I had been in attendance for more than three minutes.

  “Zora,” Pete called with his balding hair flipped to the side to cover his pasty white head. “There you are.”

  He was standing with three other men, one I didn't know but the other two were owners. The blond owned the Leopards women’s team, and the other was the owner for the Warriors. The blondish, red-haired
man's gaze seared into me for some reason. His name was Harvey Black, and everyone knew it because he made sure they did.

  No fear was my motto, but I almost took a step back with the intensity of his stare. It was like he knew me or knew something about me. The right side of his goatee covered lips were turned into a knowing smirk and his reddish beard followed along. He was slightly tanned with clear skin and a pair of deep set, whiskey-colored flecked eyes. His profile spoke of power and ageless strength and the shadow of his beard gave him an even more manly aura.

  The man did not blink, move or even turn his head. Just openly stared at me.

  “Pete, how are you?” I moved to him as he held out his arm to embrace me for a hug that I returned.

  This placed me directly across from the man with the unfaltering eye contact. Pete placed his hand on my forearm and announced, “Gentlemen, I know you know Zora McCoy, but what you didn't know is she's going to win me a championship this year.”

  Pete said this with the utmost of confidence, which was odd because we were knocked out in the second round of the finals last season. We lost some promising talent, but we gained a few veterans. We always hoped to make it to the championship, but it wasn't a discussion. Therefore, I raised one eyebrow as I smiled at the men nodding their heads toward me with warm smiles.

  Well, two had a warm smile and the other handsome one was kindled with what seemed like a secret expression.

  “That's good to know.” I laughed.

  Two of the men chuckled.

  “Oh, she didn't know yet.” Pete kept the joke going.

  Getting to the playoffs was always in the plan but being the winner takes all, involved strategic planning and more importantly hard ass work from all involved—our defense, offense, strength exercising, stamina and the godforsaken injuries. It wasn't impossible, hell, it was the goal, not just for the players but the coaches too. This is why our strategy was as rigid as it was now.

  I almost laughed out loud again at Pete’s words. His job was to fill seats, win medals and please fans. A sure-fire way to do all three was to have his team win. If he wanted to get me on board with his plan for the things I could control, like winning the whole chip, his point was taken.