by Julia Blake
“I’m getting déjà vu,” he’d said with a chuckle. “It feels like we’ve met before.”
She put her fork down and touched her linen napkin to her lips. “A couple years ago. I was a guest at a party your friend was throwing. You asked me out and took me to Uva near my apartment on the Upper East Side.”
His stomach sank straight through the floor. He’d gone out with this woman before and hadn’t even realized it.
“Why didn’t you say something?” he asked, feeling like the biggest piece of shit.
She shrugged. “I wanted to see how long it took you to figure it out.”
Appetizers. It had taken him until they’d had half a glass of wine and appetizers were on the table to realize his dating life had doubled up on itself.
“We didn’t click, but you were a gentleman about it and walked me back to my building,” said Michelle, reaching for her wine. “That’s more than most men I’ve gone out with.”
It was nice of her to say, but it didn’t really soften the blow.
Michelle had gamely finished dinner, declined dessert, and said goodbye with a handshake. Nick had gone home and canceled a first date he’d scheduled with another woman for the middle of the week. He hadn’t asked anyone else out since.
“We’ll figure this out,” said Mindy.
He grunted in agreement and turned to power on his computer. When he glanced back, Mindy was still there.
“What?” he asked.
His producer studied him for a long moment—so long, he fought the urge to squirm. Finally she asked, “Is there something else going on here?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, scooping up the baseball again and tossing it above his head so he didn’t have to face down her scrutiny directly.
“You’re acting weird. Are you sure there isn’t something else you want to tell me?”
“Like what?” he asked.
“Like are you sure Rachel’s really just a high school friend?” Mindy asked.
He caught the ball and shot her a look. This was fucking ridiculous. He wasn’t a high school boy lusting after the head cheerleader. This was Rachel Pollard. A woman who was tough, savvy, and all business. Something about that made it even harder to think straight.
“Nothing ever happened between Rachel and me in high school,” he said.
“Okay,” Mindy said. She stood, but instead of leaving she glanced around and pitched her voice low. “Even if we do get this interview, promise me that you’re going to start looking for other jobs?”
“I’m already looking,” he said, making a mental note to start his search.
“Nick.” The way she said it sent disappointed-mom chills down his spine.
“I’ve made some calls.”
“ ‘Some calls’ is not a job search. None of us know what’s going to happen when they decide to make more cuts,” she said.
He tossed the baseball onto his desk, where it came to a stop next to a stack of scripts. “I’ll start seriously putting out feelers. I promise.”
She was right. Networking like he’d been doing for the past few months wasn’t enough. He needed a solid plan. He just wanted one more great story under his belt. Something that would—with tabloid-free good behavior—either secure his position at NYSN or put some serious polish on his résumé. Kevin Loder’s profile piece would be just that.
If only he could get one very stubborn agent to start seeing things his way.
RACHEL’S HEELS clicked against the laminate hallway of John F. Kennedy High School as an assistant coach barely on the right side of twenty escorted her to the weight room. She liked to check in on her athletes when they were training and make sure they knew she was always watching. It helped keep some of the less disciplined ones on track. But today? Today she was here to restore order.
“Right in there, Ms. Pollard,” the young man said, gesturing toward a slightly open door. The sound of metal clacking against metal and the tangy scent of sweat drifted out. She thanked him and pushed through the door.
The small weight room was packed with machines lining the walls, and a rack of free weights was pushed up against a mirror. Teenage athletes—mostly basketball players, judging by their lanky height—dotted the room, staring intently at their reflections as they worked out. She ignored them, her attention fixed on one young man doing bench presses in a quieter corner.
Coach T glanced up from where he was spotting Kevin and lifted his chin in acknowledgement. As soon as his high school protégé replaced the bar on the rack, Coach T tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to Rachel.
Kevin grinned as she closed the distance fast. His dark brown skin was slicked with sweat, and he wiped his hands on a towel before gripping hers and pumping it. “Ms. Pollard. Checking up on me?”
“I never need to worry about you as long as Coach T is here. He’s stricter than I am,” she said.
The older man blushed and rubbed a hand over his bald spot. “Not so sure about that.”
She liked this coach—a big softie who’d still run a player ragged with wind sprints if he felt like they were slacking. He was old-school, demanding excellence and respect from his athletes, on and off the field. Her kind of guy.
“You almost done here?” she asked, adjusting her purse on her shoulder.
Kevin glanced at Coach T, who nodded. “Looks like it.”
“Good. I’m going to walk you home, Kevin. I want to run some things by you.”
“Everything okay?” he asked with a frown.
“Everything’s going to be just fine.” At least it would be once she got the Loders back on track and Nick out of her life.
Between Kevin’s cooldown and stretching, it took fifteen minutes to get out of the high school gym near his house where he sometimes trained. Rachel had spent the time zipping through her emails and texts, answering a few that required her immediate attention. Fortunately, none of them were from Nick. Maybe he’d gotten the message that he wasn’t getting within ten feet of Kevin if she had anything to say about it. Pursuing this story was just going to be a waste of his time and hers.
The problem was, she’d spent more than a few minutes over the last few days thinking of him, wondering about him. Who was he now? What had he done since high school? Sure, she had a whole dossier on him on her work computer, but all that told her was job history, education, the major stories he’d worked on—nothing real.
And then there was the question of why she cared at all.
Kevin broke into her thoughts. “My mom’s probably going to invite you in for dinner.”
She started, realizing they’d walked the whole length of the hallway in silence while thoughts of Nick distracted her. “That’s very kind of her, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Kevin chuckled. “You know you can’t leave our house without a meal, especially not at dinnertime. Plus, I think she’s roasting a chicken. She’s famous for it.”
Rachel’s stomach growled as they pushed out of the heavy, metal doors and into the school’s parking lot. “Maybe I’ll have just a little bit . . .”
“A little or a lot, it’s easier if you let her feed you.”
They chatted for a bit, and Kevin caught her up on his training. He’d come back from the NFL Combine energized and eager.
“You’re doing the right things. Just stick to the training schedule,” she reassured him after fielding a flurry of questions about what more he could be doing to up his fitness and prepare for training camp once a team signed him.
“I don’t want to show up unprepared,” he said.
She laughed. “Trust me. No one would ever call you unprepared.”
“Okay, okay,” he muttered, more for his benefit than hers.
Rachel paused but then decided there was no point in holding back on her real reason for being there. “So it’s actually
your mom I wanted to talk to today.”
He adjusted his gym bag, suddenly refusing to meet her eyes. “Oh yeah?”
“Do you know anything about a reporter named Nick Ruben?” she asked as they got to the corner of West 230th Street and Tibbett Avenue.
“This way,” Kevin said, turning right. “Yeah. I watch him on NYSN sometimes. He’s been working with this lady—Erica Rodriguez is her name I think. They’re fun.”
She pursed her lips. Kevin was still green enough that meeting the people he saw on TV was a novelty, but he needed to know how dangerous getting starstruck by some reporter could be. Let your guard down to the wrong person once and it was all over.
“He talked to your mother at one of your cousin’s track meets,” she said.
Kevin cleared his throat. “Yeah, she told me about that.”
Rachel squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. “Kevin, you have to let me know if reporters approach you and your family. Even if it seems accidental. There is no such thing as chance in this business. They all want something from you.”
He shifted his gym bag again and muttered an apology.
She put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “This is a lot to take in and a lot to learn. I just need all of you to remember that this is the way it’s got to be until you’re drafted.”
“It’s hard to sit back while all the other guys are getting interviewed.”
“I know, but you’ve got to trust me on this. We’re keeping things conservative for a reason.”
He glanced at her, and for a moment he looked like the twenty-two-year-old kid he was—young and not quite grown into his massive athlete’s body. But it was his eyes that told her exactly how vulnerable he was.
“I’ll talk to her again,” he said.
She shook her head. “I’ll be the bad guy and bring it up. You just keep your head down and keep doing what you’re doing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And, Kevin? Don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel ancient.”
A grin split across his lips. “No problem.”
“How’s your sister doing in school? She’s getting ready to graduate in June, right?”
Kevin’s chest puffed up with pride, and he started rattling off all of his baby sister’s achievements.
Ten minutes later, they walked through the door of the Loders’ modest two-story house on Kingsbridge Road. Kevin dropped his gym bag and yelled, “Mom! Ms. Pollard’s here! I invited her to dinner.”
A spoon banged twice against the edge of a pot, and a moment later Catherine Loder bustled through the swinging door that led from the living room to the kitchen. “Rachel, this is a nice surprise.”
She let herself be enveloped in a hug by Kevin’s mother. “It’s good to see you, Catherine. I finished up early at the office, so I thought I’d check in on Kevin’s training.”
Catherine put her hands on her hips and stared her son down. “It’d better be going well.”
“It is,” Kevin said, a touch defensive under his mother’s stern gaze. “Coach T says I’ve put on ten pounds of muscle since we started.”
Catherine glanced at Rachel. “That’s a good thing?”
She nodded. “It’ll help protect him from injury.”
“The cornerbacks I’ll be up against are a lot bigger in the NFL than college,” said Kevin. “Faster too.”
“And that’s why you’ll keep training,” said his mother. “Kevin, you get that smelly gym bag up off of my clean floor and take a shower. Dinner’s in twenty minutes.”
As he thundered up the stairs, Catherine shouted after him, “And tell your sister!”
A wall of thyme, oregano, and garlic hit Rachel as she followed Kevin’s mother into the kitchen. On the stovetop, a pot of green beans bubbled away, and the oven light shone on a chicken that looked just about done.
“You wanted to talk to me about something,” said Catherine as she checked on the bird.
Rachel leaned against the kitchen counter and watched, enjoying the warmth of a well-used kitchen. “How’d you know?”
“Please. You wouldn’t come all the way up to Kingsbridge and walk Kevin home if you didn’t want to talk to Marcus or me.”
One of the many reasons she liked Catherine was that the woman was straightforward. “That’s true.”
“Since you could’ve just picked up the phone, I figure it’s something big.” Catherine paused. “That handsome reporter told you I talked to him.”
She forced herself to ignore the mention of Nick’s good looks.
“Catherine, you know that we’ve got to stay consistent with Kevin,” she said. “No interviews until after the draft.”
The older woman wiped her hands on her apron and pointed to the cutting board near Rachel. “Can you slice that bread next to you?”
“Of course.”
Rachel picked up the serrated knife and started cutting thick slices. Catherine slid a basket lined with a napkin in front of her and went to stir the vegetables.
After a moment, Catherine said, “I think kids need to hear Kevin’s story. Boys, especially.”
Rachel’s knife paused midway through a slice. “I don’t disagree with you, but the timing has to be right.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Catherine purse her lips. “I know. I just think my baby should be proud of where he’s come from and what he’s done.”
Rachel put pressure on the knife again. “He’s going to make all of us even prouder in a few weeks. Once he’s drafted and we’ve got a contract signed, we can do a profile. We’ll choose a reporter very carefully. It’ll be someone Kevin likes. Someone who’s going to be fair.”
Catherine sighed. “It’s so hard waiting.”
“We’ll get there. I promise you.” But not before Kevin’s future was locked down.
Catherine slipped on a pair of oven mitts and maneuvered the chicken out of the oven and onto a hot pad to rest. Steam rolled off the bird, and Rachel’s stomach growled again.
“I heard that,” Catherine said. “You’re staying for dinner.”
“I really shouldn’t—”
“You’re taking care of my son, so the least I can do is take care of you. That means making sure you eat.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, echoing Kevin’s earlier words with a smile. It felt good to be fussed over and mothered. It’d been too long since she’d gone home to Arizona to see her own mother and stepfather. Maybe she could find some time in the summer after the MLB All-Star break . . .
Catherine glanced around the kitchen. “Just need to plate up the vegetables, and we’re done here. We’ll get Marcus to carve the chicken. Makes him feel like he’s contributing.”
“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Rachel asked.
“Eat as much as you can. I’m worried you don’t get a home-cooked meal in you often enough.”
That wasn’t unfair. Rachel couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually sat down to eat a dinner she—or anyone else, for that matter—had cooked in her apartment. Christmas should’ve been the obvious answer, but that was one of the biggest days on the NBA calendar. She’d spent the last one in the Lakers locker room, a discreet distance from one of her new clients as he took questions about his first season back from drug rehab. He’d handled the reporters like a pro, and afterward invited her to his family’s dinner. It had been beautifully catered, but it still wasn’t the same as home cooking.
“I don’t see how I could say no when everything smells so good,” she said.
Catherine huffed her approval. “Smart lady.”
She laughed. “Negotiating 101. Know when an argument’s unwinnable.”
“Well, maybe you could negotiate your way into a date with that Nick Ruben,” said Catherine.
Before she could p
rotest, Marcus pushed cautiously through the swinging door, quietly moving behind his wife with one long arm extended toward the stove.
“Don’t you dare touch those green beans,” his wife shot over her shoulder without even glancing.
Marcus snatched his hand back with a frown. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Catherine whipped around. “I can see the whole kitchen reflected in the window.”
He scooted over to wrap his arms around his wife and planted a kiss on her forehead. “You always were too smart for me.”
“And don’t forget it,” she said before gently smacking him on the arm. “Now why don’t you go see about carving that chicken? You’ve got to earn your dinner tonight.”
He kissed her again. “Only if you leave Rachel alone. You can’t go fixing up everyone.”
“Why not?” demanded Catherine. “They’re young and single. Or at least I think Nick Ruben’s single. Is he single?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel said.
She shouldn’t care. It didn’t matter. Dating Nick was never going to be an option. And yet, now that Catherine had mentioned it, she couldn’t help wondering.
“For what it’s worth, I’d ask him out,” said Catherine as she drained the green beans.
“You’re a married woman.” Marcus’s voice was laced with mock severity.
“I’ve got eyes, don’t I?”
“Eyes that keep seeing things that aren’t there,” fired back her husband. “Rachel, she was always trying to set our son up in high school. Like he needed help getting a date to a dance.”
“I still say Jasmine Diaz was a nice girl. He could’ve done a lot worse than ask her out to the senior prom. She’s going to law school next year.”
“Sounds like Kevin really missed an opportunity there,” she said politely.
Catherine pointed a wooden spoon at her. “Are you sassing me?”
“No,” Rachel said automatically. “I was just—”
“Don’t apologize,” said Marcus. “She’s just egging you on.”