Offensive Rebound

by Mj Fields

I wipe away the smudges of her eye makeup then kiss her softly on her lips; lips that are red and swollen from fucking my cock.

  “If I’m the reason he does”—she shakes her head—“I will never forgive myself.”

  “So, what? You want to just end this?” I ask.

  “It’s best for her. You’re best for her.”

  “How about you let me decide what’s best for her?”

  She’s quiet, too quiet. She still doesn’t comprehend that a man doesn’t always think of himself first. I realize this woman has accepted second place all her fucking life. She won’t get that with me.

  I stroke her hair, pushing it out of her face, and kiss her cheek.

  “Trae...” she sighs.

  “No, Court.”

  “But what if—”

  “He won’t.”

  ***

  WHEN I AWAKE THE NEXT morning, in bed with my wife, I force myself not to wake her up.

  I’m already dressed, not having moved to get undressed after she took me in her mouth. Therefore, I grab my sneakers and head out the back door to find my phone.

  After I get it from the truck, I walk down to the end of the dock and sit while hitting Facetime to call Mom.

  When she answers, she looks worried. She knows about the accident, and she knows I went after Brock when he came at me about Callie and his idle threats.

  “Everything’s good, Mom,” I assure her.

  “Are you sure?”

  I flip the screen so she can see the water. “Look at that view.”

  “What about Courtney?” she asks as I turn the phone back to me.

  “She’s sleeping, at home, here.”

  “And...?”

  “She knows everything.”

  “Does she know how you truly feel?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  “Good. Great...And fucking vulnerable,” I confess.

  “And her?”

  I shrug. “She loves me, too. She’s worried about Callie, though, and...him.”

  “I think it’s time to do a test.”

  “I won’t.” I shake my head. “She doesn’t even look like him; thank God. She’s too fucking pretty.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re so damn stubborn.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t, until it does, and you need a play in place.”

  I see Callie walk up to Mom, and she takes the phone. I smile as she looks at the screen.

  “Hi, Callie.”

  She smiles at me and starts walking.

  “Where are you taking me?” I laugh, and she smiles.

  She walks into her room and sets the phone down, out of view of her.

  “Daddy can’t see you now,” I tell her.

  When she grabs the phone again, she sits on the blue mat and holds up her doll.

  “That’s a beautiful doll, Callie.”

  “Da,” she says.

  “That’s a beautiful word. Most beautiful one I’ve ever heard.”

  I hear someone coming up from behind me and turn to see Courtney hobbling down the dock with her crutches.

  “I thought you left,” she tells me.

  I stand up and walk toward her. “Just talking to Callie.” When I get to her, I show her the phone.

  “Hi, Callie.” Courtney smiles at her, and Callie holds up the doll and taps it against the screen. “Trae, follow me?” she asks.

  She makes her way around the house to the truck. Then she opens the truck door and grabs her doll, smiling.

  “Hi, Callie,” she says again, leaning toward the camera.

  Callie hits the phone with the doll again, and Courtney acts surprised as she holds her doll up.

  “Oh, thank you!” She hugs the doll, and Callie smiles. She smiles bigger than ever before.

  Callie hits the doll against the screen again, and Courtney again acts surprised, hugging the doll.

  To that, Callie laughs.

  This goes on for ten minutes as we slowly make our way back into the house and into Courtney’s room. For ten whole minutes, someone holds Callie’s attention, and that in itself is a damn miracle.

  When the call ends, because Callie decides it’s time, I look at Courtney. “She likes you.”

  “Good. I like her, too.” She nods. “I like her a lot.”

  “She can be a lot to handle,” I warn her, taking a deep breath.

  “I’d like to meet her someday.”

  “Next time I go, you’re coming with me.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Like you should have the other day.”

  “What if I get attached to her?” she says sadly.

  I take another deep breath and grin. “You better.” Then I grab up my wife and walk up the stairs toward the kitchen.

  “You can’t carry me around all day.”

  “Try me,” I dare, seeing in her eyes that she would be just fine with it.

  I set her on a stool at the island, and then bring another stool around so she can prop her leg up.

  She turns and starts to put her leg up, but I stop her.

  “I’ve got this,” I tell her.

  “I can manage, Trae,” she says, though she lets me.

  “I know you can, but you need to get used to me needing to do this.”

  “Because you miss her?”

  “No, Court, because I love you.” I lean in and give her a kiss. “So, what will it be?” I ask, gesturing toward the kitchen.

  “Whatever you want is fine with me.”

  “Good to know.”

  ***

  FOR THE REST OF THE week, I drive Courtney and Christa to work. I stay the entire time, working on my game, and then drive her home, too. I tell her honestly that I need to work longer hours, that training isn’t enough. I need more.

  I kiss her when I want and, after a couple of days, Brock doesn’t grumble about it. He also doesn’t make fucking threats about Callie or this team. And I back off, too.

  No need to rub his nose in a life he could have had. Fucking fool loves this game more than anything.

  It was never like that for me. It was a way to escape and be. It was a focus and a freedom. It was a dream that almost didn’t become a reality.

  Until Charlie Cohen.

  The night before the first season game, her folks come to town. Ellen’s snide remarks aren’t as frequent, which I take as a good sign. However, I do make sure I’m at the grill instead of inside the house for most of the time.

  We are hosting a dinner for the players and the new coaching staff. I asked Courtney why not just do it at a local restaurant, and she told me she wanted her father to be a part of it. She also told me she wished Callie and my family could be here.

  I didn’t reply. I need to ease her into just how Callie works. How my family deals with it. But today, tonight, tomorrow, that’s all about Courtney and the team.

  I watch as everyone starts to trickle in, including Bill fucking Smith, one of the four assistant coaches under head coach Landry. My wife, she did good by him, and she doesn’t even know it. The team sees it, though, and that has gained her some much-deserved respect.

  She was raised privileged, given everything she ever needed. That can’t be said about the majority of us. She never went without, yet she is real and pretty fucking humble.

  “Looking like a real team now,” I hear and look back to see Larry walking up to me.

  I hold out my hand and shake his.

  He smiles toward Courtney, who is talking to Bill. “Charlie would be proud of her.”

  “No idea what he was thinking having one assistant coach.” I shrug. “Even she knew the staff needed more diversity.”

  “He wasn’t thinking. He was building a home for that one.” He points his beer in Courtney’s direction. “He lost focus and control of his team, which was not something Charlie Cohen took kindly to. When he realized Coach D and Brock were playing him, he took his revenge.”

  “What
revenge?” I hear asked before I could and see Courtney now standing behind me.

  “He looked into Brock’s past; found out the golden boy wasn’t so golden. But that’s all you’ll get from me.” Larry winks then walks away.

  I hear Bill Smith chuckle, and he starts to walk away, having followed Courtney over.

  “Smith, hold up,” I call out to him.

  He turns around and shrugs. “You were always too caught up in the game to notice anything going on around you. I wasn’t, though.”

  “I don’t understand,” I tell him, thoroughly confused.

  “I watched you play for years. Watched him ruin you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I look at Courtney like she may have some insight.

  She simply shrugs, having no clue, either.

  “After I retired from UConn, I moved to Kentucky. It was cheaper, easier living. I was all set to enjoy my retirement, and then I got bored and started working at your college. Not coaching; I’d had enough of that. I worked in maintenance. I also attended every game. Sat with your family during almost every one of them.”

  That smile he always wears gets bigger. “When Charlie Cohen’s PI’s started nosing around, I gave him some information, and then Charlie brought me here. Haven’t left since.”

  “You were close with Dad?” Courtney asks.

  He laughs. “No, ma’am, not at first. Told him things he didn’t like. Told him Brock was gonna ruin his team. Told him about what he did to Rhodes. He dug deeper, found out about that little girl, and started reflecting on the time he lost with you.”

  She looks down and shakes her head. “He was a good dad.”

  I wrap my arm around her, holding her.

  “He knew he could be better, but the damn fool also wanted to teach that boy a lesson, so he brought him here.” He points at me.

  “So glad he did,” I say.

  “He had no idea what he was about to do.”

  “He left me more than a team,” Courtney whispers.

  Never thought I could feel more whole. Thought I was whole. But now, I know I was wrong. To say I feel emotional is an understatement.

  “Fuck,” I whisper and kiss her head.

  Courtney smiles at me. “He would have loved you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  In The Stable

  COURTNEY

  “WHY ARE WE HERE SO early?” Trae asks when we pull into the arena.

  “Because sitting at home was driving us both nuts,” I answer.

  He laughs as he gets out of his old truck.

  I open the door purposely, knowing he will scold me. Honestly, I like his alpha ways.

  He grabs our bags then follows me inside where we head right toward the locker room.

  “You okay, sweet thing?”

  I nod. “I just want a new tradition for your game day ritual. Your old ones piss me off,” I tell him, resting my crutches against the lockers as I look at him.

  “But they work,” he argues, setting the bags down next to his locker.

  When he turns back and looks at me, I grab the hem of my dress and slowly start to pull it up.

  “Court, what the hell are you doing?”

  “I have a broken leg, not a broken vagina, Rhodes. And as much as I like sucking you off and you eating me out, I need to get laid.”

  His jaw nearly drops, the exact reaction I was hoping for.

  “As a matter of fact,” I say, dropping the dress on the ground and grabbing my crutches, “I want to get fucked by the team's MVP on the court.” I start making my way toward the tunnel.

  “That’s sexual harassment.” He chuckles then calls out, “Get back here!”

  I move faster.

  “I’m not kidding!” he yells. “Get your ass back here. Someone might see you, and then your MVP will be in jail.”

  “The place is on lockdown for another twenty minutes,” I inform him, moving faster as he stalks me.

  I drop my crutches and start hopping as I hear him start running toward me. He grabs me around the waist and spins me in a circle as he squeezes my ass with one hand.

  “You have my number on your ass.”

  I giggle as he maneuvers me to face him without my feet touching the floor.

  “I finger painted it on. Nice touch?” I wag my eyebrows at him as I wrap my good leg around his waist and reach between us, pulling him free.

  “I like that you don’t wear underwear. Makes my life easier.” I rub him against me with one hand while wrapping my arm around his neck.

  “We lose, it’s your fault,” he growls, pushing fully into me and letting out a groan.

  I’m painfully full and unable to breathe. He knows it.

  “You forgot one of our rules, Court.” He grips my hips so I can’t move. “Don’t you ever forget that, when I’m on the court, I own it.”

  He lays me down on center court and pulls out just enough so I can breathe again.

  “Prove it,” I gasp.

  “When I’m inside Court, I own her.”

  “A little less shit talk, number 23. Show me what you’ve got.”

  “My. Fuckin’. Pleasure,” he says as he pounds into me, holding nothing back.

  He fucks me hard and unapologetically, just like he plays. I won’t have it any other way.

  ***

  “WELCOME TO GAME ONE HERE at The Stable Arena. You are in for one hell of a show. I’m James Toretto, here with Christa Styles.”

  “Thank you, James. And he’s right, ladies”—Christa winks at the honeys—“and gentlemen. Saddle up and get ready for one hell of a ride, ‘cause our Stallions are about to charge the court!”

  “Our starting lineup tonight is your center, number 13, Brock ‘The Baller’ Boeheim!” James says, and the crowd goes wild.

  Brock runs out onto the court with one arm in the air, and yeah, I puke a little in my mouth. I keep in mind that Trae said we should keep him unless he fucks up again.

  Trae is either the next best thing to sliced bread, or he wants another chance to blacken his eye. Either way, Brock is here.

  “Number 34, your point guard, Damien ‘The Right Hand’ Rose!”

  I laugh at Christa’s nickname for him as Damien runs out with a single rose in his hand. He walks to the honeys section, looks around, and gives it to a woman who blushes furiously.

  James then introduces, “Number 63, your not so small forward, Chandler ‘The Hound Dog’ Howard!”

  He’s runs out, smiling.

  “Number 28”—Christa winks at the honeys—“forward, Wade ‘The Wild Man’ Walker!”

  He comes out and stops on center court, cups his hands around his mouth, and lets out a roar. Half of the arena does it back.

  “And number 23, point guard, Trae ‘The Redeemer’ Rhodes!” James yells, and Christa gives him a dirty look.

  When James looks away smugly, I shake my head, turning to watch Trae run out onto the court.

  He stops at center, kneels, kisses his fingers, and touches the spot where we fucked. Then he looks up at me and kisses them again.

  I can’t stop the smile from spreading. It’s better than him sucking my taste off his fingers.

  Parker tosses him the ball, and he makes a three from center. The crowd erupts in applause.

  I watch them from two rows up behind the team’s seats. I should join my family in the VIP lounge area, but I want to be here, at least for right now, for the very first game, amidst the excitement.

  I look around at the packed arena and smile so big my face may crack, and if it does, I wouldn’t care. Then I look at the seat next to me, the empty one, the one Dad would be in if he were here, sitting next to me, and I feel like he is here.

  The whistle blows, and my attention goes to the game as the Pistons get the ball.

  “Not looking as good as last game,” James says over the PA, and then he yells out, “Ouch!”

  “The boys are looking good out there,” Christa takes over. “Walker gets the rebound and
passes it to his right hand, Rose.”

  I shake my head as I listen to her stir the...hive.

  “Rose passes to Boeheim, and Boeheim can’t get the shot. He’s—”

  “He could penetrate deep in the backfield. The Cheetah is open!” Christa yells.

  “He could if he was playing football,” James snaps at her.

  “You know what I mean.” She winks at the honeys.

  “Sadly, I do,” James says before continuing, “And he passes to Rhodes. Oh, for the love of the game, they’re going to work together. Rhodes stuffs it in the hole!”

  “Right on, James.” Christa laughs.

  “It’s an actual term,” he snaps at her.

  “Well, I like it!” she says.

  I can imagine her fist pumping toward the honeys, but I can’t look away from Trae as he throws his own little victory punch toward the ground.

  Trae looks up and winks, and I’m on my feet, cheering him on as he runs backward down the court.

  “The Pistons are not happy,” James states as number 4 goes in for a layup and basically uses Rose’s body to bounce himself off.

  “The fuck!” Rose yells.

  “My bad, man!” Number 4 yells back at him.

  The game continues. The Stallions score. The Pistons score. No one is shooting threes because this game is being played defensively.

  Coach L calls for a time-out, and Trae pops up on the screen, smiling. It’s one of the player interviews Christa and James did last week.

  “Number 23, Trae Rhodes,” he tells the camera.

  “Married or single?” the interviewer asks.

  “Come on, Christa; you know the answer.” Trae shakes his head at her.

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Luckiest man alive; married to a woman who has become my best friend.” I hear the smile in his voice.

  “Well, technically, she’s not your best friend because she’s mine,” the interviewer, aka Christa, says.

  Trae shakes his head. “I’m done.” He stands up and walks off screen.

  “I knew her first!” Christa yells after him.

  I can’t help laughing at them.

  Then I see him reappear.

  “We can arm wrestle over her.”

  Oh, my God! I laugh.

  “How about rock, paper, scissors? I can so beat your ass at that,” Christa challenges.

  She doesn’t. She loses all seven times. The last three, Trae does paper, and I know he’s trying to give her a chance, but she just doesn’t catch on.