by Mel Curtis
That kind of Heartbreak was hard to shake. It sunk its sharp teeth in his ankles and wouldn’t let go. Weeks later, Randy was going crazy not thinking about Gemma and her fears.
And wouldn’t you know it? Crazy raised Randy’s game, and earned him a spot with nineteen other rookies and D-leaguers on the NBA Flash’s summer league basketball team. Ten days, three practices with the coaching staff (of which he used to be a part), and five games in Vegas. That was how long he had to prove he could play in the NBA, make his dream come true, and win Gemma back.
Crap.
That last goal slipped past his guard, nudging past self-preservation and wounded pride.
I’m doing this for me.
Familiar frustration gripped his shoulders.
It bore repeating: I’m doing this for me.
But achieving would have benefits. He’d silence his father, who wanted Randy to return to Indiana. To farm.
Rewind and get your head on straight, Farrell. Play for yourself.
He’d made it to Game Three. He’d made it past older, more experienced players. He’d made it despite the distractions of the press, Pain and Heartbreak. He’d made it to the NBA.
The question was: How long would he last?
Someone put a shot up. The crowd in the Thomas and Mack arena held its collective, beer-nourished breath.
Randy held nothing back. Anticipating the ball clanking against the rim to the left, he slashed between opposing players, timing his leap into the air to take advantage of the tired, winded defenders. The ball was his.
Bodies turned, moved. Noise from the crowd built like a lumbering freight train, rumbling over shouts from Randy’s teammates and Coach Trent Parker. Randy cut across half-court, analyzing the defensive situation even as he gestured for his team to run an offensive play.
Dribbling around the curving three-point line, Randy leaned his upper body into the rookie guarding him, careful not to drop his shoulder and shove him out of the way—a certain foul. Ahead, the Chewbacca of rookies stood—shaggy and seven-foot tall—knees bent, ready to shift in whatever direction Randy tried to take the ball. To his left, a teammate of Randy’s had his hands out to receive a pass, but the dude had air-balled his last three shots. No one else was open. Randy had a split second to decide—bail out and pass the ball to his teammate, or drive toward the basket and score.
He accelerated, bent beneath Chewbacca’s swooping arm, planted both feet, and elevated toward the basket.
Bodies closed around him. Pungent sweat. Feral grunts. The gut dropping feeling that a four-body pile-up was imminent. Most likely with Randy on the bottom.
His father’s voice: Why do you have to make it so hard on yourself?
Gemma’s: Don’t back down.
Her voice catapulted fiery frustration through him, along with a burning trail of anger, one just as hot as the day she’d ended things. She could ignore him, but Randy would not be ignored. Not here. This was his time. This was his house.
His grip fused on the ball. Defenders became two-hundred-and-fifty pound gnats. The world seemed to slow. His mind coalesced on one thought: Watch me.
Randy’s reach extended above the hoop. A flick of his wrists and the ball went into the basket.
He hung onto the rim, swaying as the men around him dropped to the hardwood and ran the other way. Trent, head coach of the Flash, applauded, before turning to yell at someone else on the team.
Randy spared a glance behind the bench. But the woman he wanted to be watching wasn’t there.
In the past year, Gemma Kent Rule had transitioned from being an only child to being part of a big family. And not just any family—the Hollywood Rules. The ones who made the Dooley Foundation life coaching firm so very successful. It was like being adopted by the Kardashians. There was chaos and gossip, but there was also the feeling that she’d be loved no-matter-what.
The No-Matter-What had hit the fan. Her Rule-card was in jeopardy.
Summoned into her boss’ office, Gemma’s army-booted feet dragged.
“Sit down, Gemma.” Amber, her half-sister and boss, waved toward a chair. She’d been blessed with the red curly hair, cheery business savvy, and pale skin of their father. Gemma had received his curly hair (as dark as her temper), business savvy (ornery, not cheerful), and pale skin that showed every blemish and every blush.
“It wasn’t my fault.” Gemma dropped into a seat. She’d just returned from a client’s house and the wet cuff of her pants leg fell against her calf, a clammy zombie-like grip, ready to drag her to her No-Matter-What doom. “Okay, maybe it was my fault.” Just like the incident a few weeks ago with a client and a box of Hostess Ho-Ho missiles had been, Gemma being the out-of-patience missile launcher. “I can explain.”
“Gemma, you hosed down your client.” Amber’s tone was severe. Pregnant women with severe tones were a caution.
“Technically, Isabelle’s mother hired us.” Gemma pushed her glasses up her nose. The teen starlet’s mother was having trouble keeping her daughter out of trouble. She’d engaged the Dooley Foundation to work with Isabelle, before the young star ruined her pristine image and her career. Of course, she’d hired them after Isabelle stalked and tried to seduce Gemma’s boyfriend, Randy. How fitting that Gemma landed that assignment.
Amber sighed, which Gemma took as her cue to explain, doing so with due haste. “I was with Isabelle all morning. I had a lunch appointment with Winnie and her mother, remember?” She’d arranged to have lunch with the pair on the patio of The Ivy for maximum paparazzi exposure. “When I got back from lunch I found Isabelle and the pool guy shedding their clothes poolside. I asked them politely to stop.” She’d thought “Get your (bleeping) hands out of his pants, Isabelle” was polite under the circumstances. “And when they didn’t listen, I had to resort to emergency measures.” The hose. Spray nozzle set to a powerful stream.
Granted, Gemma probably received more satisfaction out of dousing the young woman than a life coach should gain from disciplining her client. But—
“Her mother feels we’ve crossed a line,” Amber said gently.
“She’d be singing a different tune if she’d come home to find Isabelle doing the dirty.” Just shy of eighteen, but a multi-millionaire, Isabelle was testing every limit her parents, and the studio that had made her a star, had ever imposed. “Trust me, it’s an image I won’t easily erase from my memory banks, and I’m not her mother. She ought to be grateful I spared her that.”
“True.” Amber’s palm circled her near-to-bursting baby bulge. Her eyes were dark-rimmed, as if she hadn’t slept much lately, and she sounded distracted. “You know, you have a lot in common with Dad.”
Gemma swallowed thickly. She’d loved the man she’d thought was her godparent, and resented him when she learned he was her biological father. This wasn’t the first time lately she’d been compared to Dooley Rule. “That’s a compliment...Right?”
“Dad employed a lot of tough love techniques,” Amber said cryptically. Her gaze drifted toward the window and the sparkling view of the Santa Monica Promenade. It was one of those rare summer days in L.A., where the Santa Ana winds had cleared out the smog and the blue sky looked as beautiful and pristine as if it’d been Photoshopped.
“Dooley…Dad…was successful.” Okay, that sounded a bit defensive, but Gemma bet her father hadn’t lived with a fist of resentment in his chest. Most of her clients couldn’t acknowledge what their problems stemmed from. And if she told them? They argued that she was wrong. “If you want to keep the Chavez’ business, why don’t you fire me?”
Amber’s smile didn’t reassure. It didn’t comfort or console. It left Gemma feeling oddly empty and adrift. They said they’d love me no-matter-what. She swallowed, mentally preparing to receive her pink slip.
Instead of firing her, Amber changed the subject. “I’m flying to Vegas tonight. Are
you and Cora still planning on driving?”
Gemma nodded. She had mixed feelings about Cora’s upcoming nuptials. She was happy for Cora, and flattered to be chosen as a bridesmaid. There was the fancy white princess dress the bridesmaids had to wear (Cora had chosen a stunning silver corset gown). But there was also the walk down the aisle with two challenges—high-high heels, and Randy as her escort.
Gemma could grin and bear the shoes, but Randy? She’d stepped out of his life and allowed him to devote himself full-time to his dream. And what did she get in return? The satisfaction that she’d made the right decision for the man she loved, and Saturday night dates with her television remote.
Moral high ground really sucked.
Chapter Two
An hour after Game 3, Randy stood outside the Thomas and Mack Center talking to his agent, Cy Maxwell. Elation over his performance kept a smile on Randy’s face, despite the catch at the back of his throat—the one that anticipated an empty hotel room and a phone bereft of congratulatory messages from Gemma or his family. He’d purchased open airline tickets for his parents and sister to come out this week. They had yet to show. And Gemma…
Even when you’re not with me, you’re right here, in my heart.
Those were among the last words she’d spoken to him. What a bunch of crap. He’d never felt so alone.
Someone jostled him. Just as many fans were streaming out of the arena as were going in. There were still more games to be played. The sun was sinking beyond the mountains, bringing out the glitter of Vegas lights and the weak promise of relief from the hundred-plus degree weather.
“You’re doing great.” In khakis and a burgundy button-down, Cy appeared unaffected by the heat. Nothing ruffled Cy—not blustery team owners, not rabid press, or prima donna actresses. “Leading scorer on the team. The biggest story of summer league.”
Randy’s spirits should have been soaring. Instead, he found himself grounded, scanning the crowd for a slight woman with dark, wildly curling hair, and Poindexter glasses.
Pathetic male, table for one.
“Hey, Farrell.” A balding man wearing a wrinkled Duke T-shirt, white basketball shorts, and leather sandals separated himself from the crowd. “Harry Langley, Whip-Smart Sports Blog.” He stopped in front of Randy, wiping a forearm across his sweat-dampened forehead. “Until I saw you in action today, I was convinced Coach Parker was playing favorites. I mean…” He wheezed out a couple of Beavis & Butthead-like chuckles. “You were an assistant coach on the Flash just a few months ago. How else could you earn a shot at being a player?”
Randy’s jaw clamped shut, even as his mouth worked to remember how to smile. It’d been like this all week. Everyone wanted there to be a conspiracy.
Cy smoothly introduced himself. “You do remember that Randy led his team to the Final Four last year? And that he was predicted to go in the top twenty of round one of the draft before he was injured?”
“Eh,” Harry shrugged, sending his man-boobs jiggling. “It’s like when Michael Jordan was in management for the Washington Wizards and he became a player. Do you think they made him try out?” He faux slugged Randy’s shoulder as if they were best buds. Randy’s fist clenched the strap of his sports bag. “Truthfully, you didn’t have to play this summer, did you?”
“Nothing’s been handed to him.” Subtly, Cy edged the blogger farther away from Randy. “He tried out last month. He’s trying out this week. And if he makes the cut here, he’ll be trying out in September in L.A. You can read all about him in our press release.”
“I’ve read your P.R.” Harry’s friendly demeanor took on an edge. “Nowhere in there does it say that Randy’s a groomsman for Coach Parker this week. I hear he’s staying at the Aria with the rest of the wedding party.” The blogger’s smile became more pronounced, like a fat cat ready to pounce on an unsuspecting bird. “Not over at Mandalay Bay with the rest of the team. So why don’t we cut the crap and get to the real story. Randy played for Coach Parker in college, he blew out his knee, snapped his Achilles, and still managed to win the Championship. This little series of tryouts is Coach Parker giving a player compensation for his sacrifices. I’m not saying your boy did anything wrong. Randy’s making good on the opportunity.” He wiped his forehead again. “All I need is confirmation about what Coach Parker’s done.”
“Then you should talk to Coach Parker. We’ve got nothing else to say.” Cy waved him away. “Shoo.”
Randy’s fingers were cramping. He unclenched them as Harry elbowed his way back into the crowd.
“Screw him,” Cy said. “It doesn’t matter how you got your foot in the door. You’re proving your feet deserve to stay on that court every day.”
Randy nodded tightly.
Evan Oliver, the team’s star forward, pulled up in a stop-sign red Ferrari and waved them over. He was in Vegas both to check out the new prospects for the Flash, and because his sister-in-law, Cora, was marrying Trent in two days. “Hey, Farrell. Are you spent or do you think you have another game in you?”
Don’t be a chump. Play it cool. Don’t be a chump. Play it cool.
Randy’s chin jerked up and down like a defective robot.
When it came to basketball, Evan had done it all. He’d played on a Final Four basketball team, on the street ball circuit for AND1, and in the European leagues. The guy was a legend, the face of the Flash, and addicted to pick-up games. No matter what city Evan landed in, he knew where the best pick-up games were. To be invited along…
“Come on then,” Evan said. “I’m picking up Amber in a couple of hours.”
Walking to the car, Randy tried to act like he scrimmaged with NBA royalty every day. Inside his blood was pumping through the running man dance.
“Hold it, Farrell. This is great P.R. I’m tweeting it.” Cy snapped a picture of Randy with his hand reaching for the car door. “Don’t injure my best prospect this year, Oliver.”
Evan revved the engine. “Don’t let your agent tell you what to do, kid. Ever.”
“Hey, I’m your agent, too,” Cy sputtered, glancing up from his phone.
“Exactly.” Grinning, Evan gestured for Randy to get in.
Randy folded himself into the passenger seat, stuffing his duffel at his feet. For the year he’d been on the Flash staff, Evan had never invited Randy for coffee, much less to play basketball with him. In fact, Randy couldn’t remember hearing anyone mention Evan had asked them to play outside of practice.
Evan toggled the windows up. The air conditioner quickly filled the car with cool air.
The engine rumbled through the floorboards. Evan’s tight turns made it feel as if the car was riding on rails.
Someday, this’ll be me. Gemma’ll be sorry she missed out.
“Like I care about men’s toys.” Gemma’s voice in his head.
Her endearing sarcasm drained him, spiraling down his body, toward his toes. Just as quickly, pride pumped a protective layer around his heart.
“I like the way you’re playing,” Evan was saying. “Like you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to prove.”
“After my injuries, lots of people said I’d never play again.” He’d spent more than a year rehabbing his college injuries. “And then there’s the media story that Trent handed me this opportunity to play.”
“So you’re not playing for the love of the game? You’re proving the naysayers wrong?” Evan sounded dubious. “Or does this have to do with Gemma?”
“That’s none of your business.” It was hell having the Dooley Foundation and the Rules so tightly intertwined with the Flash. It was one thing to shoulder Heartbreak every day, another to have a guy you idolized rub it in your face.
“That’s answer enough.” Frowning, Evan took a quick turn.
“I thought we were going to play ball.” Not discuss his ex-girlfriend.
“Oh, we’re going
to play, kid. I may have married into the Rules, but I’m not Lyle Lincoln. I don’t follow gossip or dig into rumored romances.” The not-yet-thirty year-old superstar chuckled. “Besides, you’re going to see Gemma a lot over the next few days. I’ll be able to judge for myself,” he added slyly, contradicting his earlier statement. “Mini-golf. Rehearsal dinner. Wedding and reception. Not to mention a couple more games where Gemma’s bound to be in the audience.”
Another tight turn. The gravitational pull of the earth, combined with the car’s obscene horsepower held Randy captive in the seat, while his emotions threatened to escape.
On the one hand, Randy couldn’t wait to see Gemma again. By now, she’d have heard how well he was doing. But was it enough for her to take him back? On the other hand, if she was going to reject him again for his own good, he wanted to be a no-show.
Being a no-show wasn’t an option when he was a groomsman for Trent, who held Randy’s future in his hands. He’d have to play it cool, regardless of what Gemma said.
Like a bump on a log. Same as the day she left you.
Randy frowned.
“Coach Parker asked my opinion about you,” Evan was saying, putting an end to any conspiracy theories Randy might have had. “Anyone can see you’re tearing it up on the court.” He down-shifted. “But I’m not giving my endorsement until I find out two things.”
Randy pushed himself upright in the seat. “Which are?”
“If you can score on me, for one.” Evan spared him a glance, grinning as if he doubted Randy could do so. “That part’s easy to judge. Harder to evaluate is your mental state. If you get over Gemma or make up with her, will you still play at this level of intensity?”
Something cold, unpleasant, and familiar knotted in Randy’s gut, and it wasn’t the fear of playing a basketball legend. Evan had a point. Gemma’s leaving was the reason Randy played like the devil. He’d vacillated between wanting her back and fearing what a reconciliation would do to his game. He’d wondered if his frustration and anger toward her cooled, if he’d still play like an all-star.