Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

Randy returned to the court, if not eagerly, at least more confidently.

  “He’s enjoying this.” Evan dribbled over to Trent, his attention seemingly on Randy, but it was as if the ball was a yo-yo, returning after each bounce to his palm. “Maybe he’s not bad luck after all.”

  “The kid needs something to enjoy,” Trent grumbled. Why couldn’t Evan leave the Randy issue alone?

  “You know,” Evan said after a moment. “Other guys have come back from more severe injuries. He could still have a shot at the NBA. Don’t look at him and see his dreams crushed.”

  “You don’t know how I see him.” There was more than a grumble in Trent’s voice now. There was a territorial growl. If Trent thought Randy could make it in the NBA, he’d give him a chance on the Flash, especially if he knew Randy wouldn’t get hurt again. But Trent had to be Randy’s mentor first and foremost – give him the credentials to find a job in case he never reached his previous playing potential again.

  Evan turned to Trent, raised an eyebrow, but didn’t back off. Or lose ball control.

  Shit, he was good.

  Trent crossed his arms over his chest. “The Rules have ruined you, Oliver.”

  His star player laughed. “You have so much to learn. The Rules help you find your happy place, grasshopper.”

  Trent didn’t think he could find a happy place, not with so many responsibilities weighing on him.

  And then the mood in the gym changed. The dribbling became crisper, cuts to the basket sharper.

  Cora was back. Trent could almost feel her re-entry into his sphere like a physical touch, could almost smell her scent. She wore jeans that looked as if they were painted on and a navy blouse that draped over one shoulder, revealing a black bra strap. She must own a dresser-full of black bras. He wanted to see and remove every last one from her body.

  But wanting and needing were two very different things.

  “You want that scholarship.” His father. In his grill. “You need to think of winning as a need – you need to win as much as you need air! Wanting gets you nowhere in life. Now get your ass out there and win!”

  Archie Parker, motivational speaker to pee wee football players.

  Trent shook off the memory. Soon, he’d shake off the Dooley Foundation. He followed Evan to a basket. Several players were shooting on others.

  Cora walked over, her heels clicking a message on the hardwood – I-want-you-you-you.

  Dream on, Parker.

  She stopped at the post position on the free throw lane, fingering her purse strap. “Evan, I have a favor to ask you.”

  “No.” Evan’s stroke was a thing of beauty. Textbook. His sister-in-law’s appearance had no effect on it.

  “It’s for Amber,” she said.

  Evan’s next ball clanked against the rim. Trent didn’t try hiding his smile. Everyone had their kryptonite. Nice to identify Evan’s.

  Randy rebounded and passed Evan the ball.

  Cora glanced at the coaching staff and closed the distance between herself and Evan. Her voice dropped so low, Trent had to strain to eavesdrop over the gym’s cacophony. “You know how you’ve been having the team over at the end of each workout for dinner and to watch game film?”

  Trent stopped pretending to snoop and stared at Cora. There was something off in her voice. Something in her tone he couldn’t quite place and didn’t quite trust.

  “Amber needs a break tonight.” Cora fiddled with the neckline of her blouse.

  She wasn’t a fidgety woman.

  Evan shook his head. “We discussed this. She’ll get a night off in a few weeks when pre-season starts.” He bounced the ball so hard other players turned toward them.

  Cora batted her eyelashes. She was a horrible liar. “Okay…I guess you can wait until next month.”

  “For what?” Evan snapped.

  “Hello?” Cora wasn’t fazed by her brother-in-law’s temper. She glanced around, carefully not looking at Trent. “Remember that deal you made? The one about babies?” Cora patted her flat stomach. “Well, there’s a time to get things done, and that time is now.”

  Evan launched a shot. And air-balled it.

  Trent laughed.

  His star player glared at him, holding out his hands to receive another ball. “I can cancel the team thing tonight.”

  “Amber suggested you send the team to my place,” Cora said innocently. Too innocently.

  How could Evan not see something was fishy here?

  “They can come to my hotel suite,” Trent suggested. “Or we can stay here.” No way was he letting his team go to Cora’s house. If anyone made her angry, she’d wreak havoc with her kisses and foot massages.

  “No one wants to stay here.” Evan squeezed the ball with both hands. “And unless you’re staying in the presidential suite, a hotel room doesn’t have enough space for the team.”

  Cora turned her back on Trent, twisting her long hair over one shoulder. “It’s not like they haven’t been to my place before. When you guys were remodeling in May – ”

  “The team came to your house?” Trent couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice.

  “Not one at a time,” Cora said coolly, clearly following the path of his dirty mind. “They hung out as a group in my living room and ate all my food.”

  “I’d offer my house.” Vivian approached them. Trent had been so mesmerized by Cora, he hadn’t noticed she’d come in. “But it’s very small.”

  “And she lives with her parents,” Cora whispered to Evan, loud enough for Trent to hear.

  “You didn’t have to tell them that,” Vivian snapped. “It’s only temporary, until – ”

  “Why the sudden, positive interest in our team, Viv?” Evan’s eyes narrowed.

  “She’s decided to assert her ownership rights and be more involved in management.” Cora’s lines seemed practiced, rehearsed, insincere.

  Trent smelled a rat. And the rat smelled of vanilla.

  Evan called Amber, but it seemed she was indeed ovulating, because he started cussing and picking up his things.

  Vivian’s phone rang. She stepped away to answer.

  “You’re up to something,” Trent said to Cora.

  “You’re paranoid.” Cora watched Ren dunk. “Not a good trait for an NBA coach.”

  She was up to something and he was going to find out what. “After I shower, I’ll be over.” Trent tugged his cell phone out of his pocket. “What’s the address?”

  “Uhhh…” Cora’s gaze fell to her feet. “Do you have to come?”

  His brain latched onto the double entendre and went places unrelated to basketball. “Yes, I do. You’re watching game film. With my team. If I’m not welcome, I could just as easily make them stay here to watch.”

  She nodded slowly, and then stepped closer. The vanilla scent increased. She put a hand on his arm and led him further away from Vivian. Her palm on his skin ignited a heat transfer, sparking all kinds of inappropriate thoughts. Trent held his breath, willing the Reverend to stay in control.

  Cora licked her lips, dialing her sex-appeal setting to high. His dick woke up.

  And then she let him go.

  It was like a car he’d been driving at sixty miles per hour had stalled and rolled to a neck-bending stop.

  “Here’s the thing, Reverend.” Cora’s smile dared him to defy her. “You can come over, but you have to be on your best behavior. You’re not the coach yet. I can help you break the ice with the players, but if you come you have to tone down the intensity.”

  She knew how to hit his hot button. No one told him what to do. “I’m their coach, not their friend.”

  A stray basketball sailed through the air toward her. Trent caught it easily and passed it back to Antoine.

  Cora beamed her thanks. Only with Cora, there were layers to be uncovered in her smile. Confidence, smarts, beauty, sex appeal. And an agenda. Probably the Dooley Foundation’s agenda. He had to remember that.

  “This is the time they use to u
nwind,” Cora was saying. “They don’t need you to be their coach until next week.”

  “You’re starting to annoy me, sugar.” He couldn’t look at her any more. Instead, he watched Randy make a hitching, slow-motion lay-up.

  Shit. Looking at Cora was easier. He turned back.

  “Starting? I thought I annoyed you every time we met.” There was a hint of that sexy, superior tone, the one that said she wasn’t intimidated by his bluster.

  “Are you trying to ply some of that Dooley Rules magic on me? Because if you are, it won’t work.” If he pushed hard enough, he’d find that sensitive spot that made her back off. Everyone had one.

  She laughed. It was rich and throaty and took the sting out of the way she refused to cow to his demands. Damn it.

  Vivian returned, looking a bit shaken. “That was Jack. He wants to meet me for a late dinner.”

  Immediately, Cora abandoned Trent and led a pale Vivian toward the door, talking to her softly.

  “I’ll see you later,” Trent called.

  “Not if you don’t get my address,” Cora called back.

  Trent turned to the one person who couldn’t refuse him directions to Cora’s house.

  The team’s gentle giant. Ren Du.

  Chapter 13

  Trent was putty in Cora’s hands.

  Okay, maybe not putty, but he’d shown up at Cora’s house with the team. That was something. So what if he looked hot in a white Flash polo and blue jeans? Other team members looked hot, too. Tonight, Cora had to set aside female appreciation and be one of the guys, whether she wanted to sleep with the leader of the guys or not. Only in her weaker moments would she admit that Trent was like a large cotton candy at a carnival – satisfying for about fifteen minutes and then regrettable.

  Regardless, Cora rode a wave of triumph. Things were going according to Amber’s plan. Jack was having dinner with Viv, and they’d succeeded in getting Evan away from the team and Trent alone with the guys. The day might have been perfect, if she hadn’t been saddled with Gemma tonight. Cora was starting to think Amber had planted a spy to make sure she didn’t sleep with Trent. The life coach wannabe sat in a corner of the dining room looking uncomfortably out of place.

  It took Trent less than thirty seconds to walk into Cora’s Beverly Hills condo and assume the role of Debbie Downer. He and Gemma could form their own chapter of the club.

  “My team isn’t drinking.” Trent surveyed the bottles of liquor on the bar in Cora’s kitchen, totally ignoring the salads, veggies, chicken and meat on the dining room table. To be fair, it was hard to see all the healthy food when the tall group of men was making the rounds, filling their plates.

  “Payton.” Cora caught the attention of the player closest to her. “Which game are we looking at tonight?”

  The good-looking forward didn’t turn around. “The last game with Houston.”

  “They won’t be drinking much tonight,” Cora reassured Trent. “Houston was a good game for everyone.”

  Trent looked from Cora to the alcohol and back to her. She brightened her smile. He scowled.

  Trent’s uncomfortable, slow-moving shadow, Randy Farrell peeked into the kitchen. When Randy would have bent to pet Brutus, Cora was quick to warn him. “Wait until you’re seated, Coach.” She gave the younger man the courtesy of a title. “Brutus gets nervous around tall people.” Although he’d let Trent pet him the other day. “Do you need any help getting a plate?”

  Randy’s cheeks bloomed with color. “No, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am?” She laughed. “Ouch. I’m what? Two years older than you?”

  “Three,” Gemma muttered from a corner of the dining room, loud enough for everyone to hear. She turned away, hiding behind her curls as if afraid Randy might recognize her fan-girl Twitter picture. Not likely without Mimi’s makeover magic.

  Cora sent Gemma a dark look. That girl needed tips on how to talk to boys. Not to mention how to talk to girls in front of boys.

  “Come on, Coach Farrell.” Antoine waved Randy over. “Get something on your plate before Ren eats it all.”

  The young coach walked slowly to the dining area. A few of the players turned their backs, as if loathe to rub shoulders with the wounded athlete for fear of attracting his bad injury-karma.

  “No drinking.” Trent picked up bottles, tucking them into the crook of his arm.

  He’d ruin everything. Cora wedged herself between him and the counter, lowering her voice. “They don’t like watching film. So we made a game out of it.” One of her father’s principles at work – a Mary Poppins, he’d called it. “Whenever someone makes a mistake – if the team sees the mistake – that person has to take a shot.”

  “I don’t like it.” But the softening crease between Trent’s brows indicated he was caving.

  “It’s okay to give something new a chance. If you don’t like it, after tonight you can ban game film nights.” Or not attend. She retrieved the bottles from him.

  Ren ducked beneath her kitchen archway, crowding into the small space with Cora and Trent. “Do you have milk, my Evening Star?”

  “In the fridge door.”

  Trent moved stiffly toward the living room, almost as stiffly as Randy. Today’s workout was catching up to him. He leaned against the wall like some rent-a-cop sent to watch kids at a high school dance, determined not to have a good time. Across the room, Gemma mirrored his stance.

  Cora resisted rolling her eyes.

  “You are feeling our workout, Coach?” Ren patted Trent on the head as he passed. “You should ask my Evening Star for a massage.”

  Trent’s gaze connected with Cora’s. Her cheeks felt hot. Then Trent’s gaze dropped lower and her entire body felt hot.

  Cora swallowed past her dry throat. No one ever looked at her like that. Guys looked at her with speculative interest, not I-will-die-if-I-don’t-have-you fire.

  Trent shifted his gaze to the television, allowing Cora to breathe and regain her common sense. Amber and Blue expected her to make Trent see that the team wasn’t a tool for his career path, but his family. Coaching a team required a dance along the fine line between players as treasures and players as replaceable commodities. Amber believed Trent viewed players as Jack did – disposable. Having watched Trent with the team today, Cora wasn’t so sure.

  But there was proof of Trent’s commodity views in one six-foot-six, broken, college point guard, standing indecisively between the dining room and the living room as if unsure where he fit in.

  Antoine, bless his blustery, street-smarting heart, made room for Randy on a couch. The team settled within her huge conversation pit and on the floor in front of the television. Cora handed Antoine the remote.

  “I think we need a new rule.” Cora tried to sound as if the thought had just occurred to her, rather than it being part of a plan the siblings had devised this weekend. “If Coach Spinks makes a mistake, the new coach has to drink for him.”

  That drew approving laughter from the team. Trent shot her a look that said he didn’t know whether to curse her or thank her. He had a few shots coming this game.

  Let’s see how the Reverend holds his liquor.

  “And Coach Randy will drink for my good friend, Evan.” Ren sat on the step to the sunken living room, near Trent’s feet, as if he was Trent’s large, loyal dog. He spread his legs and put his milk and plate in between them. “Look at me on TV, Coach Parker. I am about to dunk.”

  Gemma smiled at Cora.

  Gemma smiling? Despite the pressure, the stakes, and Gemma’s clear disapproval of her on most days, Cora found herself smiling back.

  “Turnover! Turnover!” Antoine bounced on the couch, pointing the remote at the screen and pausing the action. “You dunked and then you made a sloppy inbound pass to Oliver. Drink up, my Korean friend.”

  Cora poured Ren a shot of whiskey. Her role, as Evan’s stand-in, was to bartend and to make sure no one drank too much.

  Brutus made the rounds, licking hands, beggin
g for tidbits, and receiving a greeting from everyone. He hopped into Randy’s lap, giving the assistant coach a small lick of welcome, before jumping down and claiming a spot on Trent’s foot. The coach frowned at Cora, but didn’t nudge Brutus aside.

  “Wait for the second quarter, Antoine.” Payton elbowed his teammates. “You had a few nasties yourself.”

  While the guys watched the game, Cora cleaned up the remains of the buffet, poured shots, massaged shoulders, and generally tried to avoid interacting with Trent. But the previous coach had made mistakes, and Trent took his punishment like a good sport. Each time she handed him a shot of tequila, their eyes clashed.

  You’re up to something, his gaze accused.

  It was getting harder to feign innocence.

  In the fourth quarter, Randy stood to receive his shot and looked at Gemma, who blushed. Blushed! The world had to be ending.

  The Dooley Foundation’s receptionist retreated to the corner of the dining room, turning her back on the game. It was the perfect opportunity for a virgin-laden gibe, but for some reason, Cora couldn’t do it. That look in Gemma’s eyes behind her out-of-date glasses was pure puppy love. Brutus took pity on Gemma, dancing on his hind legs at her feet until she picked him up.

  While she washed shot glasses at the end of the game, Gemma brought in plates and glasses from the living room, and Trent filled trash bags. Team members cleared out and said goodbye, not just to Cora, but to Trent as well. Between the workout and drinking tequila shots, he’d gone a long way toward earning their respect today.

  Randy offered to drive Antoine home. The guard had made the most mistakes and seemed tipsy. Gemma slipped out soon after.

  The condo was quiet. Only Trent remained.

  When had everyone left? And why was Trent still here?

  Cora tried to keep it light, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “You have potential there, Coach.”

  “So people keep telling me.” He stood in her kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest as if she was violating parole and he was her parole officer.

  Nerves she hadn’t felt since high school skittered over her skin, loosening her tongue. “Did you like the way the guys bonded over game film?”