Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

The offensive coordinator looked at Trent.

  “You heard him,” Trent said. There was too much to do to prepare for their first game to put up with attitude.

  The next few staff members didn’t present themselves with any more professionalism. Archie was in his element – loud and belligerent to anyone with even a hint of disrespect toward Trent. It was oddly heartwarming.

  Trent soon grew tired of the show. “How many are left?”

  “Two,” Randy said.

  The defensive coordinator was nearly seven feet tall and as wide as a Christmas tree. He didn’t bother sitting. “I came in here as a courtesy to Jack, but I wouldn’t work for you if this was the last job on the planet.”

  “You better hope it isn’t.” Archie turned to Trent after he’d gone. “Who knew people hated you more than they hated me?”

  Trent met Randy’s gaze. “We don’t need to see the last guy. He’ll get the message if you close the door.” Trent gestured for Randy to shut it down.

  “Wait.” A hand slapped against the wood. “I’m Berto Martinez and I want to stay.” Despite his Latino looks and Clark Kent glasses, the man in the doorway spoke with a Boston accent.

  Trent eyed the kid’s wiry frame. Something in his memory clicked. “Didn’t you play at USC?”

  Berto nodded. “Shooting guard. I didn’t make grades. Lost my scholarship and learned my lesson. Give me a chance. I won’t let you down.”

  “Let this one go, son,” Archie said. “We’ve already got our fill of wet behind the ears.”

  Berto never took his gaze from Trent’s face. “I’ll do anything. Edit film, run off playbooks – ”

  “Wipe his ass?” Archie interjected.

  Trent and Randy exchanged glances. Randy nodded.

  “No? Really?” Archie noted their exchange and frowned. “When are you going to have time to train these rookies?”

  Cora walked by with a sideways glance at Berto and a private smile. Trent had the distinct impression that she’d been the reason his latest coaching hire almost missed his chance, bolstering the young man’s courage. He knew she was a distraction for him, but he’d be damned if he’d let her be a distraction to anyone on his staff.

  “I’m not going to train them.” Trent stood. “You’re in charge of player and coach development. Start now. With these two.”

  While Archie sputtered, Trent hurried into the hallway. He’d put an end to her influence before it spread. “Miss Rule.”

  She turned. It was more like one of those runway model pivots. Graceful. Sexy. Mesmerizing.

  “Reverend,” she said. Cool. Arrogant. Distant. Carry-over from the last time they’d talked at the hospital.

  He preferred her in his grill. When he reached her, he didn’t stop walking. He hooked her arm and propelled her farther away from his office. He paused near the juncture of the hallway, debating where to take her for some privacy, someplace he could reaffirm that his team was off limits.

  The players were moving from the fitness room into the gym. He could tell from the squeak for shoes and male laughter on the other side of the gym door. Around the corner was Jack’s office, with his assistant and admin desks in the reception area. The murmur of their voices drifted to him.

  “Reverend – ”

  “Give me a minute.” On impulse, he opened a nearby door, hoping it was an empty office. It wasn’t. It was a janitor’s closet. He tugged Cora inside and flicked on the light. There was barely enough room to waltz in place. Cleaning suppliers crowded a vacuum that had seen better days and the pre-requisite mops and brooms. Vanilla mixed with disinfectant. “Is Berto a client of the Dooley Foundation?”

  “That’s none of your business.” She crossed her arms over her chest, elevating the cleavage exposed by her green silk blouse.

  If someone in his ranks was under the wing of the enemy, Trent wanted to know. “Berto’s the only one of the last regime’s staff to ask for a job.”

  “The rest of them were fools. They didn’t agree with anything Evan was trying to do.”

  Trent had to count to ten before answering, and even then he said through gritted teeth. “Evan isn’t the coach of this team.”

  “But he makes them go.” Gone was her teasing smile, her knowing grin. She was calm. So calm.

  Trent wanted to be the one to make his team go.

  Anger raced through his veins. Frustration clamped the back of his neck. And lust…He glanced at her cleavage once more and couldn’t seem to look away.

  No good.

  She was no good for his career and reputation.

  No good.

  She was no good for his peace of mind.

  No good.

  It was no good. He wanted her.

  It didn’t matter how many times he told himself to stay focused on the team or how often he reminded himself that Archie and Randy needed the wholesome image of the Reverend. He’d made hundreds of sacrifices, chosen the high road when it would have been easier to take the low – all in the name of the good of the program and his team. Just once, he wanted something for himself. And what he wanted was Cora.

  To his credit, he fought the urge to stroke the soft skin at her throat. “I don’t want you to coach anyone on my staff.”

  “Again, it’s none of your business who my clients are.” Her tone remained detached. “We agreed to stay out of each other’s way and not to be seen together. The Reverend’s reputation must be protected.”

  “The Reverend isn’t here.” Truth be told, he’d left the Reverend back in his office. Trent took a step closer. “And no one can see me do this.” He stroked the length of her graceful neck with the back of his hand. “Or this.” He speared his fingers into her thick mass of dark hair. “Or this.” He reeled her to him, holding her gaze until their lips were a breath apart. “Stop me if you don’t want this. Stop me if you’re mad, and you’d kiss anyone who’d been walking down the hallway just now. Stop me – ”

  Her lips stopped him mid-sentence.

  For a moment, everything seemed right – the feel of her in his arms, the building of tension in his groin, the flutter of familiarity and fantasy.

  “Trent,” she murmured against his lips. It was the first time she’d called him anything other than Reverend.

  If only he’d met her at the end of the season. If only she didn’t work for the Dooley Foundation. If only he didn’t want to strip her clothes off and take her in the broom closet.

  “Trent!” His father bellowed. “Time to scrimmage.”

  Trent broke off the kiss, touching his forehead to hers. He was trapped. To answer or come out meant to reveal his interest in Cora. All this was too new. He didn’t know how to handle it except to keep it to himself.

  “Trent! Dag-nabbit. Where did he go?” Footsteps receded.

  Cora tried to remove Trent’s hands from her waist. He held on.

  “You shouldn’t kiss me like that,” she said breathlessly.

  Sweet baby Jesus, what was he doing? “I’m sorry.”

  She swore. “I don’t know who you are, Reverend. And I don’t think you know either.”

  Before he could say another word, she left him in the closet.

  The bitch of it was, he knew who he was. But who he was and who he needed to be weren’t in sync and couldn’t be for a long time.

  ~*~

  After lunch, Trent put Randy in charge of the first uptempo string and Berto in charge of the second, more physical string, and started the scrimmage. The two young men showed their competitive streaks early.

  Randy yelled, “Antoine, you crossed court when you should have kept to your lane.” The guard had been stripped of the ball by Darren Bell.

  Berto countered, “Darren, why steal the ball if you can’t make a layup? Don’t worry about the defensive player behind you. Take the hit and draw the foul.”

  Randy tossed his hands. “Ren, take that shot!”

  “I do not shoot the three, Coach Randy.” Ren jogged by.

  “Y
ou do when Osato leaves you open,” Randy countered.

  Berto stamped his foot and shouted, “LaShawn, you play defense like my sister.”

  In all three ten-minute scrimmages, the first string dominated. Every player was puffing and sweaty, but not worn out. Conditioning at its finest.

  Trent blew his whistle. “Time out. Let’s change it up.” He spent a few minutes instructing the second string on how to better defend against the Chaos offense man-to-man. “Run it again.”

  This time, Berto and his team beat the starters by two points. A high-fiving, chest-bumping, smack-talking celebration ensued.

  Evan scowled at the first unit, at Trent, and at the second unit.

  Trent blew his whistle again. “Bring it in. Hopefully you guys learned something. Basketball is a reactive game. The minute someone puts in a defense to stop you, you need to adjust. Everyone in the league has seen your game film. Everyone knows you rely on Chaos almost exclusively.” Thank God, there were head nods. “Let’s add some tools to the tool box. Tomorrow we start learning my version of the Carolina Break.” Taking advantage of the team’s speed and aggressiveness. And the practice after that –

  “Not the Triangle?” Evan’s scowl was flattened by confusion.

  “Do you want to run the Triangle?” Trent hoped not.

  “Fuck no,” Evan said, ever the word-smith.

  “Then forget the Triangle.” Trent didn’t wait for the laughter to dissolve. “Get your shots in before you leave today.”

  The team switched to working on individual skills – dribbling, shooting, rebounding.

  Cora returned on a waft of vanilla with a gaze that challenged Trent to mention anything about closets or kisses. He owed her an apology, but he didn’t feel like giving her one.

  He and Evan met her at the bleachers.

  “Jack is still out of it. No change.” Cora had to raise her voice to be heard above the noise of balls bouncing. “The doctors say he might turn around tomorrow.”

  “That’s what they said yesterday.” Not one to waste time, Evan dribbled off to shoot.

  Trent swallowed a handful of four-letter words. He wished Jack well, but he couldn’t implement changes to the team without Jack to approve the trades and sign the new contracts. Was it a blessing or a curse? If he made moves too soon, sports writers, other franchises, and fans would speculate on their meaning and steal his thunder. If he made moves too late, the players couldn’t adopt his new system fast enough.

  “So, Reverend.” Cora gestured around the gym. “Other than delivering an update on Jack, I’m here to work. Who’s got self doubts today?” She glanced at his package, where her hips had pressed just an hour earlier. “And who’s under-performing?”

  “Nobody,” Trent said flatly, again squashing the need to apologize.

  “Miss Cora!” Archie waved from where he was rebounding for the younger guards on the other side of the gym.

  Her smile brightened. It was the kind of smile that ignored judgmental regrets and past kisses. “Things must be going well with your dad and Mary Sue Ellen.” She glanced at his two young assistant coaches. “How about them?”

  He didn’t want her anywhere near Berto and Randy. She’d eat them alive. “Taken care of.”

  She leaned closer, testing his resolve. “How about you? Anything I can help you with?”

  His dick came to attention, nearly trembling with anticipation when her smile broadened.

  “Distractions getting in the way of your focus, Reverend?”

  Hell and damnation, yes.

  The chirp of shoes on hardwood and the echo of masculine voices filled his ears.

  “You need to leave.” Before his Johnson won the battle with his resolve. “Unless you want a repeat performance…”

  She waggled a finger, disregarding his wishes on too many levels. “Ren’s waving me over. I’ll just say hello before I go.”

  Other players demanded her attention. She admired Ren’s three-point shot, Antoine’s improved jumper, and applauded Jablone’s refined spin move. He’d seen team doctors with less regard for players than she showed.

  Trent didn’t baby his players. He wasn’t much for positive reinforcement on a daily basis either. Guys who wanted to play for him, gave it 100%. But these guys upped their efforts for her. And it didn’t seem like they were showing off.

  “That’s a great move,” Cora told Jablone. She reached up to cover his eyes with both hands. “Now visualize doing the move with a strong finish and a score. Create the feeling of that beautiful move. Hold that near your heart, trust the feeling and you can do it again and again. Got it?”

  After a moment, Jablone nodded and she removed her hands. He set up for his move and went up strong for a dunk.

  It was as if his players were standing in line to speak with Cora. All she was doing was reinforcing the positive, bolstering their confidence in themselves, doing nothing it took any special training to provide. But he was starting to doubt that anyone could walk in off the street and deliver the support she gave. Hell, he could use some of her reassurance that he was on the right path to success.

  “My jumper won’t always be pretty,” Antoine was saying to her.

  “Not with that attitude,” she gently chided. “Remember that thoughts lead to actions. Tell me how pretty your jump shot is.”

  “My jumper is sweet like peach cobbler, baby.” And to prove it, Antoine sent a beauty into the basket.

  Somewhere in Trent’s head, a voice offered a tentative, traitorous thought: With training, she might actually be a good sports psychologist.

  Annoyance constricted his manhood. “Miss Rule.”

  She looked at him from across the court with a smile that said she knew what he was thinking, that she was thinking it, too: We’d be great together, Reverend.

  Telling himself he moved stiffly because he’d suffered through brutal workouts the past few days, Trent pointed toward the door.

  It took her several minutes to comply.

  ~*~

  “It’s you!” Mimi threw her arms around Cora. “Come inside and see Coco’s new sweater.”

  “Sweater?” Cora shut the door behind her. “It’s ninety degrees outside.”

  “Winter’s coming.” Mimi danced into the living room in yellow capris and a sleeveless, navy button down.

  “She’s been shopping,” her sober companion explained without dropping People magazine from in front of her broad face.

  “Gemma took me. She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” Mimi did her impression of Vanna White in front of a two story dog house with a tiny pink dog sweater draped over the roof. “Do you like it?”

  “Gemma? My Gemma?” Sour-puss, disapproving-of-sex Gemma?

  “Is there more than one?” A deadpan voice behind People. Mimi, Coco, and Gemma were in a sidebar picture on the cover.

  Gemma was on the cover of People, too? What the hell?

  Mimi picked up the dog sweater. “You don’t like it.”

  “I do,” Cora hurried to recover. “I was just surprised you’d been shopping. Where’s Coco?”

  “Asleep in her penthouse suite.” Mimi pulled Cora over. Together, they peeked into the second story window.

  The entire second floor of the doghouse was pink inside. Cora couldn’t help but smile. The brown teacup poodle squinted at them, and then rolled over so her back was to them, like the pampered princess she was.

  “I’m so happy here.” Mimi handed Cora the sweater and plopped onto the couch. “At home.”

  The yarn used for the dog sweater was soft as mink. “Have you gone out other than with Gemma?”

  “Uhm…” Mimi twirled a lock of long blond hair. “No.”

  The sober companion lowered People. “Kent Gordon wants to come over for dinner.”

  “That’s not all Kent wants,” Mimi said flatly.

  Cora recognized an opportunity for a heart-to-heart when she heard one. She sat on the floor near Mimi’s feet. “Is he pressuring you?” />
  The actress sighed. “No.”

  “Yes,” contradicted the sober companion. She was one tough broad.

  Mimi shrugged with her entire upper body. “How can it be pressure when we have an understanding?”

  “An exclusive understanding?” If so, the actor had been cheating on Mimi.

  “No. We make good press together and sometimes do…other things.” She worked to flatten a crease in her capris. “I know he sees other women and I’m okay with that. I see other men.” Mimi blinked her big blue eyes. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”

  It was like looking in a mirror – a woman exercising her sexual rights and experiencing conflicting feelings.

  The sober companion harrumphed.

  “I’m not going to judge.” Cora sent the sober companion a disapproving look. “I think you have to be comfortable with your life and your choices. If you want to play the field like a man, go for it. And if you want to be exclusive with Kent or anyone else, that’s your decision, too.” The words, once spoken, felt right.

  “But I…” Mimi glanced uncomfortably toward her sober companion. “What guy would want to date me? My reputation isn’t…I mean, I…”

  “You’d feel uncomfortable being introduced to some guy’s mom? Wearing a white dress on your wedding day?” Fear a man who kissed you like he needed you more than air would be embarrassed to be seen with you?

  “Yes.” A full upper-body slump. Not a good look for Mimi. “I’m so glad you understand.”

  “I feel that way, too,” Cora admitted quietly, staring at Coco’s pink doghouse. “I guess there’s a man out there for each of us who won’t care who we slept with before he came along, as long as he’s the last person we sleep with.” When Cora looked up, she was surprised to see Mimi extending her hand. Cora took it and moved to sit next to her.

  “I wish I would have met you months ago.” Mimi’s grip was fierce. “There was this guy from back home. My high school sweetheart.” She rolled her eyes. “He came to visit. We hooked up and when I wouldn’t agree to be exclusive or marry him, he called me a slut. I’d never…everyone here does it. I hadn’t realized…That’s when I started drinking more.” Her gaze turned remorseful. “I didn’t stop drinking until Cy drove me to rehab.”