by Teagan Kade
Teddy eyes him up. “Is that so? Some kind of celebrity charity thing, right? I didn’t think the Academy did that stuff.”
“They don’t,” says Phoenix. “But I thought I’d help Heather out, do my part, you know.”
Teddy seems to come to a sudden consensus on who he’s talking to. “Wait, wait, wait. Phoenix King. Basketball, right? Shit, I’ve seen you play. You’re a fucking star, man.”
Phoenix looks suddenly awkward, pressing his hands into his jacket pockets, taking a step away from me. He looks to the ground for a second. “Ah, yeah. Something like that.”
Teddy keeps pressing, coming closer. “No, seriously. You’re like a young LeBron out there. Any teams come knocking yet?”
“A few,” Phoenix replies, struggling to meet Teddy’s eyes.
What the hell is going on with him? I wonder. Usually he’s so confident, so self-assured. Is it because of what we were doing? Is he embarrassed?
Surely not. Surely the almighty Phoenix King has done far worse.
Phoenix thumbs behind himself. “Anyhow, we should really be going, leave you to it. Right, Heather?”
“Um… sure,” I reply uneasily, doing my best to smile at Teddy. “It was nice seeing you, Teddy. Sorry about…” but I’ve got no idea how to say ‘screwing publicly on your turf.’
He puts his hand up. “Yeah, I get it, but be careful, hey? You and I both know this isn’t the safest neighborhood.”
“You got it.”
Phoenix is already walking off, no ‘nice to meet you’ or ‘see you later.’ I can see Teddy trying to work out what his deal is, but he lets it go, tipping his cap once towards me and turning.
I stand there for a moment unsure.
What just happened? I ask myself.
An answer is not forthcoming.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HEATHER
I don’t even realize Phoenix is back at my place until I’ve closed the door behind us. He didn’t ask and I didn’t invite. I drove us back here and it simply happened. It felt right.
I head straight to the kitchen, can still feel the percipient tingle between my legs from our encounter in the alleyway. “I could really go for something sweet. How about you?”
He makes his way into the kitchen behind me with that effortless King cool, like the world is his and nothing can take it away from him. I wish I was so self-assured, though what happened when Teddy arrived was out of character. I make a note to probe into it when the time is right.
Arms wrap tight around my waist from behind, Phoenix nuzzling into my neck. “I could,” he replies. “What did you have in mind?”
I walk us over to the pantry and check the shelves. “Cookies?”
He looks past me into the pantry. “I’m not seeing any cookies, sorry.”
I point. “Sugar, flour, eggs… I’m pretty sure we’re good to go.”
He lets me go. “You want to make them?”
I laugh because he’s making it sound like magic. I spin and slide a finger down his chest, leave it to tap against the top of his jeans. “Tell you what, you help me make cookies and I’ll let you make sweet, sweet love to me later.”
I see the grin. He pulls me by the hips against him. He’s hard. “You will let me?”
“My house, my rules.”
“My town, my rules,” he retorts, letting me go. “But I could go for a pre-sex cookie, sure.”
“Grab the brown and castor sugar, meet me at the counter.”
“Yes, boss lady,” he salutes.
I grab an egg and butter from the fridge, reach past him to grab the container of walnuts from the top shelf. “My secret ingredient.”
He gives my ass a light squeeze. “Well, this sure as hell isn’t store bought.”
“One of a kind,” I tell him, surprised at how flirty I’ve become. It’s like it wasn’t just my clothes he stripped off earlier. My inhibitions went with them. I’m pretty sure I’d go along with whatever he suggested we do—sexually. And fuck it, I haven’t had an adventure in a while, something to break me out of the ho-hum every day. Bring it on, I say.
We work side by side and I realize this is becoming an actual thing. I wonder what his teammates would say if they could see him aproned up with whisk in hand. They might not be into it, but god damn it’s turning me on.
I look over at what he’s doing. “You’re going to cream together that butter and sugar until it’s light and fluffy. After that we’ll whisk in the egg and vanilla, stir in the flour, and fold in the chocolate chips and walnuts.”
His whisking is a touch awkward, but it’s pretty darn cute all the same.
“Don’t you have a machine for this?” he asks.
I reach up to squeeze his bicep, can barely get my fingers around it. “When I have you and the gun show here? No way, José. Besides, I like watching you work for it.”
He side-glances at me. “You do, do you?”
“Everything’s better by hand.”
“Huh, and here I was thinking I’d used up all the innuendo.”
After the mix is made, I show him how to measure a teaspoonful of mixture and grease the baking trays, jerking back when he wipes my cheek with butter. I pick up a rolling pin. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that.”
“What are you going to do?” he laughs, walking around the kitchen squat-legged like he’s in an old western.
“Beat that tight, well-toned, quite perfect ass of yours.” I hold the rolling pin lengthways. “Or I could just shove it right up there, if that’s your thing.”
I take an oven mitt and toss it to him. “Tray. In the oven. Set the timer for thirteen-and-a-half minutes.”
He obeys. “Kind of precise, isn’t it?”
“They say ‘follow directions when you bake, go by your taste when cooking.’”
“Who says?”
I shrug. “Shit. I don’t know. Those old country grandmas who could bake your butt off, lost art and all.”
Cookies in the oven, I figure now is a good a time as any to segue into what happened. “So, what did you think of Teddy?”
Phoenix looks genuinely confused. “Teddy?”
“The cop, in the alley. You know, the one who almost busted us, not that he would have done anything.”
Phoenix crouches, watching the cookies through the oven door. “You guys seemed like you knew each other.”
“Small town, but yeah. I’ll never understand why he hung around when he could have gone pretty much anywhere after the police academy.”
“Maybe, like you, he sees need in the community.”
“Maybe,” I offer, waiting a beat. “You kind of got a bit weird there when he asked you about basketball. I thought you’d be all for the fans, offer him an autographed jockstrap or something.”
Now he looks at me, rising to a standing position, almost angelic backlit by the window. He crosses his arms, suddenly defensive. “I see.”
“You’re not going to explain a little? It didn’t seem like you at all. I thought you’d be happy to roll out your achievements.” I draw a billboard in the air with my hands, leaning back for effect. “You’re the big, bad Phoenix King, right?”
He looks visibly uncomfortable, rubbing at his forehead and looking away, mouth twisting like he’s chewing on something rank. “Heather…”
“Why are you being so weird about this?”
“Can we just drop it?”
He eyes me off and I know this is make or break for our relationship. Either he opens up or shuts down. The seconds tick over as he watches me and it’s agonizing in the extreme. “Look…” I start, hoping to backpedal and forget I even started this.
“I hate it,” he blurts out. He throws his hands up. “There, I said it. I fucking hate basketball, that stupid inflatable bladder that rules my life. I’m tired of playing, so fucking tired.”
“So don’t. Stop.”
“It’s not that easy,” and I see how truly exhausted he is as he says it.
I remain s
ilent, let him fill it.
“The crazy part is I don’t know what I would have without it. People think of Crestfall and basketball, and they think of me. We’re one and the same. And the old man? He’d fucking flip out, probably disown me.”
“He wouldn’t be that shallow.”
Phoenix shakes his head. “Have you met my father? Sports are all he cares about.”
I don’t argue. I want to remain neutral here, a casual observer, because Phoenix needs to get this out, to purge himself so we can move forward, and I want to. I want more than great sex and a sidekick for community service. I want the whole, broken thing.
He’s pacing around the kitchen now, speaking almost to himself, the words tripping over themselves. “And the pressure’s mounting.” He wags his finger. “There’s no mistaking that. The family agent, he is way up my ass to make a decision and choose a team. I mean, what little joy I used to get from the game, and it wasn’t much, that’s gone, evaporated completely. I have no idea how I’m going to get though even one more year of it.”
“You could try something else, besides basketball?” I offer brightly.
He stops, faces me. “I don’t know anything except basketball. That’s what I’m trying to say. And there’s the aforementioned family legacy to live up to. Without it, I’m nothing.”
He turns back to the counter, sliding the next tray across and starting to grease it. When he speaks again, his tone is calmer and measured.
“Maybe you’re right. I could take a break, couldn’t I? Say it’s for reflection or something.”
“You could.”
I’m struck by how different he is when he’s absorbed in the cooking process. He’s become almost meditative. I don’t point this out to him, but it’s an interesting observation, nonetheless.
I let him speak, don’t try to butt in or steer the conversation too much. By the time he’s slid the last tray into the oven he looks like the world’s weight has been lifted off his shoulder… even if he is standing there wearing a pastel pink apron.
I nod to the fresh tray of cookies cooling on the rack. “Try one.”
He reaches across with a smile on his face. “Yes, ma’am.”
I don’t know about his ‘O’ face, but I do imagine it’s something similar to that first bite.
He shakes half a cookie at me, eyes closed and head nodding. “My god.”
I walk over. “Good, huh?”
His eyes open and he looks at the cookie in his hand. “But it was so easy.”
“Cooking doesn’t need to be complicated,” I tell him. “A lot of people make a lot of money by trying to suggest it is, that you need this crazy gadget or that, the latest cookbook or course, but recipes like this remain for a reason: They just fucking work.”
He pops the other half into his mouth, mumbling. “Amen.”
The baking doesn’t stop there. Buoyed by his efforts, Phoenix is keen to learn more. Before long the entire counter is covered with flour and bowls, the two of us caught in a flour fight and soon walking around the kitchen looking like ghouls.
It’s been a long, long time since I’ve had this much fun cooking, and yes, it might be the company, the eye-candy of such a fine male specimen of the species, but I know it’s a lot more. I’m enjoying teaching, taking a step back and examining what I do and how to translate it into something anyone, even Phoenix King, can work with. At the end of the day, the sun setting and the counter full of cakes and slices and everything sweet, hours of work, I’d have to say it’s been a roaring success.
I put my hands on my hips, dish towel over my shoulder. “What the hell are we going to do with all this?”
Phoenix leans on the breakfast bar with me. “Start a bakery?”
“You’re willing to get up at 3am every morning?”
“Hey, Coach had us practicing all night once, regularly likes to fuck us up in the wee hours.”
“Sounds more like boot camp than practice.”
“One and the same,” he nods. “Coach would have made a great drill sergeant, probably was in a former life. This,” he says, pointing to the assorted dentist bill before us, “is worth it, even if it’s just going to gobbled up and forgotten.”
“Ah, it won’t be forgotten. My cooking is never forgotten.”
He bumps me with his shoulder. “So modest, you are.”
I return the Yoda-speak. “Gorgeous, I am.”
Phoenix takes my face in his hands, a cloud of flour puffing out around us as he places his lips to mine, a kiss deepening. I know it’ll lead onto other, similarly sweet things tonight.
I smile as he kisses me, never imagined it was possible to be this happy… or horny.
He taps my nose when we break apart, leaning in so our foreheads rest together. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“A good book and an early night?” I tease.
He lifts me under the legs, carrying me towards the bedroom. “I don’t know about a book and leaving early, but a good night? That I can provide.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
PHOENIX
The next morning and Heather wasn’t wrong about boot camp.
I’m staring down at the basketball in my hands, have probably been doing so for quite a while when Coach shouts at me from the other side of the court. “It’s not a Magic Eight ball, King. Shoot!”
I snap out of my daydream and bring the shot up, firing off a perfect three-pointer. I used to find the swish of the ball moving through the net so satisfying. Now it’s like a death knell.
Practice is as uninspiring as ever. Like always, I go through the motions and do my best to concentrate on the actions, the physicality of it instead of the actual game and all the bullshit that comes with it. You’d think my skills would have suffered given my lack of inclination, but my averages are up across the board—rebounds, points, assists. It’s no wonder Jamie’s chasing me like a bloodhound to jump onboard an NBA team. But I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.
I may run and do push-ups, stand, shoot, and lay-up, but the whole practice session all I’m thinking about is Heather. It was one of those perfect mornings where you wake up late and roll out of bed into the kitchen. We spent the whole time cooking—or at least Heather did. She emptied almost her entire food stock teaching me this technique or that, how to julienne and chiffonade, French terms that certainly got me a lot more excited than this bullshit.
We laughed, we flirted. We had a hell of a time. I almost skipped practice, but my conscience got the better of me. This is a team sport, after all. Even I can’t let these assholes down.
These assholes or your father?
I don’t think Dad realizes how much all we ever do is try to please him, and for what? To get our picture up on the wall of his office? So he can have bragging rights around the coaching table? What the hell is it all for?
Questions, questions—they don’t stop. The only absolute is that I want to get back to Heather as soon as possible.
I consider swinging by the dining hall for another after-hours meet-and-greet, but I do have homework and class is tomorrow. You can’t just be a star athlete here at Crestfall. You’ve got to maintain a certain grade average as well. I’m no Titus with his big math brain. I have to actually work to remember anything.
So, I head home with a bad case of blue balls. I burn through the coursework with record speed and throw myself into the sofa in the den. I pick up the remote, start to surf through the channels looking for anything of interest.
A cooking show comes on, a cheery Asian woman slicing away at what looks like a baby lettuce. Usually I’d blast right past this kind of thing, but now I actually find myself sitting forward and paying attention, even turning the volume up. Five minutes later I’ve got my phone out taking notes.
“What the fuck are you watching?”
I know it’s Titus standing behind me, can hear him gobbling away at something, his spoon hitting the bottom of the bowl.
“Is that a fucking sal
ad?” he continues, leaning over my shoulder, slurping away.
“It’s endive gratin.”
I know he’s scrunching his nose up at the TV. “Nothing ‘grat’ about that if you ask me.”
“Don’t you have a head trauma to attend to?” I fire back, still watching the show with intent, trying to keep up as the instructions blast past.
Titus laughs behind me. “Bro, even with this head trauma I can run rings around you.”
“How’s your little tutor bunny going?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He walks off, thank fuck. I’m trying to concentrate here.
As soon as the show’s finished I have an overwhelming urge to try the recipe for myself, haven’t felt this kind of innate energy in a long time.
I check the cupboard, but we’re sorely lacking in ingredients.
Fuck it, I tell myself, grabbing my jacket and keys and heading out the door. Once again, I consider waiting Heather out after her shift, but no, I want to try this myself, on my own, to see if I can do it. Call it an experiment.
There are only two major supermarkets in Crestfall. I head for the larger of them hoping they’ll have the exotic ingredients I require.
Having never been in said store, I find it’s a maze within a maze, never-ending shelves of soup and pre-made pizzas, junk as far as the eye can see. In fact, the fresh food section barely takes up a corner.
There is something enjoyable about pushing a shopping cart around, though. It provides a genuine feeling of purpose. I stroll along, smiling at the soccer moms and hipsters clutching their bags of coffee beans.
I pull out my cell and bring up the shopping list navigating around the store as best I can and slowly adding to my cart. I’m doing my best to hunt down ground cumin when a familiar voice speaks to my back.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Phoenix King slumming it with the rest of us.”
I turn slowly to find Bria leaning there on one leg, cheerleading uniform so clean and pressed it may as well be made out of cardboard. She hasn’t changed since I saw her last, though her hair’s gone through so much color and straightening it’s hard to recall what it was to begin with. She’s giving me her usual flirty vibe.