King of the Court Read online

  He’s wearing pretentious glasses and a flat expression. Seems he’s not too pleased with his breakfast either. I eye his eggs and bacon and hash browns. It all looks pretty good to me. I mean, I wouldn’t eat it, but that’s only because I’m surrounded by breakfast food every day for hours on end. A girl can only smell bacon so many days in a row without losing her appetite for the stuff.

  “Well, holler if you need anything,” I say, spinning on my heels, distraught over the fact that I likely just lost myself another tip for the morning.

  It’s nearly eleven o’clock and I’ve been at Dale’s since half past five. Thinking about the meager cash I’ve earned makes my stomach twist with anxiety. I would stay and help Christine with the lunch rush—maybe nab a couple more dollars—but then I’d be late for my housekeeping job.

  I replace the coffee pot and try for the last time to politely suggest that the old-timers at the counter pay their bills and be on their way, but no one bites.

  I’m untying my short apron when Christine pushes through the kitchen door and hustles over.

  “Birdie, if I were you, I’d clear out quick,” she says, her voice low. “I saw Patrick out back smoking. He’ll probably storm in here any second pissy about somethin’ or other.”

  A shiver of fear runs down my spine and I waste no time in gathering my things. Christine and I are a well-oiled machine. She knows I’d never leave her in the weeds straight off. All my tables are well taken care of, so she can get to work right away rolling silverware and making more iced tea for the lunch rush. She’s the one who will end up getting most of my tips when these people finally mosey on out of here, but I don’t mind all that much. She’s got four little mouths depending on her; she needs the money as much as I do.

  “See you tomorrow?” she asks with a tired smile.

  “Tomorrow.” I nod.

  Just then, Cook dings the bell for another order up, pushing a Styrofoam to-go box my way.

  I smile and hold it up in thanks, appreciative that he takes the time to feed me before I leave my shifts. Today, it’s likely some of that chicken salad I saw him prepping a little while ago. My hungry stomach gives a grumble as I scurry out the front door, avoiding the employee parking lot in an effort to bypass Patrick. I’m not supposed to, but I always park on the side of the diner rather than out back. I’m smart enough not to put myself alone out there and tempt fate. Patrick’s fairly harmless most of the time, but there’s no need to dangle myself in front of him for no reason.

  As I head to my nan’s old maroon sedan, I finish untying my apron and yank it off from around my hips. Before I get to my next job, I’ll pull off the road and swap out my 1950s-style diner dress for a nondescript black t-shirt and workout shorts. I wish I had time to shower—I smell like I just crawled out of a vat of grease—but there’s no time. I’m cutting it close as it is, especially once I crank my key in the ignition and the gas light flickers on above the steering wheel. Why?! Why does this always seem to happen at the worst possible moment?! Didn’t I just get gas like…okay, sure, now that I think about it, it’s been a while, and yes, last time I only filled it up halfway because I didn’t have enough cash on me for a full tank.

  Annoyingness aside, I’m lucky the town’s one gas station is just across the street from Dale’s. I cut across the two-lane highway then swoop around to park by the first available pump. Once I’ve paid my ten dollars inside and get the gas going, I realize Dr. Tully is on the other side of my pump with a trailer hitched to the back of his truck. Inside of it, there’s a huge gray horse looking back at me with soulful brown eyes. I nod in greeting to Dr. Tully then glance back at the horse.

  “I’m taking her to the clinic,” he explains.

  “She’ll be okay?”

  “Hope so.”

  I nod, feeling sorry for the poor thing.

  “I have an apple in my bag. Can she have it?”

  He shrugs as if to say Why not? and I hurry around the side of the car to get it. My stomach protests me offering up my afternoon snack to someone else, but I have my lunch to tide me over.

  “Here, take it,” I tell the horse, holding it up to the bars of the trailer. She doesn’t go for it at first. She clears her nostrils and bucks her head, trying to get me to leave her alone. “It’s not gonna hurt you. It’s just an apple. Here, look.”

  I take a bite out of it then hold it back up to the horse so she can get a good long sniff. That does the trick. She takes it from my hand ever so gently and stays by the back of the trailer long enough to let me pat her nose while she munches on it.

  “Dr. Tully’s the best in town,” I whisper to her. “He’ll fix you up good as new.”

  I’m still patting her when a black SUV pulls off the highway and slows to a stop at the pump behind mine. I don’t know jack diddly about cars, but I know this one’s nice. All the little coordinating bells and whistles tell me it was likely custom made. What a silly thing to spend money on. Give me that same amount and I’ll feed every hungry mouth in this town ten times over.

  My opinion of the car must be written on my face because when the driver of the fancy SUV opens his door and looks out at me, his brows furrow, mirroring my expression.

  I smooth my features, but it’s too little too late.

  He thinks I was judging him, and well…I was.

  He slams his car door closed, and I finally register the full package he presents. If my nan were here, she’d whistle long and low, maybe even fan her face and tack on a Lord almighty for good measure, all just to let the world know how handsome she found this stranger. He’s definitely a looker, starting at his brown wavy hair, trimmed short on the sides and left slightly longer on top, down to his heavily lashed brown eyes and sharp jaw, covered in dark stubble. His tan skin makes it look like he’s just been on some wonderful summer holiday. I haven’t been on one of those, say, ever, but god, just looking at him is like taking a mini vacation.

  He’s still frowning at me, but I’ve let go of my earlier annoyance. You can drive whatever ol’ car you want, stranger. Don’t let me stop you.

  I’m not even hiding my obvious perusal of him, and why should I?

  There’s nothing fun to look at in this town, nothing but farmland and boys I’ve known since I was in diapers. This man’s only stopping here on his way to someplace else, so there’s no harm in letting my attention linger.

  Besides, I haven’t been staring all that long. His friend is only just now getting out of the passenger side of the SUV, making a big show of stretching out his back.

  “Jesus, we’re in the middle of nowhere,” his friend says, turning in a circle. “Do you think we’re going the right way? I swear we should have turned left back there. My phone barely even has a signal out here.” He bangs his phone against his palm as if that might help. “We’ll have to get them to install a cell tower so we can actually connect to the civilized world.”

  I’m back to scowling.

  My town might not be New York City, but we’re civilized enough. Well…most of us.

  The stranger doesn’t bother paying attention to his friend’s complaints, still looking at me. We’re right back to being angry at each other. It’s funny, really. What crawled up his butt, anyway? Why’s he looking at me like that? I know why I’m scowling, and I have a good reason—his friend just insulted my home.

  A tongue licks my palm, and I realize with a start that I still have my hand on the gray horse. I step back, wiping my palm on my dress. Dr. Tully finishes up at the pump and heads toward his driver’s side door.

  “Good luck fixing her.”

  He nods and hops into his truck, peeling out of the gas station and leaving me with the two guys.

  I keep my back to them as I walk back to my pump, but then out of my periphery, I see the stranger’s friend waving to get my attention.

  “Hey miss, could you tell us where we are? My maps app isn’t working.”

  This guy clearly knows you can catch more flies with honey
than vinegar. He’s flashing me a big friendly smile, and though he didn’t say please, his tone was friendly enough.

  “Pine Hill.”

  “No shit?” He looks to his friend. “That’s great. We’re not far then. We’re supposed to be heading to this address.” He looks down at his phone and rattles it off for me before glancing up again, hopeful. “Have you heard of it?”

  I shake my head and point him toward the gas station store. “Head in there. Sheryl might know.”

  “Thanks,” he says, tipping his head to me before he follows my instructions.

  I’m left on my own with Tall, Dark, and Handsome. And boy, is he tall. Tall enough to be one of those basketball players everyone can’t shut up about. I hum under my breath. Wouldn’t that be interesting? Looking like that and playing professional basketball? I wonder how many hearts lie at his feet.

  At the pump, I check to see if my ten dollars has somehow magically stretched into enough money to fill my whole tank. All the while, I think I feel the stranger’s eyes on me, but when I glance over at him from beneath my lashes, he’s busy swiping his credit card. I make myself busy too.

  I check the screen on the pump, annoyed to see my transaction ended two cents shy of ten dollars. I know it’s not much. Two cents will likely only get me one more drop of gas, but that one drop could be the difference between making it back home or sleeping on the side of the road one night. I jostle the trigger of the gas nozzle, trying to get it pumping again.

  “Come on, you stupid thing,” I say.

  I want that last drop of black gold, and I don’t have time to head in and argue with Sheryl about it. Sure, I didn’t have time to feed that horse an apple and scowl at random men either, yet here I am, running late and wanting my gas—all of it.

  I look up to find the stranger watching me again.

  He’s leaning back against his car without a care in the world, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His head’s turned in my direction, and when I catch him looking, he doesn’t have the decency to look away.

  “It owes me two cents more gas,” I explain, as if that will make me look less crazy.

  He opens his mouth to say something, but then his friend bounds out of the store.

  We both turn to watch him approach.

  “We’re saved!” he shouts. “I know where to go! We’re not stuck here!”

  The stranger looks to me, and then his friend follows suit.

  “No offense,” he tacks on for my benefit.

  I roll my eyes and give up on my gas, returning the nozzle to the pump. I might not like this town any more than they do, but I grew up here, so I’m allowed to make fun of it. They aren’t.

  I slide into the front seat of my nan’s car and glance back at them in the rearview mirror as I pull away. Welcome to town, jerks. I hope you learn some manners while you’re here.

  Chapter Three

  Ben

  “Damn. Did you get a look at that blonde girl back at the gas station?” Anthony asks.

  “No,” I lie.

  I catch his grin in my periphery.

  Anthony shakes his head. “Almost made me sad we figured out the directions. I’d be just fine going wherever she was headed.”

  When I don’t respond, he plows right on.

  “Would you mind U-turning and heading back? She might still be there. I could get her number.”

  Finally, I bite. “Are you done?”

  His grin widens. “You’re telling me you didn’t even register her?”

  “We’re here for three weeks,” I remind him, ignoring his question.

  “Almost four weeks, actually. That’s plenty of time.”

  I purposely turn up the radio as we continue driving down the highway.

  He trudges right on, raising his voice over the music. “If all the girls in Texas look like that…maybe I’d be okay getting traded to the Spurs or the Mavs.”

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  He wipes a hand down his face. “Whatever. Would it kill you to get back out there? Date a woman? Look at one for Christ’s sake? It’s been—”

  “I know how long it’s been.” My tone could slice through steel.

  He points his thumb through the back windshield. “That blonde back there…she was fucking beautiful, and if you didn’t notice, well”—he shrugs—“maybe there isn’t hope for you after all.”

  I glare over at him, regretting that I let him ride with me from the airport. He would have been fine walking. It would have taken him a few days, and maybe with all of that time, he would have come to his senses and learned to keep his nose out of my business.

  Of course I noticed the blonde at the gas station. That girl was pure sunshine. Spun-gold hair, mile-long legs, blue eyes that punched right through my fog of indifference.

  Right off the bat, she didn’t like something about me. That much was clear. Her scowl was plain to see, though it didn’t do all that much to warn me away from her. Maybe she would have looked more intimidating if she weren’t hand-feeding that horse looking like a damn Disney princess.

  I met her scowl with one of my own, but not for the reasons she probably thinks.

  I was confused—no, utterly dumbstruck by her as soon as I slid out of my car and met her gaze.

  My stomach squeezed tight as she stared on, not shying away, not blushing bashfully like I expected her to. She stared right at me as every hair on my body stood up, taking notice of her.

  Her, my body screamed.

  HER.

  Fuck. Am I an idiot for not asking for her name? Her number? Something?

  What if I never meet someone who elicits that response again?

  It’s not an outlandish concern. It’s been years since I’ve felt that way about a woman—even counting Shelby. God, that’s depressing to realize.

  When I eventually turn off the highway and head down a long winding dirt road, it takes us another fifteen minutes to arrive at Coach Dalton’s hideaway, and my head is no longer back with the blonde. I’m wondering what Coach has in store for us. Sequestering us here in the middle of nowhere isn’t exactly common practice. I played in the last Olympic Games and we trained at Lebron’s place in Miami for a few weeks before heading to Rio. Everyone stayed in rentals or hotels.

  “This feels like summer camp,” Anthony notes, pointing to the small modern cabins interspersed among the trees.

  “You went to summer camp?”

  “Oh sure. My mom dropped me off every year on her way to a yoga retreat.”

  I chuckle, knowing he’s full of shit. Anthony and I share a similar story—no story-book childhoods for us and no family to speak of now. My mom died when I was young and I’ve fully cut ties with my dad. I’ve known for a long time that he was a user. Someone who’ll suck the life right out of you if you let him. Yesterday, I got a call from my agent asking me why I was selling my old basketball memorabilia online. When I told him I wasn’t, he sent me the link to the website. The usual stuff was listed, some signed game balls and NBA rookie cards, but alongside those were trophies from my youth basketball league tournaments, cheap medals, grainy childhood photos with signatures my dad must have forged. Items I didn’t even know he had. Items I would have liked to keep if he’d offered them to me.

  I could pursue legal action against my father, but it’s not a road I’m comfortable going down. I had my agent contact the site so they’d remove the products knowing full well my dad would only take the crap elsewhere. He left me two voicemails after my win the other night. One of them was sugarcoated and sweet, all about how my “old man” is so proud of me; the other was straight to the point. I need money, rent’s due any day now. Apparently the stipend my financial managers send him every month isn’t enough anymore.

  “Think they’ll have us staying in those cabins?” Anthony asks, craning his head to get a good look at the one we just passed.

  “Who the hell knows. You know how Coach Dalton is.”

  Jerry Dalton is an NBA
legend with more wins under his belt than any other coach in history. He’s also led the U.S. men’s Olympic basketball team to four gold medals, and this year, he wants to make that five. He has more sway than any other coach I’ve worked with, as evidenced by the fact that I’m here in the woods right now.

  When we first got word that he wanted us in Texas for a few weeks before the Games, we all rolled our eyes. We’re the best of the best—the top twelve professional players from the United States. We could show up in Tokyo tomorrow, tie our hands behind our backs, cover our eyes with a blindfold, and still dominate the playing field, but Coach Dalton has it in his mind that we need practice and privacy, so that’s what we’ll get.

  This land is his, and he must own a lot of it. Most of the acreage is still covered in dense forest, but the cleared area at the end of the winding road boasts quite a few buildings. The assistant who gives us a tour of the place explains that there’s a main house, a large indoor basketball complex with three regulation-sized courts, a training facility where the physical therapists and nutritionists are housed, a few outdoor practice courts, and then our individual cabins. The assistant also gives us our cabin assignments. There’s not enough space for everyone to have their own. Some players are bringing family with them, so they get first dibs. I don’t have a family, but I have seniority. Anthony doesn’t; he’s bunking with Carmelo Taylor, and he’s got my deepest sympathies.

  “Oh you feel bad for me?” Anthony taunts. “Good, then switch. I’ll take your cabin.”

  I clap him on the shoulder. “Never gonna happen.”

  These situations are always tricky. Trey, Anthony, and I are all coming from Los Angeles, but our other nine teammates are from all over the country. For most of our careers, our loyalties lie with our respective franchises. My blood, sweat, and tears belong to my fans back in LA, but the Olympics are different. Until we walk away with that gold medal, our enemies during the regular season—Carmelo included—are our new teammates. Starting today.