King of the Court Read online

  Chapter Four

  Raelynn

  I visited Nan last night, and I’m still in a bad mood from it. I know she’s likely to start having more bad days than good days, but my optimistic heart just can’t give up hope that she’ll pull through and somehow be the first person in history to beat Alzheimer’s. Her caretakers have warned me that it’s futile to pretend she’s going to recover. They know each day she’s going to slip further away from the person I used to know. There are no exceptions. No special miracles. No matter how much I might wish for one.

  Yesterday was a particularly hard day, a day I knew was coming: the first time she didn’t recognize me when I walked into her room at the nursing home. She blinked up at me with watery eyes and unfurled a smile devoid of any recognition. She assumed I was one of her caretakers, and she patted her bed with a shaky hand and told me to sit down.

  She had her dinner sitting on a tray but wasn’t touching much of it. I asked her if she wanted me to help her eat it.

  She nodded, and for a while we sat in silence as I cut up tiny bites of chicken and held them up to her mouth.

  She studied me while she ate, and I naively held out hope that she was trying to place me in her mind.

  Eventually, she spoke.

  “You have the prettiest eyes. They remind me of someone.”

  You.

  They’re your eyes. The same pale cerulean blue.

  “Order up,” Cook says, drawing me out of my worries.

  I refocus my attention on the plates piling up, ready to be delivered around the bustling diner. The place has been packed the last few days, so much so that Christine came in early today to help me out. There’s no denying that the rumors about the Olympic basketball team coming to town are true. There’s been a flood of people into Dale’s recently: fans and press hoping to get a glimpse of players, groups of people wearing jackets and t-shirts embroidered with the Olympic symbol, and today, the players themselves.

  Two of them arrived thirty minutes ago, and I knew right away they were part of the Olympic team. Two young, confident guys who had to bend to make it past the doorway and walked in with an untouchable swagger. Yup, doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. Since then, more have arrived. They’ve pushed tables together and nearly taken over the whole diner.

  Old-timers still surround them on the perimeter and press linger outside, trying and failing to get in thanks to two bodyguards stationed out front. I’m not sure it’s legal to bar them from entering, but I have no stake in the game so I’ve been minding my own business.

  “You gonna get those?” Christine asks, rounding the side of the counter with a tray topped with dirty plates. Her tone implies she’s slightly annoyed with me for just standing here, but I’ve been working my butt off all morning too. I only stopped for a second to make another pot of coffee, and then I got distracted thinking about Nan.

  “I’m on it,” I say, reaching for the plates Cook just placed near me before I start to strategically arrange them on my arms. I’m a master at delivering food, and the guys take notice.

  “Whoa, whoa. You need help?” one of them asks, jumping to his feet. He’s an Asian guy with a smooth complexion and sharp, handsome features.

  The guy beside him tugs him back down to his chair. “She’s got it. Look at her—she’s a beast.”

  I chuckle. “Honestly, if you try to help, you might make it worse. You’re better off just staying put and letting me finish.”

  A guy down the table coughs and mumbles a “That’s what she said” under his breath.

  There are a few laughs and a lot of grumbles.

  “Ignore him,” the Asian guy says. “LaMarcus, you’re an idiot.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” LaMarcus says to him, then he turns to me with big puppy dog eyes. “Hey, ma’am, I didn’t mean anything by it. You forgive me, right?”

  I smile and shake it off. “No worries, but please don’t call me ma’am. I’m probably younger than most of you.”

  They laugh as I finish placing their plates down in front of them, and then I run back to get the next bunch so I can deliver those too. Soon, the place quiets down while they all get busy eating.

  “Can I get y’all anything else? Some strawberry jam for those biscuits?” I ask, propping my hands on my hips.

  “Do you hear her? Jam. I think I’m in love,” another guy says, this one with fiery red hair.

  “You think she wants you fawning all over her?” the Asian guy says. “She’s probably got a boyfriend.”

  “Do you?” the redhead asks.

  There’s a sudden commotion outside, the likes of which we’ve never seen before. The press and media people who’ve been lingering outside twiddling their thumbs are now pushing and shoving each other for a chance to get to the guys walking toward Dale’s from down the sidewalk.

  “Move back,” one of the security guards yells. “Move!”

  The little bell dings as the diner door opens and camera flashes sneak inside, momentarily blinding me. I blink as white dots dance in my vision, and slowly, my gaze clears just in time to watch the handsome stranger from the gas station walk through the door.

  “Ben! BEN! Can we ask a few questions?!”

  “How do you feel about being named captain of the Olympic team?”

  “Ben! Do you think Ray Murry should have been invited to join the team as an alternate?”

  Their questions die off as the door slams closed behind him and his friend, the same guy who was with him at the gas station. Either one of them could be Ben, but my gut tells me it’s my stranger’s name. Ben. What a perfectly average name for an extremely un-average man.

  I’m pleased to see he’s just as handsome as the last time I saw him. No imagined gorgeousness here. In an act of cruelty, he’s dressed in a way that shouldn’t be all that impressive—unassuming black t-shirt and dark jeans—but the t-shirt cuts across his toned biceps in a way that tightens my stomach. He’s picked up even more color in the few days he’s been in town, and his healthy tan emphasizes every one of his good features. His brown hair is more curly than wavy today, the short strands trying their damnedest to look unruly and tempting. The scruff he hasn’t cared to shave does nothing to dull the sharp cut of his jaw. Wonderful. Grand. Is my shift over yet?

  I have a ridiculous urge to turn around and run as far away from this man as possible.

  In the two days since I stood a few feet away from him at the gas pump, I’ve thought about him a lot more than I’m proud of. He’d crop up in my mind sporadically throughout my day and make my cheeks grow hot and my heart race. I’d delve into my remembered version of him, lingering on my favorite details, only to chastise myself once I realized what I was doing. I know full well this man hasn’t given me even one passing thought. I should do the same.

  He hasn’t seen me yet, which I’m glad for, but his friend spots me right away.

  His mouth spreads into a huge smile, and I find my mouth doing the same of its own volition.

  “Hey! We know you!” He turns back to Ben. “It’s the girl who saved us.”

  “She saved you?” the redhead asks. “Anthony, what are you talking about?”

  Chatter fills the table as Ben follows Anthony’s gaze to find me. The weight of his stare is enough to buckle my knees. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. It feels like a two-ton boulder is pinning me down. But I’m not held hostage long. In mere seconds, he assesses me then flicks me away like I’m nothing more than a soiled napkin.

  The guys at the table shuffle around without having to be told. Plates clatter, butts scoot, and two new chairs arrive for his holiness and Anthony.

  They head over to take a seat, and I blink myself out of my stupor just in time to ensure no one has caught my awkward reaction to Ben.

  “I didn’t save either of them,” I answer on behalf of Anthony. “They needed directions, that’s all. Now, what can I get the two of you to drink?”

  “You go
t any fancy coffee?” Anthony asks while glancing over a menu someone’s passed down for him.

  I smirk. “You must have mistaken Dale’s for someplace better. Not to burst your bubble, but we’ve got water and we’ve got black coffee so strong it’ll burn through the roof of your mouth.”

  Anthony laughs. “That’s fine. Give me a cup of the mouth-burning coffee and a classic breakfast plate. Whatever eggs you like is fine by me.”

  It’s impossible not to smile along with Anthony. He might be a professional basketball player, but he acts no better than the rest of us. His black skin is gorgeous and sets off his gray eyes. His hair is cropped short, nearly shaved off altogether. There’s humor and a lightness to him that doesn’t exist in Ben. At least, not on the surface.

  “And for you?” I ask Ben, glancing down at my hands.

  I’m such a wimp.

  I can’t even look him in the eyes as I ask him his order.

  “Coffee and water. Please.”

  “Anything to eat?”

  “Same as him. Breakfast plate, eggs cooked over medium.”

  I rock back on my heels and glance up to look somewhere near his shoulder. “Sounds good. I’ll be right back.”

  I rush back to grab two mugs and the freshly brewed pot of coffee. Christine and I cross paths, and she dips her head low beside mine.

  “Tell me that man is real. Tell me I’m not making him up.”

  I laugh and shake my head, knowing full well who she’s referring to. “He’s real.”

  She steals a quick glance at him over her shoulder and sighs in bliss. “If they wouldn’t protest, I’d force you to switch tables with me.” I frown in confusion, and she laughs. “Oh come on. They’re eating you up, hun. One of them is about to ask if you’re on the menu.”

  It just goes to show where my head’s at this morning, because I didn’t notice that at all. Sure, there was some playful banter a minute ago, but I wasn’t aware any of them had really taken notice of me. Then I return with the coffee pot and find the redhead grinning up at me again.

  “Put me out of my misery and let me take you out on a date.”

  Half the table erupts in laughter as my cheeks turn bright red.

  “That’s the best you can do, Mallory?” someone calls. “Jesus, it’s a wonder you ever get laid.”

  Mallory wiggles his eyebrows. “Women love me.”

  “Too bad,” Anthony chimes in as I finish pouring his coffee. He’s loud enough to make the whole table go quiet as he continues, “Ben met her first. He has dibs.”

  My heart sputters in my chest as a muscle deep in my belly clenches tight. I’m right beside Ben now, about to set down his coffee mug, and I know he’s aware of my presence, but he won’t look up at me. He sits there, filling up so much space it’s a wonder any of the rest of us fit inside the diner at all. I bend and try to curve around his arm, and I catch a hint of his body wash. I inhale out of some deep-seated need to memorize his scent. It’s heavenly. Manly. Nothing like what I’m used to around here.

  “I have a fresh idea,” the Asian guy says. “Why don’t we stop objectifying and humiliating a person standing right by us? It’s like you guys have never left your damn houses before.” He looks up at me and shakes his head in apology.

  “You’re right, Trey. My bad,” Anthony says, looking at me with his commercial-worthy smile. “But blame Mallory. He’s the real asshole.”

  The guys all laugh, and the focus shifts away from me just as I finish pouring coffee into Ben’s mug.

  With a quiet voice, I ask if he’d like any cream or sugar.

  “This is fine. Thanks.”

  His brown eyes flit up to me and we are a kissable distance away from each other, close enough that when he shifts, his shoulder brushes against my chest and a cascade of sensation rushes down my spine. My lips press together in an attempt to keep me from saying something dumb, and then I nod and all but sprint back to the safety of the counter.

  He has dibs.

  What in the world does that mean?

  I look down to see my hand shaking, sloshing coffee around the pot near the rim. Quickly, I replace the pot on its warming pad then get busy behind the counter, refilling salt and pepper shakers, rolling silverware for lunch, and helping Christine make drinks for her tables. I feel safe behind the counter, like there’s a forcefield between the basketball players and me. Even still, I can’t help myself. Every now and then, when I think I can get away with it, I sneak a surreptitious glance at Ben. It’s so interesting to see him among the rest of the team. He’s with them, but not really one of them. His presence looms over the table like he’s a deity who’s only gracing us with his presence for the time being. He listens to the conversation and every now and then the edge of his mouth might hitch or he’ll nod in response to something, but he doesn’t openly participate, not like the rest of them.

  It’s subtle though—his ownership of the space. He’s not being loud and authoritative. It’s his quiet confidence that puts me so ill at ease. I have no idea what he’s thinking. No idea if he’s happy to be here or not. No idea if he “has dibs”.

  When Cook finishes up with Ben and Anthony’s breakfast plates, I carry them over, aware of every step that takes me closer to their table. Just like with the coffee, I serve Anthony first, delaying the gratification of leaning over Ben again. I love that they’re all crammed in side by side. I love that I have no choice but to brush my hip against him and place my hand on his shoulder to stabilize myself as I lean over.

  “Right behind you,” I say, dropping his plate down in front of him.

  His shoulder muscles ripple under my hand as he moves to the side, trying to give me space. Then—and maybe I’m imagining it—I swear he leans back into my touch. My hand slips off him, the pads of my fingers barely skimming his shirt, and I notice the goose bumps that spread across the back of his neck. His subtle awareness of me is enough to drive me insane. What in the world is happening here? Why am I trying to play with fire?

  Just then, the door between the dining room and the kitchen swings open, and Patrick strolls in. Like a bug to a flame, his attention falls on me almost instantaneously, and I quickly move away from Ben. He flicks his gaze from me down across the table filled with basketball players, and his eyes narrow with accusation.

  Then he turns, picks up the first thing he sees, which happens to be an empty coffee pot, and calls my name.

  “Raelynn, get over here and make more coffee. I don’t pay you to stand around.”

  You don’t pay me anything, I want to say. Your daddy pays me.

  Ben’s head jerks in Patrick’s direction as I slink around the table and hurry back behind the counter.

  “Morning, Patrick,” I say, trying to ease his temper with kindness. Half the time it works, half the time it doesn’t.

  “It’d be a better morning if you weren’t taking advantage of my dad’s goodwill. What were you doing over there? Flirting?”

  I know better than to argue with him. It’s futile.

  “Have you eaten yet?” I ask. “Want Cook to fix you up some breakfast?”

  For a long moment, he stares at me as if he’s not sure he wants to drop his previous line of questioning. Then eventually, he nods and points to a vacant spot at the end of the counter where he plops down with a cup of coffee. I don’t miss the flask he tugs out of the back pocket of his jeans, topping off his coffee with a heavy pour of liquor.

  Some days, I feel bad for Patrick. He was popular in high school and good on the football field, but that luster has long worn off. Nowadays, he looks like he’s barely keeping himself together. His flat blond hair is receding and thinning. His stomach hangs over the top of his jeans, and his skin carries a sickly sheen to it that doesn’t pair well with the alcoholic bloat.

  Most of the time, I can’t muster up any pity for him, though. I know he watches me while I work. I feel his beady little eyes slither down my body, and I wish I wore a chain mail suit instead of this old-fas
hioned diner dress.

  Today my attention slips though. With Ben here, I’m distracted. That’s the only possible explanation for how I missed Patrick following me down the hall on one of my bathroom breaks. I don’t notice him until he corners me right outside the door, slapping his hand against the wall and making me jump out of my skin.

  “Raelynn Birdie, you gonna let me take you out on a date soon like I’ve been asking?”

  His other hand touches my shoulder, spinning me to face him. His words are meant to be seductive, but they make my skin crawl. Or maybe that’s just his rotten breath.

  I turn around and force a tight smile as my stomach ties itself into a knot. This isn’t the first time Patrick’s tried to get handsy with me, pressuring me about going out with him, but I’ve been good at weaseling out of tight situations, good at easing his sour moods. Unfortunately, I know one of these days, he’s not going to take no for an answer.

  I don’t want any trouble. This job is cushy compared to what most have to do to get by in this town. Pouring coffee, smiling at the regulars, minding my own business—I won’t let Patrick mess that up for me.

  “Come on, Patrick. You know I don’t date.”

  I try to sound easy breezy, but his brows furrow and he sniffs in an angry breath, his nostrils flaring.

  He steps closer and I hold my hand up in self-defense, trying to push him away. He catches hold of my wrist and tightens his grip enough to make my skin smart.

  “Yeah. Why is that, Birdie?” he asks, leaning in closer. “You think you’re too good for me? You were always such a brat back in high school. Stared down your nose at the rest of us like we couldn’t tell.”

  He’s mistaken.

  I would have bent over backward to join his group of friends. In high school, I sat by myself at lunch with a book or homework splayed out in front of me, sneaking glances at the popular table. I used to wonder how they did it—just smiled and laughed without a care in the world. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to be them. I’d missed that part of growing up. Life had plucked me from childhood and thrust me straight into adulthood so that on the outside I might have looked like any other teenager, but inside, I felt a thousand years old.