9. Game Time
GAME TIME
After breakfast, Zora went to her room and soon returned to the library downstairs.
As was my habit on game day, I sat in my wide, high-backed reading chair with its sturdy, woody arms. The worn, dark chocolate leather ottoman offered my socked feet relief in preparation for the pounding they would take tonight.
Zora matched my posture but with a portable lap desk that held her small laptop.
As she tapped away with a look of concentration on her stunning face, I put my Kindle down to watch her movements.
From her serious business attire to the dress of a queen and now the athletic wear she wore, she was a chameleon.
How many more faces could she possibly display during our time together?
She lifted her glasses and rubbed her eyes before returning them to their original position and meeting my gaze.
“Tell me something, Cairo. How are you so cultured and highbrow?”
I grinned at her.
“That’s a random question. Are you asking why I’m not a stereotypical basketball player? Or at least what you think a basketball player should be?”
Zora gave me a sheepish grin as if she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She scratched the side of her neck with a manicured nail.
“Kind of. I wasn’t trying to be offensive. I’ve been piecing together everything you’ve shown me so far. Your diction is perfect. You’re cosmopolitan—as polished as any of my faculty at Liberation. You are in no way what I expected of a basketball player.”
I had received this question from numerous reporters who attempted to place me in a box of their choosing, so I was prepared to respond to Zora’s question.
“My parents were wealthy long before I joined the league. They were members of Jack and Jill, the Links, and every social organization that would have prepared me as a Black man to be a top-notch lawyer or Fortune 500 CEO. I earned a full academic scholarship to Harvard but chose to play basketball at Penn State instead. My parents were disappointed at first but believed that I would be stellar doing whatever I chose, even if it required me to use my body more than my mind. What they soon discovered was that I needed both to be successful.”
Zora nodded and pointed to my library of thousands of floor-to-ceiling books and then my Kindle.
“This room proves that you’re nobody’s dummy.”
“I’m glad you like it, but I didn’t bring you to my home to work all weekend. Relax with me if you can,” I said.
She pushed her glasses up her nose as she closed her laptop.
“I’m done.” She lifted her hands in surrender before pointing to the Kindle in my lap. “What are you reading?”
“This and that.”
“With your eye for the arts, I bet it’s Shakespeare.”
“No, it’s something a little more lighthearted.” I grinned, thinking of the male protagonist in my book who just flipped a Mafia queen’s body onto his lap and made love to her on an eighth-floor balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.
When I read the scene, I wondered what kind of lover Zora would be.
“Lighthearted like what?”
“On game days, I engage in what many would call ‘fluff’ reading—mainly spicy Black romances full of crazy drama that offers insights about what women want from their dream men. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to apply any of the freaky moves I read about…
yet.” I wiggled my eyes at Zora, then lowered them to her tight black casual pants, which gave me the perfect view of her thick thighs.
Instead of being shy, she set her laptop on the small teak stool table between us and leaned my way.
“My, my, my. Mr. Kinney is a romantic. That’s so cute.”
I licked my lips.
“Is it now?”
“Yes. What’s your favorite kind of romance?”
I rubbed my beard and smiled, angling my body toward Zora.
“Instalove.”
Her smile disappeared before she formed a small “O” with her mouth.
“Instalove?”
I nodded.
“Yes, the kind of stories where the protagonists meet and fall in love quickly. They make passionate love with no logic about why the guy tosses the woman onto a bed and pummels her guts so thoroughly she passes out from the ecstasy of it.”
Zora clutched her imaginary pearls and blushed before turning her head away and back to me with doubting eyes.
“Do you believe in that for real?”
I stared deeply into her eyes and placed my hand over hers, which rested on the table. I took a big breath and spoke my truth.
“Yes. I used to think I wouldn’t get married again, but I have renewed hope.
I believe my future wife will show up on my doorstep and will know in her heart that I’m her person.
I’ll be the one she has been waiting for her entire life—the man she prayed for and who knocked on the door of her heart so loudly she had no choice but to open it wide for me. ”
Zora gasped and stared into my eyes as if searching for something in them.
“That’s beautiful.” She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes with her hand over her heart.
She remained silent for so long that I realized she wouldn’t add more to her response. She did that often. When she opened her eyes, I smiled before nodding and unlocking my Kindle to resume reading.
Zora stood and selected a book from my bookshelf and then read with me for another thirty minutes. I stole glances at her as she smiled and frowned while she read.
“It’s time for me to get ready for the game. Luther will be at your disposal until we meet afterward.”
I placed my Kindle on the table and rose, stretching my long arms upward and twisting my torso to stretch my spine. As I stretched, Zora placed her bag at her feet. When I dropped my arms by my side, she stood and hugged me.
“Have a great game,” she said in a kind voice that made me feel appreciated.
“Thank you, Zora.” I embraced her and kissed the top of her head.
I exited the room and walked to my bedroom with Zora’s sweetness on my mind for the rest of the afternoon. For the next few hours, I prayed, cleaned my body, snacked, and packed until Luther texted that Wayne was ready to take me to the basketball arena.