Chapter twenty - four Damon
Chapter twenty-four
Damon
Ireach out to block the pass between Eric, our second-string center, and Luis, our power forward, finally back from academic suspension; I don’t even get a finger on it.
We’ve been running the four corners passing drill all week, but the players got it down the first day, testing my stamina to chase a nonstop line of high school kids around a basketball court.
After months of grueling practices to master the new plays I developed, and several after-school pizza party-slash-movie night-slash-study sessions, the team is finally gelling, working together like the movements in Dad’s Chronoswiss watch.
It’s impressive. Even more impressive is that the in-fighting has all but stopped, unless you count the usual ribbing and rivalry that’s to be expected among teenagers with raging hormones and underdeveloped prefrontal cortices.
I can’t help but smile. I’m proud of them, and not just because they’ve been on a winning streak since the weeks leading up to the exhibition game.
They’ve also grown as young men. Whether or not we make it to state, I’ve had a positive impact on these kids, and that’s a big part of why I wanted this coaching job in the first place.
“Alright, alright!” Coach Paulson shouts, blowing his whistle for good measure. “Two-hand catch, Bryce! Right! To the right!”
He moves quickly to avoid colliding with a player.
“OK…That’s it! Two-hand pass, Robbie! Go, go, go!”
I scramble to intercept a pass, knock it out of bounds, something! But I’m outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and in serious need of some oil for my Tin Man knees. Liga ACB may have had a point when they said I couldn’t keep up with the younger players.
A bead of sweat drips down and into my eye, forcing me to squint.
At least it’s a good workout. Maybe too good. After a few more passes, Coach Paulson relents and blows his whistle.
“Alright, boys. Good hustle! Good hustle! Now let’s call it there before we give poor Coach Park a heart attack.”
His tone is so deadpan, I almost miss the dig. I don’t, however, miss the tiny smirk peeking from under his mustache, or the snickers and outright laughs from a few of the players. Can I assign laps for third-degree burns?
Carter walks up to me, still panting from the drill and holding a ball under his arm.
“Great practice, coach.” He looks around before leaning in to say under his breath, “Coach Paulson said a scout from Villanova called about me!”
I stop in my tracks, one of the practice cones I was collecting clattering to the floor, and return his beaming smile.
“That’s awesome, man! Have you told your parents yet?”
He shakes his head adamantly.
“No way. I don’t wanna jinx it. Let them come see me and make an offer. I don’t want to break the champagne out too early.”
“That’s smart,” I agree with a nod. “Who knows how many kids they’re looking at or how you’ll fit into their program.”
It’s a sensible response to his sensible choice to temper his expectations.
I have a good feeling, though. I know from experience that no scout is driving two hours to see you play unless they’re already considering an offer.
Carter’s been playing like his life depends on it; if he hopes to play professionally, it does.
When he looks at me with suspicion, I stop, concerned. Did I say something wrong? Maybe sensible wasn’t the right choice after all.
“What?” I ask when he continues to stare. He shakes his head again.
“Nothing. It’s just that you’ve been smiling a whole hell of a lot lately, even during wind sprints. No one smiles during wind sprints.”
I shrug and resume collecting the practice cones.
“Does this have anything to do with your hooking up with Kendra Gray?”
I turn toward him so fast my neck pops.
“Uh…what?” I ask, the picture of eloquence.
Carter starts toward the locker rooms, forcing me to follow dumbly after him to figure out how a high school kid knows anything about my dating life.
“Kendra Gray. She’s your girlfriend, right?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“What do you know about it? Are you reading the tabloids in between Home Ec and AP English?”
Carter stops again and eyes me like I’m a few slices short of a loaf.
“OK, first, she’s hot. She’s got some of the best thirst traps on Instagram.”
“Watch it,” I growl.
It’s surprising how openly people will ogle Kendra, even when we’re out together. They’ll try to whisper in her ear, slip her their numbers, even honk when we cross the street. It’s disrespectful, and I don’t need to take it from one of my players.
Carter waves his hand dismissively.
“No offense, coach,” he continues, looking not the least bit remorseful.
“Second, I don’t read tabloids, but my sister, Cara, does. She saw the photos in People and recognized you right away.”
I have no idea what to say. Being with Kendra makes me want to hire a skywriter to tell the world, especially now that we’re official, but it’s not like I can talk about it with a student. He must sense my hesitation, because he says,
“Be easy, Coach. I’m just saying you look happy.” His smile turns into a smirk. “And also my sister asked me to ask you if Kendra could get her tickets to the Met Gala.”
I roll my eyes and throw a towel at his head. He ducks.
“How about I get you tickets for a few extra laps at tomorrow’s practice? Would that work?”
Carter raises his hands in defeat, accepting that the subject is closed.
“Whatever. But Cara will be heartbroken,” he says with a laugh.
“Kendra! Over here! Kendra!”
At the counter inside Artichoke Pizza, there’s barely room to order, let alone hide from photographers. They’d snapped no fewer than six thousand pictures while we waited in line for the city’s best white sauce slice.
Worse than the pictures was the shouting.
“Why do you think Andre’s getting married again so quickly?”
“Are the rumors about Hector Viega true?”
“Are you two doing a couple’s costume for Halloween next week?”
“Will Denise Jeffries’ new line be ready by the next New York Fashion Week?”
They were relentless and drew more than a few dirty looks from the other patrons.
“Do you feel like Andre traded up with Julie?”
That one had me clenching my fists, chanting goosfraba in my head to keep from pummeling the creep.
How could anyone think that a home-wrecking background singer was an upgrade from an internationally known supermodel?
Kendra, on the other hand, had acted as if she didn’t even hear them—turning her back to the cameras and keeping her hat down and sunglasses on.
“What’ll it be, miss?” the man at the front counter asks after the long but justified wait.
“A large artichoke pizza…?” Kendra turns to me with a question in her eyes.
“And two slices of meatball,” I add.
The man at the counter tallies up our order, and I automatically wrap my arms around her as we wait for our food. She’s soft and round and the perfect height to rest my chin against without getting a crick in my neck.
And don’t get me started on the citrus vanilla scent that always follows her around.
After a particularly filthy shower at her place, where we brought each other to steamy, slippery orgasm, I found the source: her lemon verbena body wash and the vanilla body butter she slathers on afterwards.
She tastes practically edible, and I bend down further to take a deep sniff of the tendrils of her hair not contained by the hat.
Click, click, click go the cameras I completely forgot about.
“How are you handling all this?” Kendra asks once we’re safely back inside her apartment, divvying up our Italian feast.
“All what?” I ask, my mouth stuffed full of meatball pizza.
“The pictures. The questions. The paparazzi stalking us whenever we’re together.” She takes a bite of her artichoke slice. “And not in a fun way, like when you came to every one of my shows for months,” she teases.
I grasp my chest in mock offense.
“I wasn’t stalking per se,” I hedge, watching her bite her lip to contain a giggle. “I was…taking an interest.”
She snorts and takes her full plate to eat at the dining room table. I bring my plate and a beer to sit beside her.
“Did it really bother you? Me showing up all those times?”
Back then, I’d convinced myself I wasn’t acting creepy. I was just an overeager, slightly underdressed fan watching from the back. I didn’t try to talk to her or wave; I just liked to see her in her element. Now I wonder how I ever thought I blended in.
“Hey.” Kendra places a soothing hand on top of mine. “Where’d you go just then?”
I give her a weak smile and take a too-big bite of pizza so I won’t have to answer. Instead of letting the subject drop, though, she waits patiently for me to finish. Fuck.
“I just didn’t realize I was making you uncomfortable,” I mumble, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “I definitely would’ve stopped if you’d asked.”
Alarm crosses her face, and her hand’s squeezing mine now.
“Oh! No, you weren’t making me uncomfortable! As a model, I’m pretty used to people looking at me. Plus, Denise vouched for you. She said you’re good people.”
I let out a breath, but Kendra keeps going.
“That’s why I wanted to check on you. Because you’re not a model, and not used to these kinds of things.”
Warmth blooms in my chest, and I think for the third time in as many weeks that what I feel for Kendra goes way past just hooking up. Way past liking her. I may actually…
“It’s a small price to pay for that ass,” I joke, diffusing my own heavy thoughts. She rolls her eyes and tosses a packet of pepper flakes at me.
“So unserious,” she mutters, but there’s a smile on her face.
If only she knew how serious I am. If she did, would she put the brakes on things again? And is she really willing to be with me, an obvious downgrade from her ex in terms of fame and fortune and…everything?