Chapter 6 #2
He sounds amused.
I lift my head. “You’re my teammate.”
I don’t have to say more; Rolondo gets it. But his expression remains passive. “Guys talk smack. Doesn’t matter about what.
Either you take their shit or you don’t.” His gaze bores into me with unsettling depth. “I’d lock down whatever it is you
have going on with the photographer. Guys will be talking about her for no other reason than she’s taking pictures of them
naked.”
The truth irks. I resent that she’s seen any dick on this team but mine. I resent that the guys view it as some sort of joke
they can snicker over, but there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.
“Chess is my friend.” I gesture toward the direction Wooster left. “I don’t let people talk shit about my friends.”
Rolondo slowly grins. “I see that.”
I give a short nod.
“Just one question,” Rolondo asks.
“What?”
“Your dick know you’re just friends?” He laughs as I swipe at him, easily evading the hit. “That the best you got?”
We duck each other’s half-hearted swings for a few, both of us needing to shake off the pall Wooster threw over the room.
Laughing, Rolondo reaches for his pack that he’d left by the leg press. “I’m heading out.”
Strange how his words seem to highlight how damn quiet the place is. In the far distance, a phone rings then cuts off. I’m
not creeped out, but I don’t want to linger in a ghost town, either.
“What are you doing now?” I ask him.
“My ma’s in town.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah, I’m taking her to Commander’s Palace for dinner.” He grins. “The woman’s been after me to go since she got off the damn plane.”
“I know how that goes. My mom was the same. Had to go there and to Galatoire’s.”
Rolondo chuckles. “Went there the other night.”
We both laugh. Suddenly, I miss my mother. Which doesn’t make a bit of sense, since I’m a grown man, she’s been annoying the
hell out of me lately, and I’ve been avoiding her.
Rolondo goes to shower, and I’m left staring at the weights without really seeing them. I don’t want to be here. I don’t know
where the hell I want to be. But one thing is clear.
I pull out my phone.
BigManny: Can I interest you in a po’boy?
Chess answers almost immediately.
ChesterCopperpot: Do you actually know any poor boys?
BigManny: Cute. Fine, can I interest you in eating a sandwich with this here rich boy?
ChesterCopperpot: I’m at a party right now. Dinner in the form of finger foods and cocktails
Disappointment swims in my chest. I swallow past that self-pitying lump and man up.
BigManny: Another night then. Have fun, party girl
I head toward the locker room where I’ve left my keys. I’ll grab a po’boy and watch some basketball. Tired as I am, a night lazing on the couch sounds about right. I’m almost at my car when my phone buzzes.
ChesterCopperpot: You should come here. There’s plenty of food.
I halt, staring down at the screen. Chess texts again.
ChesterCopperpot: I promise no one will grope you unless you ask.
I smile at that.
BigManny: Will you grope me, Chester?
ChesterCopperpot: No but James would. He’s a huge fan. ??
BigManny: I’m happy to give him an autograph. But that’s as far as my call of duty goes.
ChesterCopperpot: Fair warning . . . If he asks you to sign his ball, run away.
A laugh breaks free, filling up all the empty spaces in my chest. God, I want to see this girl, but I hesitate. A party isn’t
exactly how I want to spend my time with Chess.
The phone rings in my hand. “Chester,” I say with a smile.
Her husky voice competes with the sound of chatter and music in the background. “So? Are you coming or what?”
“Longing to see me, are you?”
“Yes,” she drawls. “I need to reconfirm that your head truly is that big.”
I’m grinning wide now, even though she can’t see me. “Which head are we talking about?”
“I’m hanging up . . .”
“All right. I’ll behave.”
“Sure you will.” Someone shouts loud and shrill in the background. Then Chess speaks again. “So?”
“You sure you want me there? I don’t want to disrupt your evening.”
Chess is silent for a second. She speaks again and sounds stiff, reminding me of the first time we met when she thought I
was an asshole. “I don’t extend false invites, Finn. But you don’t have to come. Honestly, it’s okay.”
I think about sitting comfortably at home with a sandwich versus sitting next to Chess in a room full of people I don’t know.
There is no contest. “Give me the address.”
After a quick shower and change at home, I head out to meet Chess. The party is at a house in Uptown, near Audubon Park. Light,
misty rain is falling by the time I pull up before the double gallery home, every window blazing with light. Louis Armstrong’s
version of “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” drifts through those windows and, for a second, it’s as if I’ve stepped back in
time.
You get that a lot in New Orleans. Old jazz, older houses, cracked pavements, and gnarly oak trees that drip with moss pull
you out of the modern world and leave you feeling haunted by history. I push past the short wrought-iron gate and make my
way up to the door.
It occurs to me that I’m nervous as I ring the doorbell and find my hands clammy. I laugh at myself. I’m grilled by reporters
at least once a week and never break a sweat. I’ve won national championships with a crowd of one hundred thousand people
screaming down at me and didn’t flinch. Yet here, I’m nervous as a teen on his first date.
A woman wearing a purple ’50s-style dress opens the door. For a long second, she stares at me.
“Hey,” I say when she doesn’t speak.
She blinks and then shakes her head as if coming out of a fog. “Please tell me you’re a stripper.”
“Stripper?” I repeat, half-amused and a little confused. Behind her, the house is full of people in dresses or suits, and
I wonder if I have the wrong address.
“We’ve never had a stripper at a C I’m at a loss for words.
Up until now, I’ve seen Chess in jeans and casual tops. This version of Chess is like a present.
She makes her way to me, and my heart knocks against my chest like it’s trying to break free. Her usually stern expression
is lighter, green eyes smiling. “Trish was babbling about some GQ model looking for me,” she says in greeting. “I assumed it was either you, or it was my lucky night.”
“It was both,” I finally answer, too aware that my voice is thick.
She’s wearing a dress, a black velvet bodice that hugs her slim torso and hangs off the curves of her shoulders. The skirt
is a white cloud that ends midcalf.
“You’re staring, Finn.”
“Rear Window,” I blurt out, making her blink. “That dress. Grace Kelly wore a dress like that in Rear Window.”
James laughs. “Holy shit, I can’t believe you picked that up.”
I take a sip of beer to wet my dry throat. “It’s my mother’s favorite movie.”
I don’t add that I might have had a small crush on Grace Kelly when I was a preteen.
A soft flush of pink colors Chess’s cheeks. “Most people haven’t figured it out. They expect the ice-blond hair, too.”
Her ink-black hair is swept up in one of those twisty buns pinned to the back of her head that exposes the long line of her
neck. She is fucking beautiful, and I tell her so.
The pink in her cheek deepens, but she shrugs off my compliment. “You find the place all right?”
She seems flustered, her gaze darting around to the people staring at us. At me. The attention prickles on the back of my
neck. I ignore everyone but her.
“Yep.” I dip my head, and the light scent of her perfume tickles my nose. “I could have dressed up too, you know.”
Her cherry red lips pinch. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about it when we were texting.”