Chapter 5
CHARLOTTE
The treadmill slows to a stop before I exhale long and slow to catch my breath. Reaching for a towel, I wipe sweat from my brow. It was a good run for a Wednesday morning, but that’s because it’s not what my usual Wednesday looks like.
I turn to Dwayne, my security guy, pumping weights behind me. “I’m heading up to my room. I need to shower before the meeting.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grabs his towel and follows me to the elevator. “I’ll shower and be back at your room.”
“You do not need to stand guard at my door.”
“Just doing my job, Ms. Hendricks.” I glance at him, taking in his dark skin, the tattoos that curl around his biceps and shoulders, his shaved head, and the dark beard sprinkled with gray.
He looks tough—intimidating, even—but around me, he’s nothing more than a softhearted kitten.
He’s a gentle hand on my shoulder when I need it, soft like a kitten’s paw when I’m acting like a stray cat, wanting to scratch a certain someone’s eyeballs out of their dumbass head.
He has watched me cry countless times over Brandon Johns.
Something I’m not proud of, but it only made him more protective of me.
“Did you finish your workout?” I ask when we arrive at my hotel room, and he hesitates. “Go and finish your session. I’ll call you when I’m ready. My hairdresser will be here in another thirty minutes, so you have time.”
The entire time my hairdresser is styling my hair, I’m consumed with the upcoming meeting and to understand Coach’s strategies to ensure we get a win today as we head closer to the playoffs.
While I trust Coach Mathew’s playbook, I’m distracted by Walter being set on another trade.
A trade is necessary for a better team result, yet I struggle with the emotion and memory of Brandon leaving for Chicago.
I close my eyes briefly as pain shoots straight to my heart with the reminder.
It’s why I’m never in favor of treating the players like pawns in a game of chess, moving them from one side of the country to the other, and their family’s lives uprooted at short notice.
It’s the part of the business I leave in the hands of the General Manager and Director of Business Operations—my brothers—and I trust them.
But Walter is the General Manager, and we rarely agree on anything.
I slip into a Dior belted black dress, elegant yet appropriate for a business meeting. It doesn’t take long for three slow taps to echo through my hotel apartment, telling me Dwayne is here.
He nods in greeting and follows me to the elevator, escorting me to the business meeting room in the fancy Dallas hotel, where he’ll remain outside in the hall for the duration of the meeting.
Coach Mathews is already at the head of the long table, his notes strewn across it. The game against Dallas is almost a guaranteed win, but when playing at the opposition’s arena, nothing is a certainty.
“Afternoon, Charlotte,” he greets but doesn’t look up from the table. “I just heard Simpson is out. Strained his back at this morning’s training session.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “Who do you have to replace him?”
“No guards. Byron will play full minutes, and River will need to step up.”
River.
I lower into the chair behind the long table. “Is he up to playing more?” Coach Mathews rotates the rookies and new players until they have the confidence to make shots under pressure. River doesn’t have the game endurance Simpson has. It’s a risk since fatigue is a precursor to injury.
“We don’t have a choice. I’ll play Vince as a backup and rotate from a guard to a forward.
” He glances up from his iPad, and his brow furrows, lines deepening across his forehead.
He straightens when the door opens, and Glen, the LA Sharks assistant coach, enters the room.
Behind him is the trainer and strength and conditioning coach.
“Gentlemen,” Coach Mathews greets, looking directly at the trainers. “Any news on Simpson?”
“No, Coach,” Joseph, the head trainer, replies as they all sit at the table. “He is having scans as we speak.”
Walter strides into the room and gives Coach Mathews a nod. “Afternoon, Coach.” He’s in his late sixties, carrying himself with the confidence of someone who equates age with wisdom and authority. But to me, he’s outdated, and I can’t help but question the advice he offers our coaches.
“Walter, before we begin discussions about the game plan, I want to bring everyone up to speed with your and Lex’s insights.”
I keep my gaze on Coach Mathews. I do not want to appear rattled about the prospect of a new player since Lex is our head scout.
“Should this discussion wait until we’re back in LA when Franklin and Jobe are present?
” Franklin is president of basketball operations, and Jobe is vice president, who is privy to potential changes to the team roster.
“We’re taking a lead advantage,” Coach adds quickly. “Chicago Stingers are interested in Vince.”
“The Stingers?” I snap. “Do they want all our players?”
“It’s likely.” Walter grins at me. “We have a great team.”
“Hear, hear,” the other men sound out.
“I’m not disagreeing. When were you expecting a trade to happen? Is Vince a certainty?”
“Early January. And no.”
I stare at Coach. “Does Vince know?”
“No.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, I mouth. The news leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
“We need someone like Brandon Johns on the team,” Walter adds.
I choke on my mouthful of water. “We already do. Byron is our man.”
“We all agree Byron is the best guard in the team and one of the top ten guards in the league. But BJ and Byron combine well together, and we all know he is a perfect fit.”
“Who walked out on the team,” I say incredulously. “He demanded to be traded. He hurt our guys. Broke their trust. And you want to bring him back and mess with their mindset and team dynamics?” I force out a sarcastic laugh.
Over my dead body.
“We are not discussing trades today. You can wait until we’re home, and I’ll call a board meeting.”
Walter stares at me as though I’m clueless.
I stare right back and cock one eyebrow. “Does anyone have a problem with my call?” I meet everyone’s gaze to ensure they understand my intention. “Good. Let’s move on to the gameplan and how we are going to come away with the win when we don’t have Simpson on the court.”
Later that night, I find myself in the hotel bar, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses creating a backdrop for the quiet after the game.
The lighting is dim, casting a warm glow over the polished wood of the bar top.
Lex sits across from me, his drink in hand, the ice cubes tinkling as he swirls them absentmindedly.
We’re both still riding the high of the win, though the exhaustion is starting to creep in.
Lex leans back in his chair, his sharp features softened by the amber glow of the room.
“Please tell me you’re not serious about going after BJ?” I say to Lex after learning about Walter’s idea earlier today.
Lex’s eyes turn sympathetic—he’s one of the few staff who knew about our relationship. “It’s not personal, Lottie.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I mutter. “Before you say anymore, the answer will always be no.”
He gives me a single nod. “His name was thrown into the ring, and Walter pounced on it. I’ll extinguish further discussions.”
“Thanks.”
The players file into the bar, and I glance over at River, tipping my drink in his direction. “He stepped up today.”
Lex pivots on his barstool to see who I am talking about. “Ah. The boy did great.” He pushes his empty glass on the bar, then stands and kisses my cheek. “When the players arrive, it’s time for me to disappear.”
“Coward,” I say with a laugh.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I nod at Lex, watching as he walks toward the exit, past Dwayne standing by the double wooden doors, keeping a watchful eye on me.
It’s time I call it a night as well.
“What are we drinking?” a bubbly voice asks from behind me. River slides onto the barstool and taps his fingers on the bar while looking at me. “I thought you’d be smiling, boss. It was a good win.”
Now I am smiling. “It was a needed win.”
“So why are you looking all uptight and serious like Zasu?”
“Zasu?”
“Yeah, in The Lion King.”
“I… um…” Instead of being confused by his words, I’m taken aback by the gold flecks in his honey eyes.
I’ve never been this close to notice River’s alluring eyes since he’s a good foot taller than me, and most of our conversations have taken place courtside.
A slow smile spreads across his face as if he is aware he has affected me in some way.
“Why can’t a nose be twelve inches?”
What?
His broad smile highlights his entire face. I blink several times, comprehending what he is saying. My gaze hones in on his nose—slender and not at all pointy.
A twelve-inch nose… my mind wanders, and I fail to hide a smirk.
“Ah, c’mon, boss. Don’t let your mind go there. It can’t be twelve inches, or it would be a foot.”
I laugh and take a drink of my wine. “That was a little funny.”
“A little funny? You were smiling, but I don’t think it was about the joke. You have a dirty mind.”
“Well, that’s about as far as it goes,” I say into my glass, only loud enough for River to hear.
He assesses me and then orders a scotch from the bar. “You need to smile more,” he tells me, then clinks his glass to mine. “Your blue eyes sparkle, and it’s prettier than the sunlight dancing on the ocean.”
I look away, my lips curling upward. “Points to you for making the boss smile.”
We consider each other a moment, my thoughts running away with other ways River could make me smile, especially after today’s meeting. I need some damn happiness in my life. Only I’m older, smarter, and less trustworthy than my younger self, who fell for a previous NBA star.
“Good work today, River.” I pat his back and stand from the stool. “Have a good night.”
I don’t stick around for a reply and head back to my room with Dwayne by my side.
Around five, the day begins with a stretch, arms reaching overhead, the body refreshed after an uninterrupted sleep. The remote is within reach, and soon, the television hums to life, tuned to the sports news.
What are the journalists saying about us today? More lies?
The first highlight is that the Stingers won the game against New York. Brandon’s face flashes onto the screen. The sun is barely up, and I’m not mentally ready to see a closeup of his handsome face and the baby blue hues staring at me. The screen switches to replays of the game.
Brandon dunks the ball.
Brandon shoots a three-pointer.
And another.
And another.
A steal and an easy layup.
He has come away with thirty-seven points and a win for the Stingers.
Ugh. We do not need him.
One of the commentators analyzes his game.
“If Brandon Johns played four quarters like this, he would be unstoppable. But he scored two points in the first. Twenty in the second. Four in the third. Eleven points in the fourth. In the last game, he only managed six points. His inconsistency tells me he has checked out. Barely any assists. The man is playing for himself.”
“I disagree,” the other commentator says.
“So do I,” I mumble and shove a pillow behind my back. “He is a brilliant player. Give him some credit.”
“Checked out? Did you not watch the game? The guy hasn’t checked out if he scores thirty-seven points.”
Brian Bolton. I like this commentator.
“He goes missing,” Johnson, the other commentator, retorts.
Ugh. “Shut your mouth, Johnson. You don’t even know him.” My heart picks up a notch, and frustration builds inside of me.
A replay flashes onto the screen. “Here he is completely uninterested, running up and down the court, not wanting the ball. He’s not injecting himself into the game.
” Another replay. “And here, he wants the ball, then passes it every time. This is a week ago. Then today, he has two good quarters. My argument is if the man gave one hundred percent every quarter, he’d be great.
He plays well when it suits him. He is inconsistent and unreliable. ”
I throw a pillow at the television. What a dickwad. They don’t know Brandon like we do. He is brilliant.
After a few calming breaths, I rein in my thoughts.
Jesus, I was sticking up for Brandon. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I jump out of bed and head to the shower.
While I agree Brandon is brilliant, he will never play for the LA Sharks again.