Fat Girl (14 page)

PRACTICE IS ONE MISSED PLAY after another. It’s not just the team. I’m off my game, too, and I don’t like it. I can’t get Dee out of my head. She’s constantly there—stealing my thoughts, snagging my concentration, coiling my body tight, and messing with my peace of mind.

I sent her flowers yesterday, the same ones I’d given her after we’d first made love. It wasn’t intended as a romantic gesture this time. Not after the number she did on me. No, this round has to be a coldhearted, fuck-Dee-out-of-my-system seduction.

At the next failed shot, I make myself focus on the ten boys counting on me, and blow into the silver whistle that hangs around my neck.

“What’s going on out there?” I ask without rancor when they lumber over, heads bent, dejected.

“Coach, we’re never gonna beat Monroe,” Joel gripes. “Those dudes are huge.”

“So what if they’re bigger? What we’ve got is better. Smarts.” I tap a finger to my temple. “Hearts.” I slap my chest. “And guts.” I point to my stomach. “Now let me hear you say it.”

“Smarts, hearts, and guts,” they mumble the team battle cry.

“Aw, come on, you can do better than that. I want you believing in yourselves the way I believe in you. Again!” I shout. “Louder and with feeling!”

“Smarts, hearts, and guts!” the team roars, this time making themselves worthy of their name, the Northside Lions.

“That’s what I’m talking about. Now, listen up. The size of the opponent doesn’t mean jack. It’s a matter of technique. Kalum, I want you to block me with everything you’ve got.” The fourteen-year-old center, my oldest and largest player on the team—a junior Shaq in the making—already has two inches on my six feet five and about thirty pounds more mass.

“Okay, into your positions,” I direct them. “Kal, you ready?” The boy gives a tentative nod as sweat runs down his face. “Get in tight to prevent me from moving around you.” To my forwards, I explain, “The goal here is for me to make room so there’s time for you to take the shot.”

I blow the whistle and Kalum comes up on me with his hands tucked at his chest. I plant my feet wide and bend my knees. Kal pushes against me as hard as he’s been instructed. Only years of training keeps me from landing on my ass. Down the court, Dwayde captures the ball and throws it to Joel. The thirteen-year-old takes the shot, narrowly missing the hoop.

I blow the whistle again. “Great work on the passes!”

“But coach, I missed it,” complains Joel, one of Papa’s Kids and my player most likely to see the glass as half empty. Understandable. A life of abuse can rob a kid of faith and hope. I can’t imagine what I would have become without the Torreses.

“It doesn’t matter that you missed it. That’s not what this exercise was about. Kalum’s bigger than I am, but I used technique to stall him long enough so that Dwayde could get the ball to you, and that gave you opportunity, right?”

Joel concedes the point with a nod.

“Good job on your block, Kal. You do that at the game, and no one’s going to get by for any rebounds.” The teen grins wide at my praise.

“All right,” I say with a resounding clap, “let’s run it again.”

They reset their five on five with more bounce in their gait and play with increased energy for the next hour. But win or lose, I’ll be proud. I’m not one of those coaches—including many I’ve had—who cares about winning at all costs. Sure, victory’s sweet. But having fun, training hard, and pulling together as a team are the cornerstones I stress with the boys.

Twenty minutes after practice, I’m sitting at the end of a bleacher, marking notes in my playbook, when the metal door bangs open. My head jerks up. It’s not Dee.

Dwayde’s attire explains why he waited for the team to clear out. Black corduroys sit at his waist rather than the baggy jeans he usually wears a few inches below his waist. A gray argyle sweater covers a white button-down shirt. Even his ears are minus the studs. All that’s left of Dwayde’s hip-hop style are his cornrows.

I stand to greet him, and squeeze a bony shoulder. “Nice threads.”

“Yeah, right,” he says and snorts. “Isabelle made me wear this butt-ugly shit.”

“She’s just trying to make a good impression on the Franklins, so they know you’re being well cared for.”

“Whatever,” he says and the habitual shrug hitches under my palm.

“I appreciate you working hard during practice when this has got to be a scary day for you.”

“I ain’t scared.”

I’m not fooled by his bravado. “Nothing wrong with it if you are. It’s natural.”

He angles his head. “You don’t get scared.”

My celebrity image makes me appear bigger than life. But that’s all it is—an image. “Believe me, Dwayde, I have fears, and I haven’t been nearly as strong as you’ve been in facing mine. I admire you.”

He jabs a thumb into his chest and asks incredulously, “You admire me?”

“Yep.” I rest the toe of my Nike high-tops on the bench. “You’ve got what Papa T used to call grit.”

“What’s that?” he asks, searching my face.

“Grit is making the tough choices and standing up to them.”

“I didn’t have a choice though,” he grumbles.

“We always have a choice, Dwayde. And you made a brave one.”

“That’s what Ms. C said.”

“You call her Ms. C?”

“That’s what she said her clients call her.”

“Oh.”

He regards me curiously. “Is this, like, weird?”

“What?”

“You know, Ms. C being my lawyer?”

“Why would it be?” I hedge.

“’Cause you and Victor don’t like her.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I’m not stupid,” Dwayde says with an eye roll. “I’ve heard Victor ask Mama T to put her picture away. But Mama T won’t. She says that Dee’s still her daughter and she’s not gonna act like she doesn’t exist just ’cause it makes you and Victor mad.”

Because he’s a clever kid and I know how important it is for Dee to earn his trust, I try for diplomacy. “I don’t dislike Dee and neither does Victor. We dislike what she did.”

“Maybe she had a good reason for running away.”

“Maybe.” But I can’t accept that.

“Gabi said you were gonna marry her.”

Gabi has a big mouth. “The past isn’t important,” I say, trying to sell him a crock of shit. “As long as Dee can help you, that’s all that matters to me.”

“So you’re cool with her?”

I’m so far from being cool with Dee. But my hot lust isn’t something I’m going to discuss with my twelve-year-old nephew. “Yeah, I’m cool.” Changing to his favorite subject, video games, I say, “Ready for a rematch later?”

He grins, dimpling his cheeks. “I stay ready.”

“Your reign is about to end.” I raise my hands and twiddle my thumbs. “These babies are going to whoop your butt.”

“You’re tripping, Uncle Mick. You couldn’t whoop my butt if you had ten thumbs and a wooden paddle.”

“Smartass,” I say, and lowering my sneaker to the floor, make a grab for Dwayde, catching him in a clinch hold. Squirming and laughing, he tries to escape my grip, but I tighten my arms, being careful not to hurt him. “Now let’s see who’s going to be declared the king.”

I’M IN CONTROL.

I have high hopes of making my morning pep talk a reality. Right up to the moment that I walk through the open gym door and hear Mick’s husky laugh bouncing off the walls.

I jerk to a halt. My gaze rivets to the man with his large biceps wrapped around Dwayde in some kind of body lock, making my client giggle hysterically on a day when I wouldn’t think that was possible. This playful side of Mick—a side I remember well—jumbles my thoughts and weakens my resolve.

I’m still trying to regain my composure when he suddenly looks over. His espresso-brown eyes meet mine and his laughter dies.

“Ha! You lose, Uncle Mick,” Dwayde hoots, wiggling free.

“That shouldn’t count,” he says, his gaze raking me from the top of my head to the tips of my shoes. “I was distracted.”

Insecurities launch to the surface, but I resist tugging at my clothes. “Hi, Dwayde.”

“Oh, hey, Ms. C,” Dwayde replies, his smile faltering too.

It’s disconcerting to be considered such a killjoy. “Seems I interrupted something.”

Dwayde scuffs his sneaker on the floor. “Me and Uncle Mick were just fooling around.”

“How are you, Dee?” The vibration of Mick’s deep voice ripples through me.

“Fine, thank you,” I reply politely, aware of Dwayde watching us. He knows about our past. It shows in the way he’s gauging our interaction.

“It’s good to see you again,” Mick continues keeping up the friendly pretense. “You’re looking well.”

“Thanks. You too,” I reply acknowledging even as I speak what an understatement that is. Mick looks sinfully gorgeous. Worn jeans sit low on his narrow hips and a white T-shirt stands out in brilliant contrast against his rich caramel skin. The soft cotton hugs his torso, highlighting the curves of his pecs and the hard plane of his abdomen. The waves of his hair swirl at the ends like haphazardly placed commas, and the stubble on his strong jaw gives him that sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed look.

His lips tilt up at the corners for his famous smile. But there’s a taunting edge to it that’s reserved for my benefit alone. “We’ll have to get together
soon
and catch up on old times.”

I keep my expression trained on neutral as his threat from Thursday night flushes my body.

“Dwayde, we should get going before we’re late.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Mick announces, delaying my escape. He picks up a red Nike Signature cap off the bench and positions it on his head, bringing the bill down low.

“Do you think the media are out there, Uncle Mick?” Dwayde asks nervously while Mick slips on a leather jacket and dark shaded Oakleys.

“Probably not. If they were, Max and Stiles would have let me know. So no worries, okay?”

Dwayde nods, seeming reassured, and I wonder who Max and Stiles are.

Mick adjusts his brim one last time and steps forward with his familiar long, easy strides. “After you.” He gestures and I precede him through the gym door and down the corridor.

Even in his disguise, Mick draws attention. He’s just so male. So potent. So there. But obviously accustomed to the rubberneckers and oglers, I don’t hear him skip a beat in his bantering with Dwayde about who’s going to be the master of some video game.

Just before we reach the front doors, I feel a large hand settle onto my lower back, and the sudden contact causes me to jump.

Mick firms his hold and leans in close enough for his mouth to glance my ear. His breath is warm and he smells amazing. “As a precaution, let me go first. I don’t want you walking out into anything unexpected.”

I gulp fretfully, my anxiety as much about his nearness as it is about the idea of being plastered across the tabloids with Mick. I doubt the headlines would be kind to me, and I’d rather not find out.

He drops his hand and the loss of contact leaves me feeling disturbingly bereft. I watch him step around me and push through the double doors. He scans the outside as if expecting the paparazzi to leap out of the bushes at any moment.

“Mr. Peters?” A large, muscular man with arms the size of boulders moves toward Mick with surprising agility. “The coast is clear, sir.”

“Thanks, Stiles.”

So Stiles is a bodyguard? He’s wearing shades too. And with his deep brown skin, polished bald head and black bushy eyebrows, he resembles a dark, badass version of Mr. Clean.

“Anything else, sir?”

“I’ll be picking Dwayde up from the Waldorf after his visit. You know the one in Gold Coast, near my place?” Stiles nods. “I’ll call you as soon as I hear from him.”

“We’ll be on standby.”

“Appreciate it,” Mick says, extending his hand, and they share a firm shake.

With another nod, Stiles takes his leave and joins an equally mountainous man, this one with a handlebar mustache. He is standing beside a black tank, which I think is a Hummer.

“Just taking the necessary precautions since the last incident with the press,” Mick explains to me and resumes his long-legged strides down the stairs to the parking lot.