Beauty and the Baller(37)

Toby straightens his shoulders and paraphrases one of the quotes. “Ponder before you make a move. Think about your enemy and where he’ll be waiting. If you think they’re laying a trap, they are.”

I nod. “Tell them what we should do.”

“Ignore it. They did this to piss us off, hoping we’d have a knee-jerk reaction, maybe get caught and have to sit out a few games and ruin our winning streak,” he says.

Pride soars inside me, and I slap him on the back. “All right. Now, do you mean it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want a promise from each of you that you’ll let this go,” I say.

“We promise,” they say.

We exit, and by the time we get back to the building, we’re talking game strategy and workout routines. Crisis averted. No goats stolen on my watch . . .



“Thank you for my birthday at the Roadhouse. The cake was so good. Chocolate’s my favorite,” Bonnie, Toby’s mom, says as we walk into their small house. It’s on the south side of town, a more run-down area, the houses built in the fifties, the yards small. Toby holds the door open as we head to the den.

Toby settles her gifts and balloons on the counter. Lois picked her out a bedazzled jersey with the number fifteen on it, Toby’s, and a gift card to a ladies’ store in town.

Bonnie and I end up in the den, and I turn on the TV so she can watch a previous game where Toby threw three touchdown passes. She couldn’t go because she was sick.

“What are you having trouble with?” I ask Toby as I come in the kitchen for water. He’s at the table, scowling over his notebook.

He pushes his hair back and groans. “Algebra two. I’ve kinda hit a wall. It’s solving quadratic equations . . .”

I settle down next to him. “Let me see it.”

We huddle over the textbook and go through the problems, step by step. Bonnie comes in and puts the cake and gifts away, asking if we need anything, but we say no and keep at it.

When I was in high school, I focused on my studies, terrified my athletic talent wasn’t enough or would be snatched away from me. Between school and work and taking care of my sisters, I barely had time to do anything else.

“I think I have it,” Toby says a few minutes later. “You can go.”

“You sure? I’m not in a hurry. Trust me. No plans.”

He chews on his lip.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. I think Mom’s ready for bed, and I haven’t talked to her much,” he says hurriedly, standing up and taking my glass to the sink.

I frown. “Is this about the field today?”

“No, sir. It’s nothing. I swear.”

I study him for a few seconds. I hear him. He wants some alone time with her. Or perhaps something is eating at him, and he isn’t ready to talk.

I clap him on the back. “You’ve got my cell if you need me, ’kay?” I point at the books. “If you get stuck, give me a ring, and we can work it through FaceTime, yeah?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“See you Monday.” I leave for home.



After changing into joggers and an old practice shirt, I head to my office. Dog trots behind me as I grab my guitar and sit in one of the leather recliners. I learned to play from Tuck. I’m not as good as he is, but the more time I spend alone, the more I pick it up.

Dog settles at my feet as I strum a few lines to warm up, then play the opening to “Hurt,” by Johnny Cash, a cover from a Nine Inch Nails song.

I’m humming the lyrics when the door opens, and Nova enters my office. Dog raises his head, yawns, and then plops back down. I give him a glare—Thanks for noting the intruder.

My french doors must have been cracked from when he went out.

She’s wearing shorts, a green tank top, and those boots, her hair up in a high ponytail that reminds me of her in that Leia outfit. It makes my cock twitch. There’s a lightsaber in her hand, and she waves it around, then sets it on my desk as if it’s a king’s scepter.

I keep playing, restarting the song as she approaches.

Her head bobs, fingers tapping the rhythm against her leg; then she starts to sing.

Her voice startles me with its purity, the lyrics clear and spine tingling. It’s a different perspective from Cash’s woeful ballad, her voice sweeter. A memory flies at me, one of her singing in my hotel room. I tug my eyes off her and focus on the guitar.

A quietness fills up the room as the song ends. The hair on my arm is raised, and I drape my eyes over her hungrily and admit, fuck, that the fake kiss in the bookstore was total bullshit. I wanted to kiss her. And yes, I asked her to pretend date, and yes, I cleared it with HR first. What was I thinking?

“Another one,” she says. “It helps me relax.”

Sweat beads on my forehead, and my fingers feel numb as I switch to “Jolene.” She laughs under her breath and belts it out, adding a country twang to her vocals.

“You sing like an angel,” I say after the song as I settle the guitar at my feet. “Did you ever pursue music?”

“Not really. I’m all right, I guess; it was my talent in pageants.” She exhales a long breath, her lips twisting. “So. How long have you known who I was?”

Ah, so that’s why she came over a day early . . .