Beauty and the Baller(52)

“How long did you date her?”

“Six months.” He gives me a wary glance.

“And you kissed her and . . .” More . . .

He reddens. “I know she’s never had a boyfriend. I’d treat her with respect. I haven’t even kissed her.”

That’s good to know. There’s a silence as I study him. The earnest face. The boy-next-door looks.

Sabine dashes in my door, sees Toby, stops for a moment, and then rushes forward. “You’re dating Coach?” she calls. “I thought you told me everything I needed to know, and everyone knows but me!”

I close my eyes. She didn’t hear me tell Jimmy during the goat incident. “Yes. I’m sorry. It happened fast. Is everything okay?” I’ve been putting off telling her because I can’t tell her it’s pretend. I’m not sure she wouldn’t tell someone—not with the intent to make trouble but because she doesn’t always understand the necessity for a white lie. If I asked her if my butt looked big in this skirt, she’d tell me the truth.

“If you’re dating Coach, then I want to go out with Toby,” she says.

“Sabine, it doesn’t work that way. You can’t use this as leverage—”

“We can double-date,” she says. “You and Coach can be there. Everyone does that. Even Lacey’s mom lets her boyfriend come over while she’s home.”

I pick up my satchel and stuff my materials in. “We’ll talk later.”

“When is later?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“I need to know when later is. Tell me!”

What would Mama say? She’d stay calm. She wouldn’t yell back at her. I inhale a deep breath. “Watch your tone, Sabine. This isn’t the place. It’s where I work and where you take classes.”

“But . . . when?”

“Later is when we’re at home. Get to where you need to be.”

She exhales, and Toby murmurs to her gently, takes her hand, and laces it with his.

I watch them go, my head tumbling. What to do, what to do . . .



Eating my peanut-butter-and-strawberry-jelly (Mama’s jelly) sandwich on the run, I head to the administrative offices to check in with the guidance counselor about my student who walked out. We chat for fifteen minutes as I cram food in, and she explains his situation.

When the bell chimes, I realize I’ve missed seeing everyone in the staff lounge. I fast walk to the field house, my makeup melting in the warm October air.

I reach the offices and read the names on the doors to find Ronan’s. His is last, the biggest one next to the locker room. It’s big, about fourteen by fourteen. Two TVs on the wall, several chairs, a table with folders on it, and a big desk against the wall. Two phones are ringing. His cell is on the desk next to them, vibrating with text messages.

I plop my satchel on a chair and answer one of the landlines. “Coach’s office.”

There’s a short pause. “Who’s this?” a woman’s voice says.

“Nova Morgan, his PA.” I roll my eyes in case this is one of his admirers. “And his girlfriend. Can I help you?”

“His girlfriend?” the woman asks. “Really? Oh, um . . . hi. I’m his mom, Bernice. I’ve been trying to reach his cell, but he must be on the field.”

I flounder. “Hi! Great to meet you on the phone. I’m not sure where he is, but I can take a message.”

“I didn’t realize Ronan was seeing someone—well, there was Jenny, but we never met her.” She pauses. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

She lets out a hum of satisfaction. “And you work together?”

“It’s actually my first day.”

“That’s wonderful! He needs someone, and if you work together, well, that’s progress. I mean, you’re going to be spending lots of time together. How serious is your relationship?”

Holy shit. She’s one of those moms . . .

“Um . . .” I stop when I see the closet door to the right is open and Ronan is unbuttoning his dress shirt. His head is bent, his finger working down his shirt, one slow button at a time. He tosses it on a small table in the closet. Pulling by the neck, he tugs off the white T-shirt underneath. His broad shoulders flex, his six-pack rippling, the V of his hips clear from his low-slung slacks. He reaches up to a rack and pulls down a polo, then eases his muscled arms inside. His pants are next. I swallow as he unzips them and bends over and pushes them off. His legs are massive, toned, and hard. He slips on a pair of blue shorts, then sticks his feet in sneakers. He slides his fingers through his messy-pretty hair—oh, wow—then settles a cap on.

He turns his head and sees me.

I start, then send up a wave and point to the phone and mouth, It’s your mother.

He stalks out and takes the phone from me, our bodies close. He smells divine, and I don’t move away. Plus, the electricity is addictive.

He looks up at the ceiling. “Mom . . . stop . . . no, it’s not serious . . . no, she’s a girl I met here in town . . .”

He keeps chatting as I move away to one of the chairs.

Not serious. A girl I met in town.

We’re playing pretend. Just pretend.