Homecourt Advantage (3 page)

A buffet of delicacies was spread across a marble server: salmon, tuna, poached eggs, bagels, muffins, and croissants circled an ice sculpture shaped like a giant basketball. Casey was not sure how many women were coming, but she was certain that even if they stayed for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, they could not put a dent into this spread of food.

At the entrance to the parlor, Casey watched the familiar faces file in. All of the women were wearing Rolex watches and tennis bracelets, with Gucci or Chanel purses draped across their shoulders. Most of the women also wore some sort of massive diamond ring. This included Casey, to her sudden embarrassment. A couple of them were tiptoeing around as if they were afraid they might break something.

All of the mates were decked out in the latest designer fashions, ranging from Prada dresses to Armani pantsuits. All except Trina Belleville. Of course, she was the wife most out of place. She obviously could care less about the tags inside her clothes or the style atop her head. Trina’s slightly graying hair looked like she had just removed the sponge rollers moments before and had forgotten to comb through the clumps. Casey could only imagine what Alexis was thinking about Trina’s appearance. It was only a matter of time before she commented on it.

Casey felt sick. She was not in a particularly sociable mood as she sorted out her feelings about Brent and his daughter, Nikki, and Nikki’s mother, Shauna. Casey watched as Alexis worked the room. She knew when to pat a hand and when to nod, albeit condescendingly, as she feigned interest in some conversation or another. The coach’s wife had a plastic smile glued on her face as she sauntered around the parlor, directing her staff and entertaining her guests. Casey wondered if the other women noticed. They all seemed to stiffen when Alexis neared them, fearful of making one wrong move. Casey knew how they felt. And yet, against her better judgment, she was about to follow Alexis’s plan for these unsuspecting victims. She really had no choice. Not as long as Brent was a Flyer and under the thumb of Alexis’s husband, known simply as Coach.

She thought again about Brent and his affair. When he had confessed to having had a one-night stand with some anonymous groupie weeks after the fact, Brent had seemed genuinely remorseful. And after a few months, Casey had finally gotten to the point that she was willing to forgive him. Then suddenly he’d been hit with a paternity suit. Brent tried to convince Casey that this kind of thing happened all the time to professional athletes; there were women out there who purposefully got pregnant in order to go after an athlete’s money. Casey knew this was true, but it wasn’t a compelling defense for his major screwup. Though Shauna might have targeted him, his actions were unjustifiable.

The blood tests had proved with 99 percent certainty that Brent was the father of the little girl. Fearful that the woman would go public, Brent had settled to keep her quiet. Throughout the entire debacle Casey stuck with Brent despite feeling as if her heart were being ripped to shreds. Out of respect for Casey and their marriage, he had promised not to have any contact with the woman or the child other than providing financial support.

Casey still loved her husband with a fierceness she did not know was possible, but it was a daily challenge for her to believe in him again. Sometimes she longed to be back in Virginia, the home of her childhood and young-adult memories, and escape from the feelings of pain and betrayal she had been confronted with during her New York years.

Casey’s mama had always said, “A cat may stray, but it always comes back home.” And as long as they were willing to genuinely rectify their wrongs, her mama felt men should be given another chance. Undoubtedly this was why Casey’s mom had always been called the Queen Settler, a title Casey was not eager to inherit. If her mother had any idea of some of the bad choices Brent had made, Casey wondered if she would be so quick to forgive. Her mother obviously assumed that Brent’s faults were as harmless as forgetting to put the toilet seat down or not cleaning up the kitchen after himself. And even though her mother might imagine that Brent had been unfaithful, she would never believe that he had fathered a little girl by a random groupie. She would be shocked.

Casey wished she could recapture the sense of hope that she had had when she married Brent six years ago. Lately, Brent was always, it seemed, either out late at meetings or on the road. Since his affair, she had a problem trusting him during these times. Whenever he traveled to an away game, Casey could not completely shake the feeling that he might cheat on her again. She longed for the serenity of when they were first together. It used to be a given that he would be faithful. Nowshe was constantly plagued with doubts. It had gotten better, but there was always that lingering fear in her mind that Brent might slip.

And what was worse, after the hell Casey had experienced, she realized how little she knew about herself. Brent’s indiscretion had brought out Casey’s hidden “paranoia,” her insecurities. Inside herself she discovered previously unexplored weaknesses—some of them not so pretty. Casey longed to be at peace.

Brent stepped off the elevator and glanced down at the
platinum Cartier hanging loosely on his wrist. Swearing softly to himself, he walked quickly down the Mecca Arena’s long hallway. This was one meeting Brent did not want to be late for, especially if the topic of discussion had anything to do with his contract with the New York Flyers. When Brent had opened the FedEx letter late yesterday afternoon, he had immediately paged his agent, Jake Schneider, demanding to know if any trade rumors had surfaced. Although Brent knew the trade deadline had already passed back in February, he was also well aware of the workings of the NBA. The player was usually the last person to know about decisions made that would affect his career. And the place he lived. At first Brent had wondered if the meeting had anything to do with the play-offs, like the meeting his wife, Casey, was attending this morning at his coach’s house. Then, to Brent’s surprise, Jake had informed him that he had also received an invite to the meeting andassured his star client that he had no idea why the Flyers’ owner, Hal Hirshfield, wanted to meet with them.

The smell of fresh paint in anticipation of the play-offs combined with stale lingering food aromas permeated the air of the Mecca hallways. Brent could feel the anxiety building within him as he approached the doors to the Arena’s office suites.

The Hirshfield family had owned the New York Flyers for the past fifty years. The Mecca had been built in 1948 and was the team’s first and only home. Although Brent had never played for any other NBA team, he had heard the horror stories of other teams and appreciated the style with which the Flyers were run. The Flyers management techniques were clearly a reflection of Hal Hirshfield. Hal was in charge of his family’s estate and was the key decision maker for the Flyers’ daily operations. As Brent was ushered through Hal’s private suites, he admired the paneled oak surroundings and was reminded of the grace of the Hirshfield family.

Hal Hirshfield was the patriarch of a multigenerational family of Eastern European Jews. Hirshfield loved to tell his family’s stories, usually after a few Scotch and sodas on those rare occasions when he traveled with the team. His grandfather had been a Lower East Side peddler, selling anything customers would buy, “on time.” Fifty cents held a lot of merchandise on layaway. Brent had seen Hal in action enough times to know that Hal Hirshfield was a true gentleman in every sense of the word, and he respected Hal’s uncanny knack for making those around him feel important. He gracefully held himself high above the manipulative male chauvinism inherent among the other NBA league owners. His respect for the players and fans alike, coupled with his genuine love for the game, made Hal Hirshfield the ultimate team owner.

Brent glanced at his watch once again as he stepped into the conference room. It was 11:30 sharp. He was right on time.

“Brent, come on in. How are you?” Hal stood up and walked around the table to shake Brent’s hand.

“Hello, Hal. It’s good to see you.” Brent gave Hal a quick hug and clapped him on the back.

“Hey, Coach. How’s it going?” Brent reached across the tableand greeted the Flyers’ coach, Mike Mitchell, with an easy high five.

“Jake, any room over here?” Brent asked as he pulled out the chair next to his agent.

Jake looked like a caricature with his thick toupee and tortoiseshell glasses as a puff of smoke from his Cuban cigar rose above him. He gave Brent’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “There’s always room for my favorite client.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say until the new guy comes along,” Brent responded, only half jokingly.

“Brent, you remember Tom Lenko, the Flyers’ attorney?” Hal asked, pointing at the suave man with the slicked-back hair neatly parted on the side.

“Of course. He made you look like the nice guy while he did all your dirty work renegotiating my contract last year. How could I ever forget? Jake was there, he can testify; you guys even made him look bad.” Brent laughed. Every man there knew nothing could be further from the truth—no one could “make” Jake look bad.

“Come now, Brent,” Hal said with a wink. “You don’t have to worry about your contract for years to come. I think it’s fair to say that you got everything you asked for.”

“Touché, Hal,” Jake said, adjusting his glasses.

“Listen,” Hal said, obviously anxious to get down to business. “I asked each of you to come here today because there’s something extremely confidential and important I need to discuss with you. I’ve already mentioned some of this to Coach and I trust that what I say here today will go no further than this room.” Hal stopped talking and looked around the table, making sure everyone met his eye. “If what I’m about to tell you gets leaked to the media, the Flyers could lose all of their corporate sponsors overnight.”

Brent had never seen Hal so somber. The other men looked as confused as he was.

“I’m sure you’re all familiar with Hightower Enterprises,” Hal said as he looked around the table.

“Isn’t that the group that just made an offer for TCI?” Coach asked no one in particular as he stood up from the table and nonchalantly walked toward the buffet.

“Actually, it was a joint offer to TCI and ITT, and though neither company has accepted as yet, they haven’t rejected the offer either,” explained Tom, looking every bit the Ivy Leaguer Brent knew he was.

“Wait a second, is that the same Hightower Enterprises that owns the Wolverine football team?” Jake asked, putting his cigar down.

“Yes, it’s all one and the same. Apparently Hightower is now interested in owning a basketball team. They’ve approached Hal with an offer to buy the Flyers.”

Coach Mitchell and Jake focused their attention on Tom at the head of the table as his words began to sink in. No one stared harder than Brent.

He felt as if his world were rocking around him.

“You can’t be serious, Hal. Sell the Flyers? The New York Flyers? You and your family have owned the team for fifty years. Why would you want to sell us—especially to Hightower?” Brent demanded. “The players, hell, the entire team, the Hirshfield history, would get lost in a conglomerate like Hightower Enterprises. And,” Brent continued, “let’s not fool ourselves; we’ve all heard the rumors about the racist asshole who runs that show. What’s his name? Leo or something like that.”

“His name is Leonard Hightower,” Hal said. “Listen, please be patient with me while I explain everything. There’s no way to make any of this look any better than it is, so just hear me out and try to understand exactly what is going on here. The Hirshfields have always supported ownership of the Flyers. Over the years the team has proved itself to be much more than just a fanciful whim of my grandfather, God rest his soul. The team turned out to be a damn good investment. But times have changed and so have many of the tax breaks and city financing programs. Today the team is barely running itself, and the operating costs are eating up whatever profits the team generates. I’m really left with few options.”

The conference room was thick with silence. The young Ivy League attorney cleared his throat and pushed his chair back from the table.

“This is really difficult for Hal. Maybe I can help put some of this into perspective. There is no way for Hal to continue operating the Flyers without a profit margin. The Hirshfield estate is subject to numerous trusts. Each trust has relevant conditions stipulating the rules and guidelines for using the funds. The funds allotted for ownership of the Flyers are regulated by the Flyers management, but only if the team operates at a profit. The moment the Flyers begin to cost more than they’re worth, the trust mandates the present owner to place the team on the auction block. In other words, even if Hal wanted to help run the team with his personal funds, the trust guidelines would not allow for this. This was done to protect all future Hirshfield heirs from having the principal of the Hirshfield estate invaded.”

“I don’t understand, Hal. This is ridiculous. I’m not about to sit back and let this happen. Maybe Hightower can manipulate you but he can’t touch me or my team.” Brent, usually cool and collected, was visibly upset and not willing to accept the idea of selling the team … the team he was captain of, the team he helped build into a championship contender.

“How much money are we talking about here? Can’t the players chip in and help out?” Brent looked to Coach for backup, but he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts.

“Sorry, Brent,” Tom replied, “but your union rules don’t allow for active NBA players to have ownership of any NBA team. You’re either a player or an owner. You can’t be both.”

“Hal.” The agent waited for the older man to look at him. “Isn’t there some other viable option here? We’ve all heard rumors about Leonard Hightower. He’s an asshole and he doesn’t have an ounce of respect for athletes.”

Everyone in the room did a double take at Jake’s last comment, especially Brent. Even though Jake was one of the finest negotiators in the business, he was notorious for treating his basketball players like children in virtually every aspect of their lives. Brent was one of the few athletes who didn’t tolerate being Jakized.