Hoops (17 page)

“You like that, don’t you? Surprising people.”

“You bet. That’s how you grab their attention enough to show what you can really do.”

Had he tried that with her, surprising her to get her attention? She shook her head clear of the notion to focus on his words.

“If we make a splash this season, then back it up next season with a good record, I’d have a name. Then I could write my own ticket to whatever I wanted in basketball. Coaching big-time college or pros. Whatever I wanted.”

She understood. He’d build his opportunity brick by brick. And when he finished, he’d follow it right out of Ashton University. Then Ashton could return to what it was before. And so could she. That was what she’d wanted. A happy ending for the school, for her, for him.

As C.J. spun his dreams, Carolyn shivered just once.

Chapter Eight

January brought snow, the new semester and changes. By the third Thursday in February the snow was replenished, the semester was old and the changes were routine.

She’d mailed her essay for the seminar’s publication in England, and now she was teaching an advanced seminar as well as lecturing to other classes on her studies abroad. In addition, she was continuing as academic adviser to the team.

The upperclassmen no longer came to the basketball study hall, except Frank Gordon. He expressed no resentment at being the single exception to the all-freshman group of Thomas Abbott, Ellis Manfred and Brad Spencer.

Carolyn leaned against the frame of her office window, staring out at the campus wrapped in a mid-February layer of snow, and wondered if Frank would express resentment even if he did feel it.

He rarely said much to her. He would give her that half-shy smile readily enough, but even when he asked questions, she had the impression they came almost against his will.

His work kept improving, and that was the main thing. Thomas and Ellis continued to do well; Carolyn had no concerns about how they’d do in subsequent years.

Brad Spencer, however, would have to be watched as long as he stayed at Ashton. When a topic sparked his curiosity, he went beyond assignments to learn about it. Otherwise, he required continual prodding. And if he thought she’d let up on him even when he finished playing basketball in his senior year, he had a surprise coming. She intended to see every one of these players graduate.

Carolyn blinked into the reflected dazzle as the snow caught the last afternoon sun. That sounded as if she intended to continue as academic adviser. She hadn’t made a decision about that yet. At least she hadn’t sat down and considered the facts, drawn a conclusion and decided on a course of action. How could she make a decision without even realizing it?

She’d told Stewart she would continue her duties through this season because of the difficulty of anyone trying to pick up in the middle and, yes, because she didn’t want to relinquish her stake in the players quite yet. She hated to leave things unfinished.

But would it be finished until these freshmen graduated? By then, of course, new freshmen would have replaced them, and they’d need four more years of guidance. Would it ever be finished? Did she want it to be?

If she wanted to join the ranks of the academic elite, she needed to get back to teaching top-level classes, attending prestigious seminars, writing well-regarded articles. A year off might not hurt too much, but more than that?

Carolyn moved away from the Wisconsin cold seeping around the window’s edges. She pushed the questions back. No need to work all that out now. She’d sit down and think it out after the season. For now, everything was going smoothly.

The players were doing well in class and steadily improving on the court. Since they’d upset the team ranked number eighteen in the country two weeks before, media attention had definitely increased. A lot of the questions went to C.J. He made a good story, and she appreciated how he acted as a buffer for the players, sparing them the roller-coaster emotions of media attention.

In fact, she felt quite charitable toward C.J. Draper these days. He’d even stopped his efforts to unsettle her . . . or had almost stopped. A tiny stuffed koala bear did appear one day on her desk, but that hardly counted. Though she’d waited for some comment from him on his color-matching effort, he’d said nothing.

So she couldn’t really blame him when she’d found herself stroking the little fellow’s soft fur against her cheek when she’d only meant to check the color against her hair. Too brown, she’d thought, and smiled a little self-consciously at herself in the mirror.

If the sight of the koala bear now residing with the teal-bowed teddy bear in her bottom desk drawer where she saw them every time she opened it, or a stray memory of strong arms and firm lips disturbed her peace now and then, she firmly reminded herself that these days she and C.J. talked to each other compatibly and companionably. That was all she wanted from their dealings.

The phone on her desk rang.

That might be C.J. now. She smiled. But the man’s voice wasn’t C.J.’s. She didn’t recognize the name at first, either. 

“Scott Gary. From the
Milwaukee Tribune
. We talked back in December about the team, Professor Trent.”

She remembered. Polyester and too many buttons unbuttoned. “Oh, yes, Mr. Gary. What can I do for you?” She’d gotten enough of these calls to know the routine now. “I’m sure you know that all interview requests for the players are handled through the athletic department.”

“I know.”

She frowned at the phone. An undercurrent in his voice jangled at her nerves.

“Actually,” he continued with confidence, “I called because there’s something I can do for you. I mean, since you were so helpful last December, I thought I’d let you know we're running a story in the morning about the Ashton basketball team.”

She waited, frozen in premonition.

“I mean, it’s about Frank Gordon and how he got admitted despite Ashton’s vaunted academic standards.”

She knew what he was going to say. Her heart pounded angrily with the certainty. Her head throbbed with it. But she made him tell her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She sat in the chair and listened to the voice telling her that neither Frank Gordon’s grades nor his test scores met Ashton’s stringent requirements for admission.

“I remember you telling me last December how things like that just aren’t done at Ashton. I guess they are now—for basketball players. Or is it just a coincidence that the exception was made for a seven-foot center?”

Cold, hard reason told her he hadn’t called just to lacerate her. There had to be a reason.
Think, Carolyn. Think.
Of course. He wanted a reaction from her—fury or denial, anything to spice up his story.

“Records like that are confidential. What are your sources for this alleged information?” Her voice tightened to keep the anger and pain out of it.

“The records are confidential, but there are ways of finding out. I mean, there are always sources. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you check yourself, Professor Trent? Or did you already know—”

She hung up, then shook her head to clear the thoughts that whirled in jagged fragments. With her hand still on the receiver, she sat as the winter sun retreated and lights popped on around campus. Nearly five-thirty. She just had time; Mary Rollins never left the registrar’s office till six.

The smile she assumed to keep Mary from asking too many questions hurt. The muscles of her jaw ached from being held so tightly. Mary looked at her a little oddly, but made no objection to Carolyn’s request for the academic records of one of the basketball players.

She opened the folder on Frank Gordon, which Mary had pulled from a drawer in the file room, and started reading reports of his progress at Ashton. She’d seen all this before, but if she was patient . . .

“I’ll be in front if you need me, Carolyn.”

“Fine. Thank you.”

As soon as Mary disappeared down the hall, Carolyn went to the section marked Confidential. These were the personal files compiled before admission—transcripts from high school, reports from counselors, assessments from admissions experts—and any other sensitive material. Access was strictly limited, and the files were shredded with each graduating class.

She knew she should get Stewart’s permission first, but she wanted to have the facts before she faced him with this terrible disappointment. Perhaps some part of her still hoped it wasn’t true.

Frank’s file was easy to find; it was the only one in the long drawer marked with a red tab. Here were the pieces she’d been missing.

The numbers and words on the form stabbed at her. Still, she recognized the careful and clever editing done on the information she’d received. Frank Gordon wasn’t stupid— she knew that from firsthand experience—but his background left him far below Ashton’s entrance requirements.

Carefully she returned the file, wondering who had added the red tab that marked Frank so clearly as a special case.

C.J. Draper had arranged to have him admitted to play basketball. It was as simple as that—with no thought to what it might do to Frank’s confidence to constantly struggle against better prepared students; with no thought to what it meant to Ashton’s long-standing and carefully guarded reputation.

Her voice barely shook when she called the athletic department, but the young secretary seemed to sense the urgency behind it. “Coach Draper’s at practice right now, Professor Trent. But I can send him a message when they’re done at 6:30—”

“Send him a message now. Tell him I want to see him at President Barron’s office. Right now.”

“But they're in practice—”

“Then interrupt practice.”

Mary Rollins stared at her as she slammed down the phone.

“Thank you, Mary. Sorry to keep you so late.” Her voice steadied, but she knew she couldn’t manage a smile.

“No problem. But, Carolyn, you can’t take that.”

She looked down at the academic file she still held crushed against her coat. “No. Of course not.” She didn’t need it. Each item in that file—and the confidential one—was imprinted on her memory. The facts repeated in her mind in the few minutes it took to cross to Stewart’s office.

C.J. had gotten Frank into Ashton despite the rules. C.J. had lied to her. C.J. was doing just what she’d feared.

Her first suspicions about the basketball program were finally confirmed. She should feel vindicated, but she didn’t. She felt angry. Oh, yes, anger strong enough to pump any bitter disappointment out of her system for good.

Marsha Hortler, occupied on the telephone, nodded for her to go into Stewart’s office. The smile that Stewart had begun to form when he glanced up from his desk withered when he saw Carolyn’s expression.

“I’ve sent for C.J. Draper, Stewart. I’m sorry to break in on you like this and seem so high-handed, but there’s a serious problem that needs to be addressed immediately.”

“Carolyn—”

“You’re damn right there’s a problem.” C.J.’s angry voice pulled their attention toward him as he strode in. He was only wearing a lightweight jacket open over his sweatpants and sweatshirt, but a temperature barely into double digits apparently hadn’t cooled his anger. The door slammed behind him, but he didn’t pause until he faced Carolyn in front of Stewart’s desk. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Professor Trent?”

The snarl was like a physical blow, but she refused to recoil. “I’m fighting to protect Ashton and its reputation.”

“Is this how you do it?” He held up a tightly wadded sheet of newsprint. The grooves bracketing his mouth were white with rage. His eyes narrowed in disdain. “A printer at the
Tribune
brought me this.” He threw the sheet down on Stewart’s desk. “So that’s how Carolyn Trent fights for Ashton—by smearing a kid in the press.”

The words Ashton, Gordon and Admission Irregularities showed in headline type. A flash of pain struck her for Frank. He, too, was a victim in this. She’d find a way to help him, but first she had to protect Ashton.

“If Frank is hurt,” she said, “it’s by the people who cheated to get him admitted to this school. It’s by you, not me. And I won’t allow it.” She faced C.J. squarely, tilting her chin up to trade glare for glare. “You’re so intent on feeding your own ambitions, you’re making Ashton into the kind of school where athletics come before academics, and I won’t sit back and watch it.

“Frank Gordon shouldn’t have been admitted to Ashton,” she continued, “and he most certainly should not be playing basketball. He should be getting extra help to make up for that background you so carefully omitted from the file you gave me. Frank has ability—real ability, the kind of ability Ashton is supposed to develop. That’s the kind of university Ashton always was until you—”

He took a step toward her. Reflexively she stepped back, then stopped immediately.

“If your beloved Ashton’s the kind of place where women like you use boys like Frank Gordon to get what you want—or to get rid of what you don’t want—I don’t give a damn for the place, or you.”

The door he slammed on his way out reverberated into silence before Carolyn turned to Stewart. He sat as he had when she’d entered, seemingly frozen by C.J.’s eruption into his office.

She drew a deep breath. This hurt Stewart, too. He cared as much about Ashton as she did. He also liked and admired C.J. Draper.

“Stewart, I’m sorry you heard it this way, but you must have gathered Frank Gordon shouldn’t have been admitted—”

“Sit down, Carolyn.”

“C.J. must have pulled some strings in admissions. We have to check that so it doesn’t happen again, but the first thing is what to do—”

“I said sit down, Carolyn.”

He’d never used that tone to her. Not in all the years growing up in his house. Not in all the years studying and teaching at his university.

He took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. Then he looked directly at her. “I was the one who oversaw Frank Gordon’s admission.”

The decision to sit or stand was beyond her control. Her knees made the decision for her: sit or fall down.