Hoops (20 page)

“I worked hard at Transon, Professor Trent, trying to catch up. I owed that to my mom and pap. I want to play pro ball. But if something goes wrong—like the steel mills closing for my pap—I want to have something else I can do so I can take care of my family. I thought, maybe I could build things, be an engineer . . .”

His fingers tightened around the glass. “I know I don’t belong here. But when Coach said maybe there was a way, well, I wanted to come here so bad. I asked Coach not to tell anybody about me, about how I don’t have the grades or the scores like the other students. He said he had to tell Mr. Barron. But he promised he wouldn’t tell anybody else.”

Both hands encircled the glass, and he stared into the dark liquid with the concentration of a crystal ball reader. “I think some of the guys think I’m slow. Brad and Ellis are always helping me. But they never say anything. I’ve been trying so hard, Professor Trent. I didn’t want to let anybody down. I didn’t want to make you unhappy or hurt Ashton.”

“Oh, Frank, I know.” She fought tears as her hand touched his. “You haven’t let anybody down. Your parents should be very proud of you. I know how hard you’re working.”

“I’ll try even harder, Professor Trent, if you’ll just let me stay at Ashton.”

The meaning of his words hit her with unexpected force.

“Is that what Coach Draper said, that you might have to leave Ashton?” Did C.J. really think she would sacrifice this boy to weaken basketball at Ashton—to hurt C.J. Draper? An emotion she could only describe as fear gripped her throat.

Apparently puzzled by her intensity, Frank stared back at her. “No. He just said I should talk to you. I thought . . .”

“Nobody’s going to force you out of Ashton,” she vowed. “We’re just going to try to make it easier for you to do better. You have a great deal of intelligence, Frank. We just need to tap it. If I had known about your background, you could’ve had more help, and the right kind of help. We can make some changes in your schedule and get you more intensive tutoring to fill in the gaps from your earlier education.”

“But how about basketball?”

She knew she must tread carefully here. “We can try to schedule around the basketball, but some things might conflict. Then you’ll have to make a decision.”

She looked into his troubled eyes before she took another tentative step. “I know you feel a great deal of loyalty and gratitude to Coach Draper.”

“He did a lot for me.” He wasn’t defensive; he was just reminding her.

“Yes. And, as you pointed out, he did it when the only thing he could have expected out of it was that you’d have the opportunity to do what’s best for you. That’s still the one thing you owe him.”

She saw his uncertainty and drove home the point. “And that’s the one thing you owe your mother and your father.” That took hold; she could sense it. But she wouldn’t press it now. “Anyhow, that’s something you’ll have to think about, Frank. In the meantime, when you come back from this road trip, I’ll have some ideas on how we can fill in those gaps.”

Frank shot up from his chair with a hastily stifled curse.

“The road trip! The bus leaves in twenty minutes, and I haven’t packed. Coach’ll skin me.”

He reached the door before he turned back to her with a smile of relief at shedding the burden of weighty secrets.

“Thanks, Professor.”

“You’re welcome, Frank. But don’t be too thankful until you see what I have in store for you come Tuesday.”

* * * *

Working on a program for Frank gave her a purpose. Poring over his records, calling his professors for consultations, mapping out a strategy—all that gave her an excuse to block out other thoughts.

On Saturday night she listened for the late news and heard that Ashton had won its game. The sportscaster mentioned questions about Frank Gordon’s admission to Ashton, but not until after pointing out the fact that he had scored twenty-one points. She hoped that was a sign the episode would be short-lived.

It was past midnight when the phone rang. The machine answered. After the beep there was a pause. “Carolyn. It’s C.J.” Nothing else. It was as if he knew she was listening, and he was willing her to pick up the phone. Her hand reached out, then stopped.

The machine cut off.

* * * *

By Tuesday morning when the team returned to study hall, much of the furor over Frank Gordon had blown over. Stewart had calmly cited statistics to the media on the special exemption admissions that Ashton had allowed. Frank Gordon was one of sixteen admitted that school year under a special program established and administered by the president’s office. The sixteen students were faring very well, Stewart had explained, and the program to broaden Ashton’s horizons and outlook would continue. And expand.

While Carolyn had admired his handling of the situation, she couldn’t help but wonder if the speeches weren’t at least partially directed at her.

The players, pleased over winning both games on the road trip, seemed untroubled by the storm that circled around Frank. They certainly treated him no differently. And Frank himself seemed more at ease with his teammates and with her.

Ellis adroitly stifled Thomas Abbott’s passing reference to Coach acting weird all weekend, and Carolyn heard no more about C.J. Nor did she see him.

Indulging in a long, scented bath Wednesday night, she came to the conclusion that he was avoiding her. Patting herself dry, she met her eyes in the mirror. To be honest, they were avoiding each other. It was no accident that she’d been using the campus paths only when he was most likely to be in practice. She wrapped the worn, soft terry of the robe around her comfortingly.

The doorbell rang. She knew it would be C.J. even before she opened the door. Still, the sight of him, his broad shoulders filling the frame of the storm door he’d already opened, caught her heart in mid-beat.

“May I come in, Carolyn?”

She was immobile.

“You’ll freeze standing there like that.” His gloved hand reached out to her arm, but stopped short. “You’re shivering.”

She stepped back then, opening the way for him to enter. She watched as he took off his gloves, then his jacket. He moved slowly, as if not entirely sure of his muscles’ responses to his commands. Then he pulled a small, flat package from the pocket of his faded, snug-fitting jeans.

“I’m still trying, Carolyn.” His mouth showed no sign of his usual grin, though his voice was light. “I found this in a little shop at the hotel.”

She stared at the package in his hands as if it were a hypnotist’s charm. He held it out to her, but she made no move to take it. So he slowly unwrapped the tissue paper to show a small, polished tortoiseshell comb. Her eyes followed the movement of his hands toward her hair until she caught sight of his face. Without the grin he looked vulnerable, even a little frightened. Around his eyes faint lines of concentration, or perhaps strain, showed.

She felt his fingers tremble slightly as they pushed the comb into the hair beyond her temple. His voice sounded uneven as he considered his effort. “No, not quite right this time, either. It’s too dark.”

He’d seen the comb in the hotel shop the afternoon before the game and had thought immediately of Carolyn. Angrily he’d tried to thrust aside the instantaneous longing.

That night, when a blonde, showcasing long legs in a short skirt, had started flirting with him in the hotel bar after the game, he’d told his emotions to listen to reason. Here was a chance to forget Carolyn Trent—if only he could stop remembering her.

The blonde must have thought he was nuts when he’d abruptly excused himself. The night clerk had definitely doubted his sanity when C.J. had threatened bodily harm if he didn’t open the shop for the purchase of one small tortoiseshell comb.

Why wouldn’t he meet her eyes? Carolyn wondered with an edge of panic. He just kept staring at the comb. Her words came out in a rush. “I didn’t tell the reporter those things about Frank, C.J.”

“I know.”

“You talked to him?”

“No. I know you. When I—” his lips pulled into the smallest of grins “—uh, cooled down the other day, I realized you’d never do that to Frank. It’s not your way.”

The lightening of the burden she hadn’t realized she carried made her light-headed in its suddenness. His gaze moved to her eyes. She couldn’t mistake the longing. It was desire. But more. It was want and need, and still more. “I know you think I hate basketball, but I don’t—”

His finger lightly touched her lips to quiet her. “This is about more than basketball.” She could feel the warmth of his body. “You know that, Carolyn. It’s about time we were honest about it—both of us.”

Her habitual half step back brought her against the overstuffed chair. “I . . .” She cleared her husky voice to try again. “I don’t think I’m ready for you, C.J.”

He stepped closer but didn’t touch her, holding her instead with his eyes and voice. “I want to make love with you, Carolyn. Do you understand? Not make love to you, not sleep together, not have sex with you, not go to bed together.” His voice dropped to a low, strong murmur. “Make love with you. I think we’re ready, both of us.” The crooked grin appeared, then slipped away. “Maybe we’ve been fighting the readiness even more than each other. But I won’t hurry you.”

Slow and deliberate, his kiss was as good as his word. His lips touched hers, feather light. Then again. One corner of her mouth. The other. The center. Her lips parted and the angle of his kiss changed, intensified without deepening.

He was heat and light, exploding behind her eyes, shimmering through her veins. With only their lips touching, the swell of sensations sweeping over her body swamped her thoughts. But they also overwhelmed her defenses against the fear. She pulled away from his kiss and leaned her forehead against his chest.

The cold from outdoors still collected in a thin layer over the heat of his body; she felt them both, mixed with the cottony smell of his shirt and the clean scent of his soap. His hands stroked her back, across her shoulders and along her upper arms. He kissed the hair caught in the tortoiseshell comb.

If she could just let the feelings take her . . .  She didn’t know if she could. She didn’t know if she should. She tried to tell him, but before she could, he reacted to the new tension in her body.

C.J. muttered a curse. Trying to see her face, he held her away from him. His voice was calm, but his fingers bit into her shoulders. “Is it because I’m a jock? I don’t meet your standards? Is that—”

“No!” She tilted back her head so he could see in her eyes that it wasn’t him, but her. She’d lived her life by her mind, carefully thought out steps, rational decisions. But this, with him, wasn’t rational, had nothing to do with intellect. Her body, her heart, her soul pulled her to him.

“Oh, God, Carolyn, don’t cry. I never wanted you to cry.” Rocking her in his arms, his voice rasped. “Just tell me what you want. You want me to leave? You want me to keep a respectful distance? I’ll try if that’s what you want. By God, I’ll try. But I don’t know if I can do it.”

His gentle touch and the rough, raw emotion of his voice short-circuited some barrier in her. She couldn’t get words out. But her heart found another way. She shook her head, stopping only to reach up to press her lips against the skin at the base of his throat.

Reflexively he tightened his hold on her, and the feel of her warm, soft curves against his hardened body sent another surge through him. “Tell me what you want, Carolyn.”

“I want you.”

Gently he pushed the hair back from her temple and feathered his lips across the smooth skin.

“But you don’t want to,” he said.

It wasn’t a question, but she tried to give an answer. “I’m frightened, C.J.,” she whispered. “I don’t know if I can just
feel.”

Oh, God, where had all her words gone? She had to make him see. She had to try. Looking up at those blue, blue eyes, she linked her arms around his neck.

She leaned against him as she stretched up to capture his lips. The feel of her body along his, the press of her breasts against his chest, the touch of her thighs against his, pounded desire through his veins.

His hand caressed the curve of her buttocks, then brought her tightly against his lower body. He strained toward her through the worn denim. He wanted her to feel his arousal, to know that she did this to him; to know that if she meant to back away, it had to be now.

The wordless murmur that escaped her lips before he captured them told him that there would be no backing away.

She tugged at his shirt, trying to push it out of the way and run her palms over the hard planes of his abdomen and chest at the same time. He pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it behind him.

Almost shyly she took his hand and led him to her bedroom. Just short of the bed, where the light from the hall splashed through the center of the room and whitened a corner of the bedspread, he pulled her possessively into his arms.

I don’t know if I can just
feel
.
But she wanted to feel. Tonight, at least tonight, they’d feel.

His kiss crushed her lips, and she welcomed the pressure. She tilted her head back farther and farther to take the feel of his mouth, a caress dense with emotions she had no thoughts to analyze.

When its heaviness was too much, she arched her neck and let her jaw and throat revel in the texture of his lips and tongue. “C.J.” Her voice needed to whisper his name the way her fingers needed to tangle in the shining thickness of his hair.

The tie of her robe slipped loose under his hasty fingers. His hands moved to her shoulders, she felt his greediness to touch her, yet knew there remained a fear that she would still turn away from him. His hesitation brought tears to her throat. C.J.—so sure, so strong, so certain—needed her reassurance.

She shrugged the robe from her shoulders and stretched up for his lips once more. The friction of his body against hers stoked the heat deep inside and sent a stream of fire through her.

If his arms hadn’t held her, she couldn’t have remained standing. His lips crashed down on hers, then found the hollow at the base of her throat as he scooped her into his arms and placed her on the bed.