Hoops (25 page)

Rake would make it. He faced months of rehabilitation, and maybe more surgery on broken and crushed bones, but he’d weathered the initial trauma that threatened his life. The driver escaped with bumps and bruises.

“Too damn high to get hurt,” C.J. said as he paced in her small kitchen. She reached out a hand to him, but he might not have seen it as he passed her. He hadn’t touched her since he’d come in.

“C’mon, let’s go out,” he said abruptly. “Let’s go have rigatoni at Angelo’s, and you can tell me about the guys.”

At Angelo’s he downed barely enough rigatoni to keep the chef from being insulted and listened avidly to her small pieces of news.

It had been a remarkably quiet two days for a team about to play in a regional semifinal. There were only sixteen teams left in the country, but fifteen of them were given better odds than Ashton of getting any farther.

“Carolyn. C.J.” A thread of cigarette smoke preceded Edgar Humbert’s economical greeting. “What have we here? An anticipatory celebration dinner? Awfully confident, aren’t you, C.J.?”

C.J. smiled dutifully at the well-intentioned kidding.

Edgar tried unsuccessfully to snap his fingers around the inevitable cigarette. “Oh, no, of course not. How stupid of me. You must be celebrating Carolyn’s coup. What an offer, my dear!”

Carolyn saw C.J. tighten, and she tried to stem Edgar’s flow.
Not now,
she silently pleaded to the fates. This wasn’t the time. Perhaps after the season, after she’d thought it out herself. Perhaps then would be the right time to tell C.J. about it.

“Edgar, how did—”

“How did I know? Through my network, of course. I know it’s not official, but that’s just a technicality. My sources tell me they’re practically drooling in their eagerness to get you to teach there. I always said you’d be a department head by thirty, but this—this is way beyond my meager predictions. We’ll miss you, my dear, but now I can always brag I knew you when.”

He took a breezy farewell, unaware of the tense silence he left behind.

She followed the track of wax dripping down the rounded side of the bottle holding the candle with her gaze, not looking at C.J.

Why couldn’t she find something easy and clever to say? Why didn’t he?

“What offer?”

He sounded as distant as he had on the telephone. His eyes were blank.

How could this happen? How could they have gotten so far apart since just Monday night? She loved him, but she didn’t have any idea what was in his mind at the moment. She couldn’t read his face, couldn’t decipher the meaning behind his stark words.

Could that have been relief in his voice? Was he glad she had the offer? Did the expectation that she’d be leaving take a burden away from him? She’d said she loved him, but he’d said nothing back. Wouldn’t he have said it if he’d felt anything? Was she wrong about his feelings? Or was he unable to admit them? Did the scar from his father’s desertion go that deep?

Or was it has ambition that pushed everything else aside?

Clearing her throat didn’t diminish the lump of panic blocking it.

“The organizers of the seminar I attended last summer want me to come and teach. They contacted Stewart, and he told me.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

“Congratulations.” He looked right at her, and yet she hadn’t a clue to his reaction. It was as if his eyes had become a steel-blue vault door. “It’s a hell of an opportunity.”

“Yes.”

“Hard to pass up that sort of opportunity.”

She swallowed hard. God, he was practically pushing her away. He hadn’t wanted her with him when he’d gone to Rake; he hadn’t needed her the way she’d thought he would if . . .

If he really loved her.

Her chin came up. She’d hold back the tears.

“Yes,” she repeated. “A hard opportunity to pass up.”

* * * *

They came together with desperation that night. Needs crying out were answered physically, but left a deeper void. Carolyn whispered his name once, but he didn’t answer. She curled up on the side of the bed with her back to him.

Long after her breathing steadied into sleep, he stared up at the ceiling.

Closing his eyes just brought pictures he didn’t want to see.

Like the way Carolyn had looked when he told her about Rake’s accident. Delicate and young and exhausted. Smudges under her eyes were a reminder of the tears of the night before. He’d brought her those tears, from the best of intentions, but still, he’d done that.

And pictures of Rake, his strength broken and battered, tubes from IVs and monitors snaking around him.

When Rake had come to, and the doctors had let C.J. talk to him, Rake had said, “They say I’m gonna need some rehabilitation. I told these doctors my friend C.J. is one helluva expert in rehabilitation.”

He had seemed to slip into sleep, and C.J. had let loose a low stream of curses at the driver who’d put Rake there. Then Rake’s eyes had opened again, and he’d softly scolded, “It wasn’t his fault, C.J. Don’t blame him.”

Don’t blame him? Then who the hell was he supposed to blame? C.J. silently demanded now of the ceiling.

All that nonsense Rake had talked back in December about trying to do good; this was what came of trying to do good. People hurt you.

He knew that. You couldn’t grow up in the kind of neighborhood he did and not know that. What you had to do was try to make something of yourself, of your life. And get away. Take the steps that led to the big time. That was what he’d wanted from Ashton. Just to get his chance.

That’s what C.J. needed.

Maybe Rake had forgotten that kind of need. Maybe, after being a big star the way he’d been, he’d lost that drive. But Carolyn hadn’t lost her drive. After tonight C.J. knew that.

She had her chance, her offer.

God, how he’d hated asking her about it. But she’d just sat there in silence after Humbert had let it out and, God help him, he’d had to know.

When he’d asked how long she’d known, he hadn’t realized he’d been praying she’d say, “Today” or “Yesterday,” until the prayer had died with her answer.

Last week.

She’d known for a week, yet she hadn’t told him. Not sure how to break it to him. Not sure how to tell him she was leaving.

At least he knew now. At least he could get used to the pain. And he would.

* * * *

In the morning, C.J. sounded almost casual when he told her not to bother to come to the tournament. Earlier, they’d planned that she’d leave the next day. Now he said she shouldn’t bother making that long trip to Kansas City.

“It’s a hell of a long trip, and you can see the game better on TV.” Light words that tore at her.

“But I have the reservations—”

“Cancel them.” He seemed to hear the harshness in his own voice, then tried to soften it. “They’ll let you cancel. It’s just not worth the trip. It gets pretty intense, and there wouldn’t be any time for us to spend together.” He looked at a point just over her shoulder.

He was telling her she’d be in the way, she thought. She’d be in his way. Just at the tournament, or beyond?

“I’ve got— The guys and I have got our opportunity, and we have to make the most of it now. With no distractions.”

After a tepid goodbye kiss, he left her standing at the front door of her apartment. He hesitated at the top step, seeming to consider the orderly pattern of Ashton spread out below.

Raw and dank, the March wind matched the chill of loneliness inside her.

Abruptly he turned. Two strides brought him back across her small porch. He jerked her into his arms roughly and kissed her with a fierce need edging toward violence.

Stunned, she couldn’t react for a heartbeat. Then, as she raised her arms to him, he just as suddenly released her and was gone.

* * * *

Carolyn’s weekend passed in a fog of misery. It only lifted long enough for a few sharp moments to penetrate.

The campus thrummed with excitement. Every snatch of overheard conversation considered the team’s chances. On Thursday night a car caravan set off for the overnight trip to Kansas City. All day Friday every greeting among those left behind included the question, “Where are you gonna watch the game tonight?”

Carolyn had hoped for solitude in her apartment, but that was impossible. C.J. existed in every corner. She stroked a notebook he had left on the coffee table. A lingering hint of his smell was on the pillowcase when she made the bed. A shiny strand of light brown curved across the bathroom mirror.

By the time Helene discovered Carolyn hadn’t gone to Kansas City after all and insisted she join their game-watching group that night, she was willing to do anything rather than be alone with her six-foot-six ghost. And that was what he looked like as the TV cameras zoomed in on him during the regional semifinal.

Ellis handled the players with aplomb, and Brad swished his long-distance shots in with authority, leaving Frank to stake out territory under the basket. The Aces operated as a unit, a team. Each seemed to know where the others would be even before they moved. As Ashton methodically took control of the game, the camera focused on the coach more and more. The announcers gabbled about up-and-comer C.J. Draper and how well he handled all the hoopla.

Carolyn wanted to shut off the glib voices. Were they blind? Couldn’t they see how tense and drawn he was?

The final seconds to victory were counted down with adolescent relish by the adults in Stewart’s den, and a cheer went up along with the whoosh of televised sound. Stewart gave a modified little jig of celebration.

“One more game and we go to the Final Four!” Edgar Humbert whooped.

She forced a bright smile while the pressure of tears pounded behind her eyes. She saw Helene’s frowning gaze resting on her. But when she slipped away from the celebration early, Helene made no move to stop her.

* * * *

Saturday’s mail brought the official offer from the seminar organizers. Sitting on her couch, Carolyn stared at the formal phrases.

Was this what she wanted? She looked at the paper without seeing it. She’d wanted it once, she knew. For such a long time she’d wanted just what this piece of paper provided—prestige, respect, position, honor.

She turned the envelope over in her hands, staring at the address as if it might have been delivered to the wrong person.

Surely this would have pleased her parents.
No!
What would please
her?
What did she want of herself?

She thought she’d known. All those years she thought she’d been working toward it, carefully accumulating the right credentials. And reaping an odd feeling of restlessness.

What did she want? What did she
really
want? That was the problem, she thought with a twist of her lips.

She lacked much experience at deciding that.

* * * *

Ashton lost on Sunday in the regional final. The team that stopped the Aces was bigger, stronger, more experienced. There would be no trip to the NCAA Final Four for Ashton, but the outmanned players did reap plenty of praise. The announcers gushed over their spirit and the strategy of their young coach.

The postgame interviews were a blur to Carolyn, punctuated only by the recognition of how worn C.J. looked and his answer to a question about his ambitions: “Sure, I’ve got ambitions.”

The interviewers asked the players about the experience of playing for someone who’d made such an instantaneous impact on the basketball scene. To her ears, they made it sound as if C.J. had left already.

The players looked to Ellis, who said how grateful they all were to Coach Draper for what he’d taught them over the season. The interview ended with Brad’s defiant rider:

“And we’ll be even more grateful after next season when we’ve learned more and win the national championship!”

* * * *

The team bus returned on Monday night to cheers and congratulations. Surprised smiles lit up the players’ faces as they came off one by one into an impromptu celebration. C.J. came last. Carolyn watched from a distance as he scanned the crowd. It cost her to resist an urgent hunger to put her arms around him and feel his long arms encircle her. But he didn’t need the discomfort of an unwanted declaration. If he wanted to see her, he’d come to the apartment that night.

He didn’t. But Frank did.

Frank accepted her offer of a soft drink gratefully and sat down at the dining room table with an assurance very different from a month before. He responded to questions about the tournament enthusiastically. But she knew he couldn’t give her the answers about C.J. she wanted, so she didn’t ask the questions. Besides, he obviously had something else on his mind.

He drained the last of the cola and looked at her with a shy smile. “I’ve told Coach I’m not going to play in the summer league.” He swallowed a little at the enormity of his decision. “Or even in the fall semester. I want to get my grades in shape. I thought by then, with some help—” he shot her a hopeful look “—I’d be caught up, and then I could play in the second semester.”

A real smile lightened her face for the first time in a week.

“I think that’s wonderful, Frank. I know you’ll catch up by then. You’ve come so far already . . .”

One level of her mind began plotting study programs. If he worked like mad all summer, there really wasn’t any reason he wouldn’t catch up by the start of the fall semester and then he could play—but would he be playing for C.J.?

Whether she stayed or not, C.J. could give the players so much. If he stayed.

“What did . . .Coach Draper say?”

Frank made a figure-eight pattern on the cloth place mat with the bottom edge of the empty glass. “I don’t think it matters much to Coach, because it doesn’t look like he’ll be around much longer.”

* * * *

When she opened the apartment door to C.J. on Wednesday night, she remembered Frank’s assessment. No, it didn’t look as if he’d be around much longer, she thought as she watched him restlessly pace her living room. He was like a caged panther.

“I’ve missed you, C.J.”

“I had some things to think about.”

“I know.” She also knew he’d been to Chicago to see Rake. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she did.