The Player Next Door (20 page)

Really fast. Which made him even happier.

Until his fourth barbecue of the summer and the grand unveiling of Tori’s renovated house. The place was an eclectic masterpiece of everything that was her, and her family had been suitably impressed. The kitchen chickens were gone, replaced by sleek white appliances, a butter yellow wall, and an elegant Bast goddess watercolor she’d found on the internet. The furniture was comfortable, the fabrics unexpectedly soft given their nubby texture, but it was all done in a cushioned rattan that was both relaxing and a little uninviting given that it was so bizarre to find in northern Illinois. Tori had said that was exactly the look she was going for, so he could only applaud her decision.

And the piece de resistance? Together, they had indeed created her labyrinth, but out of decorative stones laid out in an elaborate multi-color array. Right now her brother and sister were walking the path while Duncan described a variety of disastrous date possibilities to Jessica. Last he’d checked, the poor woman had gone green beneath her elegantly casual makeup.

Meanwhile, Tori was serving fabulous sushi while his friends clustered around the display of specialty beers that he and Tori had selected from their summer of exploration. He’d worried at first that Tori would be bored
—
or worse, disdainful
—
of his Chicago-based friends. Not so much. At the very first barbeque, Joey had tried his best pick-up lines on Tori and she’d shot him down by suggesting he’d have better luck with dumber women. That had made her a favorite with his set. Plus, she’d decided to do a study of the mythology behind lucky rituals in sports, and the women of the group were all about telling details that set everyone laughing.

Until tonight. It was hot as hell in Illinois. No tempering breezes off Lake Michigan, just humidity. So they were mostly gathered around her living room, drinking exotic beer while Tori’s father laughed at sports jokes that he might or might not understand. The women were in the kitchen area talking aboriginal cooking rituals. That was Tori. The others were holding their sides they were laughing so hard as she tried to act one out.

Then Tori brought out more homemade sushi. Most of it had already been served, but she’d discovered the tray that had gone missing because it was in a covered tray behind the lemonade and buried by a couple bags of chips.

“Darling,” her mother said as she came down the stairs from inspecting the upper floor. “We shouldn’t eat that. It’s supposed to be served as soon as it’s made.” She spoke in crisp accents that perfectly complemented her pristine linen suit and tightly coifed hair. By contrast, Tori wore cutoffs and a graphic tee that said,
Atheism: a non prophet organization
. Her hair hung in Mike’s favorite loose and a bit wild style.

“It is just made,” Tori answered. “About an hour ago.”

“But dear, it’s sushi. You wouldn’t want to make your guests sick.”

Mike moved nearby, but knew better than to interfere. Tori could handle herself and she wouldn’t appreciate him coming to the rescue.

“Thanks for the input Mom, and you’re right. If you’re worried, you shouldn’t have any.” She shifted the tray over to the opposite side of the table where Cole was sitting. Cole was the Knicks’ star center and he was as big as a house. He was also visiting his sister in Chicago, so had dropped in. His expression lifted when Tori set the tray right beside him.

“Are these all for me?”

“Nope. For your expert opinion.”

His lips curved which startled Mike. The man was typically silent off the court and lately had tended to morose. Something dark was up with the man, but suddenly the guy was nearing a smile as he looked at Tori. Mike made a point of moving a step closer to her and setting his hand on her shoulder. It wasn’t needed. Cole would never poach, but damn it, the man attracted women like flies to honey. It was something about the mystery of a quiet giant.

Meanwhile, Cole lifted up the tray to inspect every sushi offering with a critical eye. He inhaled delicately then started asking questions that were over everyone else’s head. About where she’d gotten the fish, the knife she’d used, even the nature and quality of the rice. Tori answered them all with a calm, clear voice.

And then the moment of truth. Cole grabbed a pair of chopsticks, picked up a piece of the most complicated roll on the tray, and made a show of eating it. He didn’t even use soy or wasabi, but ate it dry. The man might be quiet, but he still knew how to put on a show.

His eyes closed as he chewed slowly.

Swallow.

Silence.

Then he opened his eyes and looked to the tray. Picking up the most simple offering of nigiri he repeated the process while everyone waited, breath held.

Then he held out his hand, and Tori was right there putting a cup of tea into his massive palm. “The tea is crap,” Tori said, “but it’s all I have.”

Cole took a sip and grimaced. “Ugh. That’s awful.”

“I know. I’m sorry—”

“You should not serve this swill,” he pushed aside the tea, “with such perfect sushi. What were you thinking?”

Tori laughed. “That I didn’t know you were coming so didn’t have time to go to Chinatown.” Then she took a step forward. “So I pass?”

“Darling,” he drawled, mimicking her mother’s posh tone. “I would let you serve this at Hai Sun’s.”

Everyone in the kitchen rushed forward to grab a piece. Everyone, of course, but her mother who had curled her lip in disdain. “Just because a man eats a lot of sushi—”

“Mom, have I introduced you to Cole West, star center for the NY Knicks?”

“Hello Mr. West—”

“In addition to his amazing athletic ability, he’s also a sushi chef, graduate of the Tokyo Sushi Academy, and part owner of Hai Sung, the most elite Japanese restaurant in Los Angeles. He worked there all through high school and bought in later.” Then she patted her mother’s hand. “But you’re right. I wouldn’t just trust anyone’s sushi, especially if it’s been sitting out.”

“But,” added Cole, “a good chef knows the limits of her cooking and her ingredients. And you are an exquisite chef.” He held out a hand to Tori who flushed prettily as she set her hand into his. Then he kissed the back of it like a suitor from the 1800s.

“Okay, okay,” Mike said, drawing Tori to his side. “We all know you’re special. No need to go showing it off.” Of all the men on the team, Cole was the best educated. Like everyone else, he’d entered the draft before finishing college, but he’d taken exams to finish out the classes he needed. He’d studied at home and flew back to school to take the exams. Add to that his chef and restaurant credentials, and he had a full restaurateur career available to him if he ever decided to give up basketball.

And then something happened. Something that shocked everyone enough to stare.

Cole grinned. Not a curve of his lips, but a full-out, white teeth bared grin. Sure, everyone here had seen that hundreds of times, but only on the court. Only there did the guy ever let his emotions fully out.

Except right here, right now.

It was so startling that Doc paused with a piece of nigiri halfway to his mouth. “Dude, are you feeling all right?”

Cole turned, and that was it. The spell was broken and his neutral face returned. “I’m fine, why?”

Doc scrambled for an answer. What could he say? We’re all so shocked you smiled? That would be rude. So he shrugged and mumbled, “Nothing. Just liked seeing those pearly whites, is all.”

It might have been awkward, but Tori was there with a glass of her lemonade. “This isn’t tea,” she said softly, “but it is fresh.”

Cole accepted it with a gracious nod, but that was the last anyone saw of his pearly whites. It might have put a gloom over the party. It certainly quieted that little corner of the room for a moment. But then Joey showed up and put the axe on the entire event.

After being shot down by Tori a month ago, Joey’d starting bringing dates. A different bimbo each time. Except for tonight when he showed up alone with a drawn expression and an apologetic look. Mike felt every cell in his body tighten even as he turned to greet the guy. He meant to say, “Hey there, you’re late.” Or maybe, “Couldn’t find a girl drunk enough to join you tonight?” Something light enough to keep with the celebratory mood. Instead, he said the five words that had plagued him all summer.

“What’s wrong with my shoulder?”

Joey drew up short one step into the living room. “What? Nothing!” His expression turned sheepish. “You just haven’t been answering your phone.”

Very true. He had wanted to wring every moment out of his time with Tori, so he’d taken to leaving his phone at his house. He hadn’t looked at it in two days.

“Um, so who’s been calling?”

“Your boss.”

Oh shit.

“Coach or…”

Joey shook his head. That meant it was Mr. James Dolan, the owner. His gaze went to Tori’s and she smiled sweetly at him. Everything she did was sweet, but in this case it was especially clueless. She didn’t know what a call from the team’s owner meant.

“So I guess I should, uh, go check my messages.”

“No need. The message is to call him right back.”

Right. “So why’d he call you?”

Joey glanced at Tori, then he sighed. “I had to tell him your shoulder was okay. Not quite good as new, but good enough to play.”

“Well of course you had to tell him that.” He hadn’t actually been hiding his shoulder recovery. He just hadn’t been anxious to get back to the East Coast.

Joey held out his phone. “Call him on mine. That way he knows I got you the message.”

Right. And it made sure that Mike called back right then and there. “You think I could wait until tomorrow?”

“Absolutely not.”

Well, that’s what came of being paid millions of dollars a year. The man who signed the checks expected you to jump when he called. He looked at the phone. Joey had even keyed in the phone number for him. Great. He pressed dial and lifted the phone to his ear.

Mr. Dolan answered on the third ring.

“Hello, sir. It’s Mike. I’m sorry. I’ve had, um, problems with my phone. What can I help you—”

Mr. Dolan didn’t even let him finish his sentence. It was all about the new season, the publicity planned, and the fact that one of his teammates sprained an ankle. Which meant that the usual media frenzy was going to focus on him. It was everything he feared would happen. A big story about his surprise injury in his waning years.

Waning years. Jesus. It sounded like he was about to turn eighty.

“Sir, I’ll be there in two weeks, just like we—”

Again, more words. Lots more words, but they all boiled down to “tomorrow.” A flight at eight a.m. tomorrow from O’Hare. Which meant…

He looked to Tori. She flashed him another smile and for a moment he thought she didn’t understand. But then she picked up the Nerf basketball they’d been playing with. She tossed it to him.

“Guess my rebound’s over, huh?”

He nodded grimly. His boss was still talking. He listened with half an ear. All the rest of his body was completely and totally focused on Tori. And when the phone call was done, he passed the cell back to Joey before heading straight for Tori. “You’ll come to my first game, right? I’ll buy you season tickets. You can—”

“Of course I’ll come. But you don’t have—”

“For you and your dad.”

She snorted and from the other room, her father called out, “I’m a Bulls fan.”

Mike flashed him a wan smile. “Maybe I can convert you.”

The man gave him a look that spelled
no way
. Meanwhile, Tori took hold of his hand. “What time do you have to leave?”

“Tomorrow. Early.”

“Well then,” said one of the women behind him. He didn’t even care who. “I think we’re going to call it a night. Right everybody?”

God bless his friends. He glanced over his shoulder, pleased when they all started gathering their things. But then he looked back to Tori and her name came out as a tortured groan.

She looked at him, her eyes steady and her shoulders excruciatingly stiff. A month ago he would have thought it a wide-eyed innocent look, but he’d been making a thorough study of his woman. She was gripping her hands together to keep them steady. And her jaw was clenched against her saying the wrong thing.

“So, um,” he said softly. “I was hoping you could help me pack.”

“Oh,” she said, her voice small. “Is that what you really want?”

“It is. If you want to.”

“Then…” She took a deep breath. “Then of course I’ll help.”

She did.

She helped him pack and promised to keep an eye on things until the Ketchums came back. And then they made love.

She cried when she came, turning her face away from him so he wouldn’t see her tears.

But in the morning she was dry-eyed.

And he was the one who left.

Chapter Seventeen

They talked every night, but Mike could tell she was drifting away from him. That was the point, he supposed. After all, they’d both agreed to just be friends when the summer was over. But he’d thought they’d be
intimate
friends.

They’d tried, of course. When they spoke, she was right there with him, telling him about her day and asking about his. But even with Skype, they were missing something. The affectionate touches, the random thoughts that happened out of the blue, usually when she was just waking up. Between her preparations for the semester and his training schedule, they only had about an hour a day to be with each other over cyberspace. That left twenty-three other hours when she was doing stuff, seeing people, being Tori and he wasn’t around.

It was killing him.

Almost as much as the training. He hadn’t worked this hard since he’d been a freshman in high school trying to bulk up.

Everything in him was aimed at his first game. She was going to fly out for three days. She’d gotten someone to cover her classes and he was going to show her New York the way only a mega-rich superstar could. Her father was coming, too, and he’d already planned to give the old guy the full Knicks press. He was going to convert the man to a Knicks fan, and then he was going to let the man loose with the team while he spirited Tori away.