Celi-Bet (Solomon Brothers #2) Read online

  At Estelle’s place, she showered and flopped on a floral-print velour sofa that looked as if it had been resurrected from the Golden Girls television set. During a caught-cheating hidden-camera show, a commercial for Magnum underwear came on. Chase’s abs, so very fine in every way, slid across the screen. The ad was tastefully artsy in black and white, with gaunt supermodels sporting vacuous stares. Willow pressed the back button on the DVR remote and watched it again before she caught herself looking for the rumored millisecond-slippage of the camera angle below his designer-stamped equator.

  Nada.

  Pillow pressed over her head as punishment, she growled. No way she would sleep anytime soon. She baked four pans of blackberry-walnut cake bars for the smack-down bake sale Estelle’s WWF Catholic charities group, Women Worshipping Fabulously, was having. She considered the flurry of baking minimal thanks for letting her crash on her sofa until she figured out her life.

  Willow hoped a plan materialized soon. She couldn’t help others if she couldn’t even help herself.

  After morning shoot arounds, Chase felt ambushed.

  His teammates crowded the Alloys locker room. Free to shower, work out, chow down or leave, they lingered for the sole purpose of witnessing the continuing banter Tarek had begun with Chase on the upstairs court moments before. Chase simply stared at the wall of television screens showing NBA highlights from the late west coast games the previous night.

  Tarek knew Chase wouldn’t talk about the women he dated—never had since back in his Kings days—but that didn’t stop Tarek from trying to loosen up a few golden nuggets of gossip when Chase’s name or mug hit the news cycle.

  “Come on, bruh. They linked you with Chrissy La Roux. Caught you coming out of her set trailer on location up north.”

  Chase shook his head. “Grainy photo. Wasn’t me.”

  “How many other lanky white dudes she keep around her?” Tarek made a disgusted little tsk-grunt sound as he peeled off his shirt. “Chrissy. La Roux.” He dragged her name out as if it needed any more emphasis.

  She was a fiery five-foot-five, redheaded bombshell Hollywood A-lister. Like People magazine cover, daily TMZ A-lister. One of Chase’s less discrete moments last off-season he regretted to this day. The press seemed hell-bent on putting them together. Chase, however, was hell-bent on shattering the NBA’s offensive scoring record.

  With the Alloys largely out of the playoffs due to a young, inexperienced lineup behind him and Tarek, the offensive award was still noteworthy and within reach. Silencing dating gossip was one thing. But silencing the collective press who filled the sports squawk shows with the prevailing opinion that Chase had been overpaid in the Kings trade, wasn’t worth his hype, and couldn’t get the job done for Pittsburgh was a far richer ambition. Some pro players were lauded for their defense, their electricity on the court, their sportsmanship. Chase could drain. Simple as that. Nothing fancy, just consistent. So he vowed to keep his head down, his mind on the game, and drain buckets until no one could touch him.

  Not even Tarek.

  Chase looked over at his tightest competition for the offensive honor and his damned near best friend. Closest thing to a brother Chase had besides Marcus and Henry. But even Tarek wasn’t close enough to penetrate Chase’s inside world of hungry expectations, detached relationships, and quests to prove himself. Most nights, his drive was what kept him awake, not the advances of a beautiful woman.

  “Don’t believe it. Chasing the gold, leaving your ass in the dust, has me celibate. No women until that award is mine.” Chase tossed his sweaty practice jersey into the laundry bin.

  “Not this celibate shit again, man. It’s a myth. A mental hang-up. You’d be better off climbing up to the top of the Comcast building, pulling down your shorts, and waiting for a unicorn to fly up your ass. More likely, too, given the women who orbit your second-place butt.”

  Rogers, the rookie small forward with an unparalleled appreciation for the game’s history, chimed in. “Wilt Chamberlain swore by it.”

  “Lies, bruh. He never had a celibate stretch in his career,” Tarek said. “Let’s just say Wilt the Stilt wasn’t called The Big Dipper for having to lower his head to pass through doorways. He tapped half of Pennsylvania in his day. Probably Booth’s mother.”

  Booth beamed at Tarek. “After which your mother got sloppy seconds.”

  A chorus of ooooohs and declarations of owning filled the locker room. Chase laughed, relieved the smack talk had veered away from him. The comradery on this team was unparalleled. Chase may have been late to the game, starting at sixteen, but he’d been on teams year round for twelve years and had never felt such genuine warmth from his teammates. Ever.

  “Science proves it,” said Nunzio, their teddy bear center with the Kid ’n Play afro. “Study out of Cornell or some shit. No sex leads to peak performance. Brains, body, all that shit.”

  “That’s jacked,” said Tarek. “It’s like playing constipated. Ain’t nothing magic flowing outta those fingertips when all systems aren’t firing.”

  “Spurs made a celi-bet in ’14,” said Wilcox, a power forward covered in tats. “Ask me how that worked out for us.” Wilcox never failed to remind them he played for San Antonio that season—though played was a relative term; his position had been bench warmer.

  “You telling me you won the championship that year because ain’t none of you got laid?” Booth said.

  “I can’t speak for the others, but the bet was a unifying piece of the puzzle.”

  “Man, you just didn’t get any because of that red nappy-ass hair,” said Tarek. “Ain’t no bet to blame there.”

  Again, more congratulatory smack-down hand slaps.

  “I declare it’s time to start our own unifying tradition,” said Nunzio. “Holbrook’s already in.”

  “Ain’t no championship on our horizon,” said Booth. “Tarek and Holbrook only ones with a shot at glory this season.”

  Never one to back down from a challenge, which was the primary reason Tarek was all over Chase’s tail for Offensive Player of the Year, Tarek turned to Chase. “How ‘bout it. You and me. A celi-bet. A unifying piece of the puzzle.”

  “Nah,” said Chase. “Bets are a distraction. I got to focus.”

  “Then what better way, my friend, than to ensure you’re at your peak performance. That is, unless you think it’s bullshit, too.”

  Chase knew it wasn’t. For his NCAA streak his senior year at Iowa and the mid-season run for the Alloys last year, the strategy had worked for him. His gaze drifted over to the television screens where he caught a flash of the photo taken of him and Chrissy at the red carpet premiere of last year’s summer blockbuster. If anything, the bet was performance insurance. And if there was anything he liked less than dating gossip, it was losing a bet to Tarek.

  “Terms?” asked Chase.

  They both looked to Wilcox, resident expert on such matters.

  Wilcox shrugged. “No sex until one of you breaks the NBA scoring record, or the season ends. First one to cave loses the bet.”

  “Define sex,” said Tarek.

  Sixteen other players chimed in various explanations of penetration, dry humping, double penetration, hand jobs, oral, anal. The discussion devolved until someone made a Bill Clinton joke about what is meant. They decided on the clinical definition of intercourse—vagina and penis—though Chase had no intention of allowing any woman near his junk. Any release of testosterone defeated the purpose.

  “How much money?” shouted Booth.

  “Let’s make it interesting, shall we? Holbrook has all that tighty-whities cash.” Tarek paced for show then stopped for a grand announcement. “Ten thousand dollars.”

  A few whistles, some gasps. This amount seemed to impress those gathered. Chase had this locked. Guaranteed win.

  Chase extended his hand. “You’re on.”

  Tarek’s brows rose. He shook Chase’s hand to seal the bet. “Prepare to go down, Magnum.”

  �
�Wait,” said Nunzio. “How are we going to know?”

  “Bet monitors. To be with the player when he’s not with the team,” offered Wilcox. “Each of you names a bet monitor for the other. It’s the only fair way.”

  Chase saw the perfect opportunity to pay Tarek back for the time he’d enlisted the Suns’ owner to prank him during a charity event, informing him he’d been cut from the Alloys and asking if he would like to try out for Phoenix’s D-league. Chase could name one of his supermodel contacts to tempt Tarek, but the truth was, Tarek was in love with the one who got away, still hoping they’d get back together. If there was a chance they’d work it out, Chase wanted no part of endangering that. The perfect solution materialized. Forget celibacy. Challenge Tarek’s sanity.

  “I name your mother.”

  Tarek slid out a curse and paced away. Guy was always on the move. Even more so when he was riled about something.

  More love from the spectators—hoots, hollers, laughter. Booth did a special dance-move out of his nook to high-five Chase. When the celebration quieted, their heads all turned to Tarek in anticipation of his chosen bet monitor.

  Tarek’s eyes squinted; his lips pursed in thought.

  Chase’s stomach soured like he’d run lines for a half-hour after eating a four-course meal.

  “C’mon, man,” said Nunzio when the verdict was too slow. “Out with it.”

  “Willow Bend.”

  Wait, was that a street? Tarek was trolling him. Chase’s thoughts backlogged amidst the equally-festive commentary surrounding them. Booth danced over to Tarek and shared another high-five. Apparently, everyone knew something—or someone—Chase didn’t.

  “Who?”

  “Mascot girl,” offered Nunzio.

  Chase’s awareness slammed back to the tunnel after last night’s game where the sweaty-balls girl in pigtails insulted his free throw, his intelligence, and his reputation, all within the span of a minute.

  “No. No, no, no.”

  “What you mean ‘no’? If there was a no option here, don’t you think I would have used it on my mama? Woman never met a locked door she didn’t bust her way through.”

  “Not Bolt girl. She has it out for me.”

  “Then you don’t gotta worry about banging her,” said Wilcox. “Record’s yours.”

  “She’ll never agree to it,” said Chase, determined to hunt down any excuse to make this not happen. Forget celibacy. This was his sanity at stake.

  “You gotta make her agree. Or you can just lay out the ten-grand now.” Tarek mimed an ego-filled show-me-the-money pose, complete with a fingertip lick and a Cheshire smile.

  Chase glanced around at the smug faces of his teammates. No way he was parting a bet within a minute. He picked up a nearby basketball and drilled five crisp dribbles into the carpeted Alloy’s logo. On the court, this made the world drop away. In here, sixteen sets of eyes on him made the world more crowded than a capacity playoff game.

  “You’re going down, Tarek.”

  He dropped the ball and headed for the weight room. Behind him, Nunzio’s gravelly voice whipped the team into a frenzy with two words.

  “Bet pool!”

  3

  The next night, the Alloys beat the 76ers by three on home court. Hyper-focused for the in-state rivalry, Chase played his best game in recent memory—highly attuned to rebounding, blocking shots, and banging in the key. Everything beyond the first rim of courtside chairs ceased to exist. That included mascot girl.

  Until it was time to leave.

  Tarek’s mother had already moved into his place and taken over his bathroom counter with anti-aging serums and home remedies for hot flashes. This shifted odds on the bet pool, with some Chase supporters upping their antes. His twenty-four hours to secure his bet monitor before he forfeited was almost up.

  Chase, showered and dressed in his regulation warm-ups, emerged from the tunnel onto the court. Someone said he could find Bolt girl there long after the media cleared and the cleaning crews began. Arena lights were already half-strength, casting an odd glow on the varnished gold and blue floor and affording him a chance to blend in with the shadows.

  He wasn’t sure which held him back more—asking someone who had a clear distaste for him to move in and ensure he didn’t have sex or the athletic exhibition she put on when she thought no one was looking. She was Sheryl Swoopes and a Globetrotter, all rolled into a gymnast’s package: alley-oops, airborne twists, vaulted tomahawks. A few times she stumbled. Once, she landed ass-first on the padded mat then lay back and stared at the arena ceiling, her chest heaving. She wiped away the sweat from her brow, jogged back to mid-court and tried again. This time, she launched off the trampoline and executed a full-on 720 dunk.

  Holy shit.

  The flashiest shot Chase had ever done was a windmill. Even that dunk felt odd beneath his skin. He had always left showmanship to others. Sol’s advice. Respect the game. Make it about the game. Always the game. Truth was, he wasn’t sure he had anything but a dependable jumper in him, but he appreciated the athleticism required to pull off the shots that unhinged the crowd. Sure, she used a tramp to make up for her height deficiency, but she attacked the net with an authority that totally contradicted her name.

  Willow.

  She probably had hippie parents and wove macramé tunics on weekends with a name like that.

  If he didn’t ask, he couldn’t get out of here and get some much-needed shut eye. He shifted the duffle hanging from his shoulder, savored a deep breath, and walked onto the court with zero prep as to what he would say. Repaying her lone compliment in their only other conversation seemed a good start. He snagged her attention as she was starting to break down the equipment.

  “Impressive. Where’d you learn those mad skills?”

  She blinked, taken aback for a heartbeat. He expected a smartass response. Instead, civility.

  “Four older brothers and a lifetime of gymnastics.”

  “You do all that with a fifty-pound costume on?” He set down his bag and helped, carting the first trampoline off once she had folded its legs. For all that mascot girl lacked in the upstairs department, she more than made up on the lower floor. Her black athletic shorts shrink-wrapped an exquisite set of muscular glutes and legs. When she folded in half to do the heavy lifting, he nearly dropped his end looking at the inviting curve between her thighs.

  He caught himself, horrified, and recalled her savage tongue. Mercifully, this cooled his jets.

  “I try. If I miss, then it turns into comedy. Win-win either way.”

  “You ever miss?”

  “Hawks last year. Somersault into the post.”

  Chase remembered that game. He didn’t remember anything beyond his performance.

  “Ouch.”

  “Luckily, Bolt has a pelt that smells like sweaty balls. Cushioned the blow.”

  He winced at her throwback to their previous argument. Best to change the subject.

  “You always stay late like this?”

  “I have to sneak in time before the event staff turns the floor for the Penguins.”

  Chase had never thought about it much, what happened after his job was over for the night. They once did a fundraiser for the floor manager whose daughter had leukemia. Hundreds showed up, a huge portion in staff gear. He’d been floored by how many people it took to run this place. He continued to help her break down the equipment until the last piece was secured. The lack of conversational direction grew as awkward as Chase trying not to notice her hard nipples through the Lycra of her sports bra.

  She broke the silence. “I know you didn’t stay to be chivalrous. That’s Walt’s job.”

  There was an insult in there, but Chase was too preoccupied with approaching his delicate subject to acknowledge. He decided direct was best. Mascot girl seemed to have a knack for bluntness.

  “I need a favor.”

  “Ah, here it is.” She zipped on an Alloy’s hoodie and finished packing the rest of her gear i
nto a messenger bag. “Only took you ten minutes to warm up. Kinda like your first quarter starts.”

  Veins in his neck throbbed. He shook his head and stalked away. “Forget it.”

  “Wait.” She scrambled after him and snagged his elbow. The last thing he wanted to do was turn around. Mascot girl was like a menagerie—never knew what kind of animal or sideshow or crackpot comment you’d get. He’d never been so mystified by a woman. And not in a good way. He stalled his progress at her insistence and turned.

  She offered him a stick of gum.

  His brain went on shut down. He’d take Tarek’s mother’s age serums over Willow’s randomness any day.

  “Peace offering.”

  Definitely hippy parents. She unwrapped the foil overlay and made an appalling show of folding a too-big stick of gum against her tongue then slid a fresh piece out of the package for him.

  “I’m sure pounding the court for forty minutes gives you breath that could knock over a water buffalo.”

  Chase couldn’t attest to that. For the first time in a very long time, he felt self-conscious. He had stripped to nothing but cock socks for photo shoots and here he was, awkward over bad breath. He took the gum and slid it into his mouth.

  “Continue.” Although she was only as tall as his pecs, her cinnamon breath reached him on a spicy, warm cloud.

  “It was Tarek’s idea, really.” That’s right. Throw him under the bus for this. “We made a bet and he named you my bet monitor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Someone to make sure we abide by the terms of the bet.”

  She blew an ambitious pink bubble. It bounced while her evocative tongue waggled inside. The snap almost made him jump.

  “And my responsibilities?”

  “You’d have to move in.”

  Her eyes bugged. “With you?”

  “And be with me when the team isn’t—which during the season isn’t much.”

  “Until?”

  “Until Tarek disqualifies himself or I break the league offensive scoring record.”