Homecourt Advantage (16 page)

“Did you forget something?” Rick said, pouring the heated syrup over his pancakes.

“Rick, I need to … ask a … a favor of you,” Trina stammered.

“How much do you need this time?” Rick said, ferociously cutting his pancakes into perfect squares and triangles.

“If you could maybe just give me an advance on my allowance, that should be enough.”

“You act like money grows on trees. Don’t you get more than enough as it stands?” He reminded her of her father, God rest his soul.

“It won’t cover what I need,” Trina said, looking down at her hands while nervously wringing them together.

“What could you possibly need that you don’t have right now? Somebody, please tell me.”

“I need some start-up money for my baking business,” Trina said hopefully.

“For your what?” Rick laughed hysterically. “Come on, you’re gonna make me choke on my food, girl. You’ve got to be kidding. Is this some kind of joke?” Rick snickered.

“I’m serious.” Trina stared at Rick as he cracked up, sputtering bits of his food over his desk.

“Just forget it, Rick. I’ll get a loan. You won’t have to be involved at all. Forget I ever asked you.”

“I will forget it, but if you start a cooking business, you’re gonnaneed a hell of a lot more money than an advance on your allowance. You’re gonna need a small fortune for legal fees after all your customers need their stomachs pumped from the concoctions you be whipping up.”

“Forget I ever mentioned it, Rick,” Trina said as she swiftly stood up and turned on her heel toward the door.

“Oh … Trina, one more thing,” Rick said, still giggling.

“What!” Trina said with her back to him.

“Don’t forget to pack my gray Calvin Klein suit. Whew, girl, what you need is to take yourself down to Laugh Factory and try out your act on their open-mike night.”

Trina could still hear Rick chuckling as she returned to the kitchen. If she had more nerve, she would have called him an asshole to his face. He constantly humiliated her. This time it was going to be different, though. He had no way of stopping her from getting a small-business loan. At least she had the credit to do that on her own. Even though she didn’t have the guts to tell him she was pregnant.

Rick was getting antsy sitting in Mike Mitchell’s posh
office. The space was more suited for a highbrow corporate boardroom than the office of an NBA coach. Rick had been a member of five different NBA teams over a fourteen-year career, but he had never played for a coach who had as much style and panache as Mike Mitchell. Rick had also never come across a coach with an ego as big as Mitchell’s. He watched Coach calmly dictate several orders into the phone as if he were reciting a grocery list.

As Rick looked at the expensive walnut paneling, he braced himself for the reprimand he knew was forthcoming. It wasn’t enough that the league fined him one thousand dollars for each technical foul he received as a result of his blowups during the games. Now he was forced to sit through his coach’s one-on-one rebukes. He had been dealing with scoldings from coaches about his outbursts since he’d started playing basketball in junior high, and he had no intention of behaving differently now. Rickhad accepted long ago that he was a passionate player, and it was far too late in his career for him to change. It was unusual, though, that Coach Mitchell planned this private meeting. Coach would sometimes curse him in the heat of a game, but overall, Rick had always gotten the impression that Coach welcomed his spirited and sometimes overzealous style of play. Maybe Rick had become too aggressive on the court lately even for Coach’s liking.

“Rick Belleville,” Coach Mitchell said as he hung up the phone and leaned back in his forest green leather wing chair.

“That would be me,” Rick said, leaning back in his seat as well.

Rick and Coach locked eyes, and neither spoke for what seemed like several minutes. If Coach wanted a game of stare-down, Rick was as formidable a competitor as Coach could hope to encounter. One thing that Rick did not do with anyone was back down, even for “Coach of the Decade,” as
Sports Illustrated
had labeled him. Rick had seen younger, easily intimidated players frequently slink out of Coach’s office after he’d had a “talking to” with them. Coach may have been one of the most feared and respected men affiliated with the NBA, not to mention one of the most handsome and classiest, but Rick was unfazed—well, almost. Mitchell had more control than any other coach in the NBA. He probably had more power than most team general managers.

“Why do you think I called you in here today?” Coach said, locking his hands behind his head.

Rick followed suit and locked his hands behind his head as well and looked his coach directly in the eyes. “Hmmm, could it be my attitude on the court?” he sarcastically said. Those were the famous last lines of his ex-coaches and ex-general managers, “great player but poor attitude on the court.”

“Somehow I thought you might think that,” Coach began as he leaned forward and opened the top drawer of his desk, pulling out several envelopes.

“That’s not what this meeting is about?” Rick asked, slightly leaning forward.

“Rick, although you do have a tendency to go off the deep end at times, that’s the least of your problems,” Coach said as he pushed the envelopes toward Rick.

Rick knew what they were as soon as he saw them. He recognized the Caesar’s Palace, Taj Mahal, and MGM Grand hotel and casino emblems all too well. He had been throwing away the notices that were sent to his post office box for the past several months.

“And how did you get these?” Rick asked.

“How long did you think you could ignore almost a million dollars worth of debt before they tracked you down at your very public place of employment?” Coach said, ignoring his question.

Rick picked up the envelopes and looked at the name typed on the front of them.

“If I’m not mistaken, these are addressed to Rick Belleville. You had no business opening them.”

“And you have no business jeopardizing the reputation of this team!”

“What I do when I’m not working is my business, not yours or this team’s,” Rick said, grabbing the envelopes and stuffing them into his sweat-suit pocket.

“In case you’ve been too busy gambling to notice, this team is on the verge of being sold. I, for one, don’t want that to happen, and I’m pretty sure your teammates don’t want that either.”

“I don’t want that to happen either, but that has nothing to do with what I do in my spare time. I’m a grown man,” Rick indignantly said.

“Well then, act like it and take responsibility for your debts. The last thing this team needs right now is a
New York Post
headline claiming that you’re dodging loan sharks.”

“They’re not loan sharks, they’re reputable casinos,” Rick shot back.

“Who’s being naive here? Who do you think runs these casinos, and who do you think they’re going to send out to muscle you into giving them their money?”

“Like I said, Coach, this is my—” Rick started.

“No, like I said, you set up whatever payment plan you need to get them off your back immediately. And from this point on, all casinos are off-limits to you. I don’t want to take a chance of you even being seen inside of one.”

“Do I look like my name is Michael Brown? You think you my daddy now too?” Rick said, feigning laughter.

“Not even close. But I don’t want the
team
hurt, and I’ll do whatever is necessary to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Is that it?” Rick said, standing up.

“Sit down. I’m not finished talking to you.”

“I’m fine standing.”

“Have it your way. Handle your affairs and do it expediently and quietly. I don’t want this in the papers.”

“Finished?” Rick said, turning toward the door.

“One more thing. When you embarrass this team, you embarrass me … and
that
is something I will never tolerate. Now I’m finished. Close the door on your way out.”

Rick was wrong about Mitchell. He did have the ability to intimidate him. Rick was fuming as he closed the door and walked down the hall toward his locker, thinking about what a self-centered bastard Coach was. Their entire conversation had nothing to do with the team. Mitchell was concerned about his own ass. He did not want to appear less than perfect to the public. Ultimately Coach was not concerned about how the Flyers looked or Rick’s gambling. He only cared about his pristine reputation and the next magazine cover he would adorn.

Despite her somber mood, Casey could not suppress
a grin watching Brent gyrate his shoulders while driving his Bentley. He was grooving to 50 Cent’s song “P.I.M.P.” Brent may have been a world-class athlete, but a dancer, he was not. Casey and Brent headed north along the Palisades Parkway toward the DuMichelle Antique House for its monthly auction. The trip on this highway was a monthly outing for them that they had missed for the last couple of months. They used to take lunches with them when the weather permitted and stop at one of the scenic picnic areas to eat, but as if by mutual, unstated agreement, they skipped that ritual this time. Casey realized that there was no reason for her to feel guilty, but that awful culprit was creeping up on her as she contemplated broaching the topic of Brent’s daughter with him. He was in such high spirits and the day was so beautiful, she didn’t want to ruin it even though she had every right in the world to be angry with him. She alsothought about Alexis’s admonitions about letting the guys have their concentration. But ever since the play-offs had begun, it had become increasingly difficult for Casey to hold her tongue.

“Baby, I really think we have a chance to do it this year.” Brent beamed as he caressed Casey’s thigh through her blue jeans.

“Really?” Casey unenthusiastically said.

“Yeah. One round down and three to go. It’s gonna be tough, but when we get by Chicago, that championship ring is as good as ours!”

“I hope you guys do it this year,” Casey said, watching the insects smash against the windshield.

“I know you do, baby. You’ve always been so supportive, even when your schedule has been hectic. I appreciate that, more than you’ll ever know,” Brent said, grasping Casey’s hand and bringing it to his lips.

Now he was making it extra hard on her. Why did he have to be so sweet to her when she wanted to curse him out? Casey kept quiet and continued looking straight ahead.

During these outings in Brent’s automobile with its tinted windows, they had their rare opportunities to speak to one another undisturbed by fans, phones, or television noise. This was the place they conducted most of the family and household “business.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, Brent Junior called before you got back from Philadelphia,” Casey said.

“What was he talking about?”

“Nothing much. He had just finished watching the game and he was excited that you all were going to advance to the next round.”

“Oh, he probably wants to come to town when the Heat series begins. I think that boy likes to see Brian Grant play more than his own father. Well, I guess that means we need to check on some flights for him.” Brent laughed as he sped along.

“You mean you want me to check on some flights?”

“Would you mind, baby?” Brent said, squeezing Casey’s thigh.

“No, I wouldn’t mind, but are you going to be able to spend any time with him when he comes?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I always spend time with him,” Brent said.

“When you’re not at practice or at a meeting with Jake or Nike orat a game or out to dinner with a sponsor or taking a pregame nap,” Casey said, exasperated.

“Where’s all this coming from? I thought we were going to have a nice pleasant afternoon together.”

“Oh, I guess it’s not pleasant when I bring up your parental responsibilities. You’re going to expect me to change my schedule to accommodate Brent Junior when he comes to town.”

“No, I’m not. It’s been a long time since I asked you to rearrange your schedule for him or me. Casey, you know that’s an old issue that we resolved. What’s this really about?”

“Well, it doesn’t seem like that long ago to me,” Casey said, crossing her arms.

“I’ll tell you how long ago it was. It was at least three years ago, but now that we’re on the subject, what’s so damn wrong with compromising? You’re so stubborn sometimes, you forget that compromise is what marriage is about.”

Casey spun her head around so fast to look at Brent, she thought she was going to get a crook in her neck.

“Don’t you dare tell me what marriage is all about. You don’t have that right and you don’t have the slightest idea what marriage is about,” Casey spat out.

“Is this discussion about Brent Junior or our marriage?” Brent said seriously as he turned down the car stereo.

“Well, now that you mention it, how about trust in a marriage? It’s obviously lacking in ours.”

“Casey, what are you talking about now? Why are you bringing up old issues? It’s counterproductive. I thought we had moved beyond that.”

“Don’t talk to me in that condescending, holier-than-thou tone! Obviously it doesn’t seem to be so past to me,” Casey said.

“Look, I’ve tried to be patient with you, but you won’t let the past go and—” Brent started.

“No, I think it’s you who can’t let the past go.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I … I’ve been faithful to you since all that stuff happened.”

“You haven’t been honest with me.”

“Casey, what have I done now?” Brent pleaded.

“You tell me,” Casey icily said.

“What is this, some sort of trick question women use to get their husbands to admit their sins?”

“If they have something to admit, yes,” Casey countered.

“Well, try again, because my slate is clean.”

“Brent, I’m going to give you a chance to come clean with me. Are you being honest with me about every single thing in our relationship? Don’t lie to me, Brent. I mean it.”

Silence. The car was in complete silence. It stung Casey’s ears. The only noise came from the wind whipping against the vehicle as they turned onto 87 north. A part of her wondered if she wasn’t ready to hear what he had to say, but still, she had to know the truth.