Homecourt Advantage (24 page)

“A visitor?” Brent asked, sounding perplexed.

“Yes. Nikki’s here.”

“Nikki? There, at the apartment?” Brent said, clearly surprised.

“That’s right. In fact, she’s right here with me. We’re about to have some ice cream.” Casey tried to keep her voice level as she switched Nikki to her other hip.

“I didn’t know anything about this, Casey. I promise you. How’d she get there?”

“We’ll talk about it when you get home. I don’t want the little ears to hear. You know what I’m saying? But I think it’s safe to say she’ll be here when you arrive. Now I have to go. I’ll see you when you get home.” Casey hung up quickly.

Casey managed to shovel a scoop of ice cream onto the sugar cone and place it in Nikki’s outstretched hand. So much for her coffee and work.

Were the bombshells ever going to stop dropping? Marriage to Brent carried so much extra baggage, and Casey saw no end in sight. Now here was another victim, an innocent little girl. Casey watched Nikki eagerly lick at her ice cream, completely unaware of whose home she was in or why. As far as she knew, she’d been left with a complete stranger. It was so unfair to everyone involved.

Shivers raced down the Flyer’s spine as Phil massaged
his neck. Phil had learned his erogenous zones in a matter of months, and the effect was frightening. The athlete moaned involuntarily as his lover aroused him with his gentle touch. He and Phil had begun flirting with one another nine months ago. They had started working closely together doing postgame commentary: he, the seasoned player, and Phil, the polished sportscaster. From there, the rest had inevitably followed.

“Three times in one morning is more than I can handle. You act like I wasn’t working my ass off last night whippin’ the Heat. It’s tough work making it to the Eastern Conference finals. And then I had to get on that excuse of a private plane with those small seats, and now you wanna wear me out too,” he said, turning over on his side, directly facing Phil. “Should I get out the violin now or later?”

“And it’s so damn early in the morning,” he continued, enjoying every stolen moment with his lover.

“Bitch, bitch, bitch. Since when did you care about the time of day? Plus you know what they say about the early bird … and I think you’ve caught it … quite well, I might add. So stop fighting it,” Phil said, caressing his hairy chest. “That’s not such a hard thing to do, is it?”

“You play dirty; you know it’s very hard,” he shot back playfully.

“Then I’m on my job.”

“Ahh, this is your job now? So I’m work for you, huh?”

“Yup, I’ve been working on you since the day I interviewed you after the Detroit Pistons game when you missed that easy layup that cost the Flyers the game,” Phil teased.

“I was fouled; I should have had two free throws. Hell, Rip Hamilton should have been called for a flagrant on that play,” he said indignantly.

“Famous last lines of all you athletes.” Phil laughed, tossing a pillow over his face.

He looked at the dark, sleek body of his lover. He boasted a fair toffee complexion and hazel eyes, which contrasted with Phil’s mahogany-colored skin and seductive bedroom eyes. He had slept with two other men, but Phil was different. The other two were quick, back-drawer affairs, and when they were over, he had pushed the incidents out of his mind. But with Phil, he experienced a range of feelings. He had never felt so relaxed and fully himself. It was the first time he completely let go of his physical self-control. He was so used to maintaining the control, he never trusted himself to fully be free with a man or a woman. But now he let Phil take over and he was loving it—even if it was for only stolen moments. Phil was like a jolt of energy to his mind, body, and soul. The lackluster life that had previously held him captive was gone. He was free. Well, almost. There was still his woman to consider—as if they didn’t have enough problems already.

As wonderful as he felt, he could not shake his uneasiness. He was a cauldron of hot water placed on the stove to boil. Sooner or later he’d have to tell her something, and how was she going to accept the fact that he was bisexual, or probably more true, gay? He could barely say the word himself. He and his woman had a long history together, and it pained him to think about hurting her.

And what about his career? Was the world ready for an openly gay basketball player? Was the NBA ready? Sure, Dennis Rodman could dress up as a woman back in the day, but everyone knew he was still sleeping with women, including his tabloid affair with Madonna.

“Hey, you okay?” Phil was caressing him from behind. “Where did you drift off to?”

“I’ll be all right. Listen, I better get going,” he said, sitting up and reaching for his silk boxer shorts, which had fallen to the foot of the bed. “I have a golf date.”

“You feeling bad about sneaking out? You think we went overboard? You feeling guilty? Talk to me,” Phil implored.

“Yes and no,” he said, standing up and pulling on his underwear.

“You want to elaborate? Are you confused or what?”

“I wish I were confused; I think that would make matters easier. The fact that I’m feeling so certain about us scares me. I even told Paul I
thought
I was gay,” he said, shaking his head.

“I know how you feel; the truth of who you are is a scary thing. I went through it eleven years ago when I came out. Now my family and friends know and I feel relieved more than anything. Hell, the rest of the world could find out about me and I would care less.”

He felt his whole body become rigid. “But you’re not a player.”

“No, but I’m in sports.”

“It’s different. Athletes have to keep up public images.”

“You can still come out—it’s 2003, after all,” Phil said.

“Who said anything about coming out?”

“Hey, I’m on your side. You know that, don’t you? I’m telling you what I went through, not what you should or should not do. You’re the one who decided to confess to Paul that you’re gay.”

“But I only told Paul. That doesn’t mean I’m gonna tell the world. I have a lot at stake; I have my family to think about, my friends, this racist, homophobic Hightower character who’s trying to buy the Flyers—hell, my fans. I’d be risking all that and I’m not even positive that I’m gay,” he said defensively.

“Now you’re confused. Dennis Rodman may not be gay, but you, my dear, are as gay as I am. And on that note, I’m going to work.”

“I still have my woman,” he said, sounding like an adolescent.

“You’re still in denial,” Phil said, pulling his white T-shirt over his head.

“Phil, you tricked me into this whole affair. You turned me out.”

“Boy, you were ripe for the picking. I only did what you were aching for me to do,” Phil said, zipping his Lucky You jeans.

“I told you about talking to me in that tone, like I’m your subordinate or something,” he said, pretending to reprimand Phil.

“You are my subordinate. That’s why you’re my cohost and not the head host, the top dog, like me.”

“You like being on top of the situation, huh?” he asked, thinking how sexy Phil was to him.

“I can be on the bottom sometimes too,” Phil said as he approached him and kissed him full on the lips.

“You’re a tease,” he said, moving to the door of Phil’s apartment. Reaching the foyer area, he suddenly did not want to leave. “So are you going to disappear later on tonight, as usual?”

“Why, do you have a better suggestion?” Phil asked playfully.

“Go to dinner with me.”

“You mean you don’t have any plans with your significant other?”

“We haven’t made any plans yet; besides, it would be easy to explain to her that you and I have business to discuss. She may be busy herself. It’s not like she has all the time in the world for me either.”

“I don’t know, let’s play it by ear. After this early morning romp, I don’t know if I could keep my hands off of you in a restaurant. Just call me later. Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do. I’m the one who has the hard part of our job. All you have to do is run up and down the court and then sit in front of the camera talking about a subject you love.” Phil kissed him one last time.

He slowly closed the door as he left, willing it to remain open even as he was pulling it shut. He wanted to be with Phil all the time.

He tried to reason with his fear. Even if someone did guess their secret, it would only be speculation. He and Phil had a legitimate business relationship. Besides, one unsubstantiated rumor was not going to hurt his career, but it was becoming painfully clear that being without Phil would definitely hurt his life.

“Fore! Fore!” Brent shouted seconds after he swung
his Big Bertha driver. He hoped no one was hit with his golf ball.

Brent looked over his shoulders, to see Paul and Coach trying to stifle their laughter. Jake, his partner for the day, just looked pissed.

“Thanks Brent. I guess we’ll have a chance to win this match after all,” Coach Mitchell said, winking at Paul as he headed toward the tee. Coach looked like he should have been on the cover of
Golf World,
with his plaid Kangol hat, cream-colored pants, and matching crew-neck sweater. No matter what Coach’s surroundings were, he always managed to look like he belonged.

“It was my pleasure,” Brent responded sarcastically as he stepped away from the tee box and walked toward Paul and Jake.

“Don’t worry about it, partner; the gusty winds on this hole sometimes catch the balls and carry them off. And today is a lot windier than usual,” Jake said, condescendingly patting Brent on the back.

“The wind carries the balls that far left?” Paul said, raising his eyebrows in disbelief

“Both of you can kiss my ass,” Brent said, handing the golf club to his caddie.

Brent could not remember the last time he hit a golf ball so badly. His mind was not on the game. When he had arrived home last night from Miami, Casey was asleep. When he’d awoken at five o’clock this morning, she had already left for work. He had wanted to explain to her that he had nothing to do with Nikki’s unexpected visit. But why would she believe him? No matter what he said to her, she was bound to believe the worst. Yet despite the circumstances, Brent had to admit to himself that he was relieved that Casey had finally met his daughter.

Brent had left Nikki with their live-in housekeeper, Martha, and had taken a needed reprieve from the apartment himself before his golf outing. Strangely enough, Coach had not scheduled practice for the day even though their first game of the Eastern Conference finals against the Chicago Bulls was only two days away. He insisted they all needed time off and a round of golf to relax. Brent was glad to have the free day, but would have much preferred to spend his time at home with Nikki. Yet here he was playing this command performance at the Tuxedo Golf Club.

Coach’s swing was virtually flawless, and his ball went about 290 yards, landing in the center of the fairway.

“Would you look at my partner?” Paul gibed, giving Coach a high five as he stepped away from the tee.

“Somebody has to take up the slack for you,” Brent shot back.

“Lucky shot, Coach,” Jake said.

Coach tossed his driver to his overweight young caddie, who was so awestruck by the famous foursome that he was in outer space. The group scattered toward their respective balls.

“You sure you okay walking on that knee, Paul? You wouldn’t rather take a golf cart?” Jake asked.

“Let him be. It’ll toughen him up,” Coach said, waving off Jake’s question with his hand. “What do you want, for him to be riding around in one of those senior-citizen golf carts with the orange handicap flags sticking out the back?”

“Actually, walking helps. My knees are just stiff and swollen from that plane ride,” Paul said as they began to ascend a hill.

The Flyers had flown into a small private airport the night before. The trip back from Miami had been a loud, joyful ride as the players celebrated their win thirty thousand feet above the ground.

“Yeah, those charter plane seats are the worst,” Brent said. “The Flyers need to stop using that cheap company with their beat-up airplanes and just get up off the dime and buy a luxury jet. The team sure makes enough money from the licensing deal and NBA properties.”

“Or, with as much flying as we do, at least charter a plane that only has first-class seats instead of a few guys getting the good seats and most guys having to sit in coach,” said Paul.

“Well, you know how old man Hirshfield can be. Private planes are not his priority. He’s no Leonard Hightower when it comes to spending money,” said Jake.

“Well, thank goodness money’s not everything to Hirshfield,” Paul said.

“You know Hal. He pinches pennies like he’s about to enter the poorhouse,” joked Coach.

Brent did a double take after Coach’s comment. Mitchell was the second highest paid coach in the NBA, and the New York Flyers were notorious for outbidding other teams to get the players they wanted and to keep the players they had.

“Your ball’s over here, Mr. Rogers!” Brent’s caddie shouted from behind a clump of bushes.

“I’m gonna drop another one,” Brent shouted back.

“Good move,” Paul said.

“Don’t forget to add your extra strokes, Brent,” Coach added.

The caddie dropped the ball in the shorter brush area.

“What should I use?” Brent asked his caddie.

“You’ve got about two hundred and twenty yards to the front of the green, and this rough is kind of thick. I say just punch it out with your six or seven iron. If you can hit your utility wood, give that a try,” the caddie said, pulling out all three clubs from Brent’s bag.

Brent decided on his six iron and took a couple of practice swingsbefore approaching the ball. As soon as he struck it, he knew he had hit a perfect shot.

“Now, I’d say that’s a damn fine recovery, partner,” Jake said, giving Brent the thumbs-up.

“Eat my dust!” Brent said to Paul and Coach as he handed his club back to his young caddie.

“Great shot, Mr. Rogers.” The caddie grinned as he wiped off Brent’s iron with a towel.