The Odd Ballerz (6 page)

“See you Wednesday,” Z said.

“Wednesday,” D said, backing his car out of its parking spot.

All the coaches were family men and long time friends of his. He and D had played college ball together. D was currently coaching football at a middle school in Round Rock, a suburb of Austin. Beryl, Harris, and Wylie coached high school football somewhere within the Austin school district. Z didn’t want the commitment that coaching for schools required, so he went for camps in the summer, or he rented out the field to others to use for camp or whatever. He, like his buddies, had found a way to remain connected to the game they all loved and had grown up playing.

Z headed to his home, purchased back in his playing days, and set aside for the time when the NFL no longer came calling. Not that they ever had. It had been all him and his dogged pursuit that had allowed him to play as long as he had. He had no regrets. Maybe those would come later after he no longer remembered anything his name, the results of taking one too many hits to the head.

His home and land were among the many things that his NFL money had purchased. It had been his goal from the start of his football career to end up with property large enough to accommodate all his business ventures, and eventually, he’d hoped, a home for his wife and children. So far, finding a wifey to get the kids with had been harder than he’d imagined. He’d given it a good try for a long time. He’d dated, or not, or done enough other things with enough women in this life to not be in his current position without a long-term one. Yet here he was.

He entered his home through the back door, and made his was down the hall that would take him to the front part of his home. It was all utility in this part of the house. He shot a quick glance into his office, which any day now he needed to organize. Organizing stuff was not one of his strong suits, but he’d better get a handle on it soon or it could get away from him again. He continued on down the hall and when it ended he took a left into the living room, then a right and out through the front door.

A quick walk down the porch steps, then across the lawn, down the drive a bit and he was at his front gate. It was part of his evening ritual to close and lock the gate, one final check of his property, before calling it a night.

He looked back at the place he called home. He’d made changes to it before he moved in, both to the house and the area outside of it. A parking area for two to three cars just outside of the gate was one such change, a feature he’d added so visitors didn’t have to drive all the way in to his property to access the house.

He was happy living here, content to finally do what he wanted to do, away from the world. Done with the gate lock-up, he headed back to his home for a quick dinner and some TV, his normal routine on a camp night. And speaking of camp, there were some pretty good athletes in the group of boys who’d turned up here today. And then there was Jones, and he’d no idea what to make or do with her.

She was fine, no doubt about that, he thought, recalling D’s earlier comment, which was the only thing about her he could say with certainty. Not so much her face, she was average in that department. Brown skin, full head of hair, full lips, medium-sized nose, brown eyes, nothing hugely gorgeous or striking, and that sounded harsh to some he knew, but it wasn’t meant to be, just the truth as he saw it. Below the neck, now that was this whole other story. He pulled forth the image of her arrival, the one he’d pushed to the back of his mind, saving it for later, at night, in his bed, when he was alone, but now was good too.

He’d just about tripped over his feet at his first Jones sighting. Her body was the stuff of dreams, or more it was the stuff of his dreams. Shock and a not a little bit of lust at his boyhood fantasy come to life was what he felt staring at Jones as she stood beside her vehicle, dressed for work, a perfect study in a well-proportioned body of tits and ass. Nice-sized breasts, leading to a small waist that flowed out into beautiful curvy hips with the right amount of delectable ass tucked on there at the end. Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump; he’d followed the swing of it as it moved her closer and closer to the restroom.

Tempting it was, and tempting it would be for as long as she was near, and no way would she have any knowledge of her impact on him. There was a rule to prevent that from happening, implemented last year after a player and coach’s relationship had gone south. So for now and the foreseeable future, romantic involvements between coach and player could cost the coach his job and he loved coaching the Austin Ballerz too much for that. Nope, he wasn’t giving that up for anything or anyone, including Jones and her lovely body. She wasn’t technically on the team, a little voice in his head quietly whispered to him. True that, but it didn’t matter. She was off limits for another reason. He was done chasing the short game.

So what to make of the awfulness that had been Jones in camp this evening. He was torn between two thoughts. Either she was awful intentionally, which was possible considering her surprise at learning she would make the team and not just trying out for it as she’d hoped. Or, she was truly terrible, which was too bad really, ’cause
her
kind of awful he had no use for, which was saying something, as the bar for the Ballerz was set low this year.

Only time would prove which one of his two thoughts were true. All he had to do for now was to watch Jones, with her bountiful assets, and peel away the layers of her game, if she were indeed playing one.

# # #

Memphis was in bed, eyes closed, waiting for sleep to arrive, surprised by its absence, as she was one tired puppy. She should be snoring soundly by now, but nope, not yet. Fifteen minutes and counting since she’d fallen into bed, and sleep still eluded her.

She had arrived home more than an hour ago, and it had been a quick shower, dinner, and then a much-needed soak in her tub. She loved long slow soaks in her tub, candles surrounding her with the scents of whatever fragrances filling the air. It was her time to reflect and to pause from the daily insurance agent’s grind that was her career.

An agent, a seller of insurance, a top earner in the state for the last few years was her life. Insurance had been the saving grace for her and her family’s fortunes, a way out of no way, for which she would be forever grateful, but it was losing its luster. She felt restless, and fidgety lately, like something was missing from her life, but what? She knew. A husband and children of her own, if she was being honest, was what she wanted. It wasn’t every woman’s desire, she knew, but it was hers.

She was actively searching for a mate, but so far, she hadn’t had much luck finding one. She dated African American men often and only, and until today, she’d been content with that. Her encounter with Z, her new coach and her new crush, had sort of changed that. Yeah, and surprise, surprise. Why him? Why now? No idea, and no, she was not sharing that news with anyone.

She sighed and sat up in bed, reaching for her tablet, giving in to the desire that had been riding her since he’d uttered the words
You’re late Jones,
and nothing poetic about that, except it had apparently triggered something within her, some dormant desire. Who knew that those two little words was all she needed to get her blood a-flowing. “You’re late,” over and over again had been the ticket. Anyway, here she was, wanting to find out more about this Coach Z, Zachary Sloan person.

She typed his full name into her tablet, hoping to see lots of images of him and his lovely eyes. The ones he kept hidden. They were the most attractive of his assets in her opinion, and that was saying something, ’cause his smile was excellent, as was the rest of him. Wow, she thought as pictures of him filled the screen of her tablet. Images of him standing on the sidelines of some game, with shades, but mostly without, and she could see those pretty peepers of his peeking through his helmet.

The bulk of the pictures fell into two categories, football and women. The man liked his women and they him, not that she was surprised. There were lots of pictures of him with them, standing, sitting, laughing, dancing, sitting side by side, smiling into the camera at all manner of events. She scanned them all and when she’d seen enough, she moved on to the pictures and articles cataloging his football career.

There was no shortage of information on him there either. Pictures of him dressed in the uniforms of several different teams, standing, talking, sitting on the sidelines, and throwing the football. By all indications, his college years were the best time of his football career. He’d been traded at least four times, and cut from a few teams. That probably hadn’t felt too nice, but he’d soldiered on. He was with the Seahawks last, she noted, staring at the picture of him wearing their uniform of royal blue, green and white.

There were pictures of him hurt, leaning on the crutches, his left ankle wrapped in something. A torn Achilles; the reason he stood with a boot up to his knee in another. The life of a glorious footballer wasn’t so glorious after all.

She was at the end of her search when she came across an article about him and something other than football. She skimmed it quickly, and then went back to reread it more slowly.

Coach Z, the ex-NFL footballer, coach of Elite Football Camp, was also an artist—a glass-blowing one, and wasn’t that interesting. The article spoke of the recognition he’d received from his alma mater, known for producing artists of all stripes. There were two pictures of him to accompany the article. One was of him standing next to a professor. Both of them were dressed in cap and gown, Z’s less adorned than the professor’s. The second picture was of him standing outside a studio, or hot shop, as the article referenced it. She’d seen that building this evening, one of the many on his property.

She would not have put him with any type of artistry, yet he was one. Go figure. And talk about surprised and a lesson in not judging a book by its cover. He spent his free time away from the game of football making things of beauty, and wasn’t that fascinating?

There was depth to go along with the brawn and the looks, not that she needed more to add to her interest. Interest she now knew wouldn’t lead anywhere or to anything. The women in the pictures were proof that she was not what he sought.

In every conceivable way, his women were different from her. White to her dark brown skin, slim, athletically built to her bootylicious, long, straight hair to hers, natural and tightly coiled. If the Internet images were to be believed, then she was not what he preferred, and if she was being honest, it was the main reason she hadn’t seriously considered dating outside her race. She could do without the rejections she assumed would follow if she approached men of other races seriously, nor did she wish to be the test case for someone’s swirl, another word for fetish in her opinion.

Plus, he liked them gorgeous and she understood the desire for it, sort of. Everybody was after it these days. It was all about the pretty and the Pinterest perfect and she was not that. Never had been, never would be. But so what, looks weren’t everything, as her daddy had been so fond of saying to her growing up. Outside of her figure, average was the sum of her parts. Five foot ten inches of her momma’s build, all breasts and butt and Betty Boop of the old hourglass figure, and it was heartily appreciated by plenty. She’d her share of men whistling, staring, and commenting enough to know that.

“So what, you don’t have the looks, baby girl,” her father would say. “Don’t discount personality and brains. Make personality and confidence your calling cards. Men like those traits too. You’ll have to get over this shy thing and learn how to talk to people, stop that falling over everybody’s feet. Speak up, stand up, and stick out your chest. The right man will love your figure, baby, as I love your momma’s. The right people will love you too, just the way you are. So remember that,” her daddy would tack on at the end of his sentence when he thought to be more uplifting.

He was correct, at least, about one thing—personality. Most of her success she could lay squarely at the feet of her personality. It had gotten her everywhere. She’d been nowhere near the top of her class in any subject, and again, so not necessary for success she’d learned over the years. She with her
just enough brains
, combined with lots and lots of hard work had created a successful career, and one that she was extremely proud of.

It would take more than personality to get her hands on Z, however intrigued by the man she was. She closed her eyelids, letting this thought move off, replacing it with images of him from camp and from her Internet search. Why him and why now? No clue, except that he reminded her of her father in many ways. The “you’re late” comment was the first thing. No sugar coating anything had been her dad’s way.
Say what you mean, and mean what you say
.

It was also the way he paid attention, watching quietly, and if he was like her dad, a lot went on behind that gaze of his. Mostly though, it had been something as simple as his smile. When given freely, made his eyes sparkle, as it had with her dad’s. Yes, it was a thing of beauty. Such a fine man was her final thought as she drifted off to sleep.

Wednesday evening

“O
ut in the boonies” was an apt description of the road that led to Coach Z’s home, Memphis thought, back today for her second session of camp. She was in full-out speeding mode, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t be late
again.

She’d checked her schedule for the next two weeks, adjusted it as best she could, reducing the conflicts to accommodate the camp’s six o’clock start time. Today wasn’t supposed to have been a conflict. A simple meeting with Mrs. Moore of the old school come-out-to-the-house-and-sit-a-spell-over-sweet-tea had gone awry and her best laid plans and all was now a hurry-up-and-get-to-camp.

She checked her watch. Ten minutes, which could work. A bit of grace and limited traffic hitches would be perfect right about now. Anything less and she’d be in the land of running an extra lap again or suffering through another conversation on the importance of timeliness, not to mention earning her second strike. “Seriously dude” was what she should have told him at the mention of his three-strike rule.