Ellen Hartman - The Long Shot

“Give me one minute,” she said to the girls as she hurried to meet her new assistants where they stood a few feet into the gym.

Because she was a bit breathless and trying to let her brain catch up with her eyes, she engaged the less intimidating one, Wes, first. “You don’t much resemble your brother.”

“Thank God for that,” he said. “I can’t afford plastic surgery at the moment.”

Reading nonverbal clues was an essential part of navigating the tense parent-child meetings she often facilitated. The expression Deacon shot Wes was clearly a command to shut the hell up and quit screwing around. She gave him credit for saying it silently.

“Ms. Bradley,” Deacon said, “this is my brother, Wes Fallon.”

Wes stuck out his hand and she shook it. When she half turned, Deacon had his hand out, too. She took it, and his handshake was warm and firm. Behind his glasses, his dark blue eyes were hard to read. Did he remember her? How did she look to him after all these years?

“We’re honored you asked us back to help with the team,” Deacon said.

“Well.” She was acutely aware of the girls waiting behind her. “We’re honored to have you.”

And wouldn’t the boosters love to be the ones doing the honoring here? she thought. When Ty and the rest of them found out, she would be in a world of trouble.

She couldn’t wait.

She’d been anticipating the Basketball Brothers, but clearly, she hadn’t taken into account their being ten years older than when she’d last seen them. Their entire lives had changed in that time. The orphans from the wrong side of the tracks in a town where the right side wasn’t very prosperous had grown into a pair of poised, well dressed, frankly impressive men.

Deacon had on a black dress shirt patterned in a light gray check and a pair of dark blue jeans. The way the jeans fit, trim and taut, showed that he had filled out from his gangly high school days. But any weight he’d added was hard muscle. The sleeves of his tucked-in shirt were rolled up to his elbows, showing off more lean muscle and slightly tanned skin dusted with light brown hair. She’d dated a drummer once who’d been a total screwup and had infuriated her by spending his rent money on beer, but he’d had the nicest arms and so she’d stuck with him for a month or two longer than she should have. Deacon’s arms were one hundred percent nicer than the drummer’s.

She hoped he would stay and coach, because she had a sudden need to see those arms shoot a basketball.

* * *

HE DIDN’T KNOW what he’d been expecting. Maybe that Ms. Bradley would still look like a teacher, albeit a hot one, to him. He definitely hadn’t anticipated the flash of attraction he’d felt as she hurried across the gym toward them, the hem of her skirt whipping around well-toned calves and then flipping up to give a glimpse of one smooth thigh.

“Dude.” Wes had poked him in the ribs, and whispered behind his hand. “She’s hot for an old chick.”

Deacon would have smacked his head had they been alone. Manners were important even in the face of hot chicks. In the gym, he had to settle for a disgusted glare.

Now she smiled at them, appearing a bit nervous, and asked, “Are you ready to meet the team?”

And then she swept her arm toward the kids gathered on the bleachers.

“Those are girls,” Deacon blurted.

“Nothing gets past him,” Wes said.

Julia didn’t smile. Her eyes were a light, clear gray-blue, and intense when she focused on him. She held him fixed in place when she responded, “That’s right. That’s my team.”

Even as he spoke, he knew he was being rude, but he was shocked. This wasn’t what he’d said yes to. “You told me you wanted us to coach the Tigers. I brought my brother here so he could work with the Tigers.”

Julia didn’t raise her voice or even change her expression, but he had the feeling she was pissed. Which was ridiculous. He was the one who’d been duped.

“You are here to coach the Tigers.” She pointed toward the group of girls on the other side of the gym. “Right there. Those are your Tigers.”

His Tigers.

Two of them were considerably closer to five foot than six. One of them outweighed him for sure. Not a single one of the ten girls appeared remotely interested in basketball. Especially not the one perched on a ball and wearing a skirt with tights and high-heeled shoes. She had a mirror out and some tiny silver tool in her hand. “What is she doing to her face?”

“They call that tweezing,” Wes said.

“Practice hasn’t started yet,” Julia said. “We were in a meeting. You’re early.”

She looked at him pointedly, but he wasn’t about to apologize for throwing off her schedule when she had just pulled a whopper of a bait and switch on him. Feeling foolish because he’d misinterpreted a situation was his worst nightmare.

“She’s wearing high heels. In the gym.” He thought about his hardwood court at home and what heels would do to the surface. He had nothing against the girls, but he had a lot of trouble with being manipulated, especially when the manipulator was affiliated with Milton sports.

“We don’t have uniforms yet.” She got right up close to him, standing between him and Wes, her back to the girls and her voice pitched so no one could overhear. “Look, Deacon. I fudged the truth. You made an assumption and I should have corrected you.” She edged even closer, more urgency in her voice now. “But you said you’d coach them and I couldn’t believe it. I was too thrilled, and I thought if I clarified, you might not come. You’re here now. Can’t you see they need help? I need to know right now. Will you coach them or not?”

He was about to say or not. Maybe not quite that snottily, but he was ready to walk away, when Wes spoke up.

“Sure we’ll coach them. We said we would. Right, Deacon? Fallons keep their word, especially to the team.”

Wes looked earnest. He had this thing he could do where he somehow transformed himself from a six-foot-four-inch man into a five-year-old kid whose balloon had just blown away.

“I don’t like it when you do that,” he muttered. The protest was a token one and he knew it. He’d been back in Milton High School for less than twenty minutes and he was already as firmly trapped by Wes’s needs and the expectations of the Milton sports program as he’d been in high school.

“What am I doing?”

“Making that face that looks like I kicked your puppy.”

“I’m not.”

Wes had the innocent act down so perfectly it didn’t even appear like an act. Julia probably thought he really was that innocent.

“Your brother’s performance aside,” Julia said, “the girls really need help.”

Underneath his anger about being tricked, he was tempted because Wes wanted it, and Wes hadn’t wanted anything from him since the day he got suspended. He was tempted because this time around, Julia and he were both adults and he’d gotten a tantalizing peek at her thigh and he couldn’t make himself walk away without seeing more.

As he hesitated, one of the girls tossed a shot in from the baseline, and when it went in, she pumped her fist and he felt the pleasure right along with her, the satisfaction of watching a sweet shot swish free through the net.

Nothing but air.

His Tigers.

* * *

HE WAS GETTING ready to walk and she couldn’t blame him. She should have come clean right from the start. He glanced at his brother and then back at the girls. Max put a beautiful shot in and Deacon’s eyes lit up. He still loved the game. Would that be enough to make him say yes?

The girls were unable to control their curiosity anymore and now they were inching forward to group up behind her. She wished he’d commit so they could move on and get the season started.