Fast Courting (4 page)

To her chagrin, her powers of concentration left much to be desired. Much as she might glue her eyes to the notes she’d made that morning in Worcester, her ears picked up every nuance of the action on the court. There was the call of instructing voices—was that
his
voice?—as plays were called, and the slap and squeal of sneaker treads against the floor as each play was executed. There was the murmur of conversation between teammates, oaths of fatigue, gasps of exertion. There was the occasional smack of flesh on flesh as two players accidentally collided with one another and, of course, the resounding thud of the ball as it hit the floor. Ironically, as if it was irrelevant, the victorious swish of a basket was drowned out by the sounds of the players proceeding to the next drill.

Her eyes drifted up against her will to scan the play for a moment before moving on to the reason for her presence, the focal point of the practice as well, the coach. To her surprise, he wore a Breaker warm-up suit, as did those players who were sidelined for one reason or another. She had always assumed that coaches were more formally dressed, symbolically removed from the team.

Daniel Strahan was well in control. From where she sat, his deep-toned commands slowly set themselves apart from the other sounds by an air of subtle authority. Intrigued, she looked more closely.

There were perhaps nine players on the court, alternately running through plays and gathering around the coach. Several other players followed the action, as did three other men beside Strahan. Assistant coaches? Trainers? The words popped into her mind, gleaned from long-ago discussions she’d overheard between David and his fellow addicts. As to the specific role of an assistant coach or a trainer, she was ignorant. Indeed, even the daily duties of the head coach remained a mystery.

Inevitably her gaze returned to Strahan. Standing alone for the moment, calling commands with one hand on his hip and the other pointing from one player to another, he was tall and lean, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip. His hair was dark, very dark, and casually mussed. As she watched he took the basketball to demonstrate a particular evasive move; the action was lithe and fluid, exhibiting the superb coordination which had, in part, been responsible for his own success as a player. Back on the sideline, he stood briefly at the center of the group. To her surprise and marginal amusement, he was the shortest one there.

But surprise and amusement turned to caution as she saw the guard who had directed her approach Strahan. The players returned to the court; the two men stood head to head. After a few moments Strahan looked up toward Nia.

For a few seconds she was aware only of how out of place she must look, dressed conservatively yet with a definite feminine flair in a lace-edged sweater, full skirt and high-heeled pumps. Nia had anticipated spending the morning in corporate circles, the afternoon in the office. More casual clothes might have been appropriate here…but, then, she hadn’t planned on stopping until the arena’s proximity to her route had tempted her. Now she wished she’d resisted that temptation. Strahan was scowling; that was clear despite the distance.

Fighting the urge to sink lower in her seat, Nia held his gaze stubbornly, reminding herself of the deskful of messages he had seen fit to ignore. The guard turned and walked away. For a moment longer Strahan stared. Then something on the floor caught his eye and his attention, and Nia was left in peace.

Peace. What a strange word, she mused, as she slowly recovered from the powerful, if short, visual interchange. She had known peace when David was on the road, leaving her to the writing she thought would establish her as a respected professional entity. But the rumors of infidelity had crept up on that peace, shattering it completely in that final, cruel year.

Breathing deeply, she forced her attention back to the court, where her eyes had blindly continued to follow the practice. Now it was over. The shortest of the men with Strahan— yes, she decided arbitrarily, the trainer— handed out towels to each passing player. In a slow procession they headed for the tunnel to the locker room and were swallowed up, one by one, in the darkened cavity. A few stragglers remained, one of them Strahan. Her pulse jerked when he looked up at her once more. He stood confidently, both hands cocked on his hips, as though he were awaiting something.

“You can come with me now.”

Nia’s head spun around to find the same guard in the aisle. “Oh, you startled me!” she exclaimed, gathering her wits, wondering whether she was being taken into custody or expelled. Neither turned out to be the case. For, moments later, after a seemingly endless trek through aisles and up corridors, she was ushered into Daniel Strahan’s office.

“He’ll be right with you,” was the curt message as the guard turned and left. Nia watched his exit, feigning self-confidence, but feeling maddeningly unsure.

When the hall beyond the door was empty once more, she turned to peruse her cell. The office was actually quite large, but made immeasurably smaller by the wall-to-wall collection of basketball memorabilia. There were pennants and pictures, statuettes and full-sized trophies. There were certificates and citations and plaques. All told, there must have been half a dozen basketballs at random spots, several on stands marked for one historic game or another. There were papers, books and a stack of precariously piled movie reels. There was not one item she would call truly personal—no family photographs, no hint of the man independent of the game. It was basketball, all of it. Nia shuddered in aversion.

Frustrated and impatient, she threw herself into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. Where was he? She looked at her watch, then looked again five minutes later. It was bad enough that he’d never returned her calls, but to purposely keep her waiting was even worse. Was this the way he customarily treated women? No wonder he was still “eligible”!

When her waiting reached the ten-minute mark, she shifted in her seat. Desperately, she tried to blot out the room’s pervading decor, but distaste welled up in her stubbornly. It was a game, big boys, little boys—what difference? This one had obviously never learned manners! Fifteen minutes had passed and she began to seethe; another five found her livid. Hadn’t she paid her dues as a basketball widow long ago? Damn it! There were other things to do in life besides wait in a congested office, competing for air space with an overblown collection of inane souvenirs!

Pushing herself from the chair, she hoisted her bag to her shoulder, threw her wool reefer over the crook of her elbow and stormed to the door. There she came to an abrupt halt. For, standing at his full height, no longer overshadowed by the distracting presence of giants, was Daniel Strahan. And if
she
was angry, he was no less so.

H
is eyes were dark and piercing. His voice shot sharply through her. “Leaving already?” he asked tautly.

“Already?” she heard herself echo, stunned for but a brief instant before rage took over. “
Already?
I’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes now.” That twenty-minute stretch combined with the anger of the past to explode in a reaction that would not be tempered. “Is this your idea of good public relations? If so, you’ve been sadly misguided.” Her eyes flashed. “You could have sent someone in to say you’d been delayed, or even called yourself from that precious locker room of yours. But, then, you’re allergic to telephones, aren’t you? That must be why you never returned my calls.” It was only when she paused to catch her breath that Nia realized the extent of her outburst. Every muscle in her body was tensed.

Daniel Strahan didn’t flinch. He was neither intimidated nor phased. Rather, he stared down from his superior height, wearing a mask of dark indignance. “I didn’t ask you here.”

“Your…henchman
escorted
me here—”

“After you had very conveniently announced yourself to him as my girlfriend.”

Nia tipped her chin up in defiance. “I never did that.”

The coach’s gaze narrowed dangerously. “Then why did he report it?”

“He chose to draw that conclusion.”

“And who
are
you?”

“My name is Antonia Phillips. I’ve been trying to reach you on the phone all week.”

“So you’ve opted for a different method?”

Now that she had revealed her name, Nia felt a heightened sense of responsibility for her behavior. She owed it both to the magazine she represented and to herself to look and act the part of the professional. “As it happened,” she succeeded in lowering her voice, “I had an appointment earlier this morning in Worcester. The arena was right on my way back to Boston. Since I’d been unable to reach you by phone, I thought I’d take a stab and stop here.”

Daniel Strahan’s initial vexation seemed slightly eased by her explanation. Relieved, Nia took the time to notice that he was newly showered and dressed in a blazer and slacks. His hair was black and damp, his jaw clean shaven. Aside from the harshness lingering in his gaze, he could actually be classed as attractive.

For an instant, doubt mingled with that harshness. “Antonia Phillips?” He sought to make the identity.

“Anto
ni
a,” she corrected automatically. Her name had been mispronounced for the better part of her life; it was a matter of the emphasis on the wrong syllable.

“Anto
ni
a,” he repeated it properly. She thought she saw a quirk at the corner of his lips, but it vanished before she could either verify its presence or contemplate its intent. “Antonia Phillips.” His brows drew together.
“Eastern Edge?”
At her nod he drew himself up even taller, if that was possible. “Ah,” he exhaled slowly. “
Those
messages.”

Nia couldn’t contain her barb. “Does that mean that you’re inundated with daily messages from many sources?”

“The press is persistent.”

“We’re not exactly ‘the press,’ ” she inserted firmly.

Again she caught a trace of that quirk that did nothing more than appear, then disappear, leaving her distinctly off-balance. “Oh?” he asked. “I suppose it’s a matter of semantics.
Eastern Edge
may be a magazine—and a fine one at that—but,” he spoke evenly, as though treading more cautiously in direct consideration of his claim, “it still qualifies as the media.” To further disconcert her, he took a step into the room, closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

Nia feld oddly trapped and strangely awkward. He was tall and commanding, as imposing a figure as she had ever seen. She was the intruder here, totally out of her element. Indeed, Daniel Strahan now studied her as though
she
were the oddity, rather than his sizable comrades.

When he spoke again he was fully in charge. “No further argument?”

“Not on that,” she answered truthfully. “It’s not that terribly important.”

“Then what
is
important enough to merit your daily calls and finally bring you here today?”

“I’d like to speak with you.”

“That’s obvious.”

Nia knew that she had to do something to break the verbal deadlock, for her own composure’s sake if not for purposes of her mission. For a woman who usually controlled an interview, she felt sadly deficient. “Uh,” she looked around, then gestured toward the chair she’d left in such fury earlier, “would you mind if I sat down?” Where
had
that fury gone? It seemed to have been supplanted by an unexpected perplexity. For the first time she asked herself who Daniel Strahan really was. Without doubt, her curiosity was piqued.

The object of her musings nodded his permission, waited for her to sit, then walked around his desk and slowly slid into his own chair. His eyes barely left hers. “Now, what can I do for you, Miss Phillips?”

“It’s
Mrs
. Phillips,” she corrected, not knowing why she had added that when it was truly irrelevant. “But I’d rather you called me Antonia.”

“Mrs.?” His gaze flicked to her bare left hand in obvious challenge.

“I’m divorced.”

He nodded, lifting steepled fingers to his chin in a pensive pose accentuated by the dark, dark brown of his eyes. At that moment he reminded Nia more of a thinker, a man of letters, than an athlete. She wondered what he did in his spare time. Then she chided herself; she, of all people, knew that there was precious little spare time in the world of professional sports. Aside from the off-season, which was often filled with camps, appearances, practices and the like, the professional athlete lived a life on the run. Hadn’t David’s life with the Breakers been much like that? There had been basketball, basketball and more basketball. Then, when that was over, there was always basketball.

“David Phillips.” As though he had reached a profound conclusion, Daniel’s deep voice bluntly offered up the very name that had been in Nia’s mind seconds earlier.

She stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“David Phillips. Were you his wife?”

“David Phillips?”

“He covered the team during most of my playing years. I vaguely recall hearing something about a wife…” He frowned, confused, then shook his head. “Forget I said that. It couldn’t have been you.”

Overcoming her initial shock at his mention of David, Nia yielded to curiosity. “Why not?”

Daniel spoke more softly, but without hesitation. “For one thing, he was much older than you are. For another, he was too much of a ladies’ man to be married to someone with your good looks. If he’d been married to you, he never would have wandered.”

The compliment did nothing to take the edge off the bluntness of Daniel’s assessment. Nia had learned the hard way about David; even now, so long after the divorce, the sting of his infidelity seared her. Whether it was the haunted cast of her eyes or the sudden pallor of her skin that gave her away, she was never to know. But Daniel instantly sensed his
faux pas
.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” he offered in a surprisingly gentle tone. “He
was
your husband?”

“He was,” she whispered.

“I
am
sorry, Antonia.”

“For what?” She mustered her poise and produced a hollow laugh. “For my being married to David or for your having pegged him so accurately in front of me?”

“Both.” He took a deep breath, hesitated, then slowly smiled. “Did I pronounce the name right this time?”

More than anything that had come before, Daniel Strahan’s smile took her breath away. It was like a magic door, inching open to reveal a wealth of warmth beyond. There was an honesty about it, as well as equal shares of strength and vulnerability. Above all it was human—a far cry from the superstar image she had been prepared to meet.

Momentarily tongue-tied, she struggled to recall what he was talking about. “Uh, yes, you said it right. Actually, my friends call me Nia. It simplifies things.”

“Antonia is beautiful.” His eyes were as intense as they’d been before, but with a wholly different sheen. “It fits you.”

Against her will, a pink flush crept to her cheeks, adding innocent pleasure to her face. Just as his praise brought a return of her color, it bolstered the ego that was always rebruised at mention of David. Either Daniel Strahan was an expert at handling the press or, contrary to her original assertion, he was a whiz with women. It occurred to her that he had read her perfectly, understanding in those brief instants what she must have suffered. Once more she wondered about
his
private affairs and the course of events that had led to his being “eligible.” Which reminded her of her purpose. This was as good a time as any to broach it, while his defenses were down.

Self-conscious beneath his continued stare, she cleared her throat. “Mr. Strahan, as I said, I’m with
Eastern Edge
.” At her mention of the magazine the shutters closed, rendering him the carefully controlled head coach once more. “The reason I’ve tried to reach you…the reason I stopped by today…is that we’re running a feature in the June issue for which we’d like to interview you.”

His voice was kind but firm. “I don’t give interviews.”

“Of course you do!” she argued, her spirit miraculously and fully reinstated. “You give televised interviews before and after every game, not to mention your talks with the sportswriters.”

His gaze was level. “That’s what I’m paid to do.”

“How does that differ from
my
request?”

“
You
tell
me
,” he commanded. “Is it basketball you’re writing about?”

Earlier he had seemed to trap her physically. Now the snare was intellectual. “No.”

“Then…what?”

“You.”

His smile this time was a ghost of the other, a mere formality. “So, we’ve come full circle. I repeat: I don’t give interviews.”

Nia had no intention of accepting defeat so easily. While she had originally fought with Bill against the feature, here she would champion it for all she was worth. “Any special reason?”

“Many.”

“How about one,” she coaxed him softly.

Dropping his hands to his lap, Daniel leaned back in his chair, as though protectively immersing himself in the surrounding memorabilia. “My private life is my own. It has no place here.”

“You don’t think that your fans would like to hear about it?”

He inclined his head. “I’m sure they would.” His terseness bore a finality Nia was committed to resist.

“You don’t enjoy pleasing them?”

“On the contrary. I
do
enjoy pleasing them.
On the court
. That’s what they pay for when they buy a ticket. That’s what the ownership pays for when I sign a contract. I’m a basketball coach. The public can ask the basketball coach any question it wants; the man, however, is off limits. There’s nothing in my contract that says I have to bare my soul to the media.” A muscle in his jaw worked, betraying the vehemence behind his sober vow.

“Do you go by the strict letter of your contract? No give, here or there?” Her naturally inquisitive nature had taken over; the reporter had emerged, whether Daniel Strahan liked it or not.

He did not. His voice lowered, weighed down with tension. “Not when it comes to my personal life.” His eyes were as dark as they’d been at the start; all warmth had vanished. “Tell me,” he grew more pensive, “have
you
ever been interviewed?”

“Me?”
She smiled, turning a slim forefinger on herself. “Uh-uh. I’ve always been on the other side of the notebook, thank goodness.”

“You’re relieved?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly, then wised up to another trap. “I love
asking
questions. I love incorporating the answers into an intelligent piece.”

“But suppose, just for the sake of argument, someone wanted to write a feature on a successful feature writer. How would you feel?”

Nia sensed the coiled readiness in her opponent and chose her words carefully. “If that successful feature writer was me? Very flattered.”

The corner of his lip tightened at her evasion. “Would you give the interview?”

“That would depend on the soliciting publication.”

“What if it were
Eastern Edge?”

Nia couldn’t help but begin to share his subtle enjoyment of the verbal exchange. “I
work
for
Eastern Edge
. They’d never want to interview me.”

His sigh was an exaggerated one. “Obviously. Take any other magazine of a similar caliber. Would you give the interview?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Well, think about it now. Would you?”

“I suppose it would hinge on the purpose of the feature.”

The rhythm of the dialogue was broken by Daniel’s silence. His eyes held hers, locked in wordless challenge. Nia was a willing captive, held prisoner by her own curiosity as much as by his visual command. He was certainly a far cry from the egocentric character she’d anticipated interviewing when Bill had first given her the assignment. There was a keen mind at work here and a depth of personality to be plumbed. But Nia sensed also that Daniel Strahan
would
, in fact, refuse her; that thought made her all the more determined.

“You really won’t do it, will you?” she asked quietly.

He knew precisely what she was talking about. “No.” He leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair and propped a fist against his jaw. It was a more nonchalant pose, more relaxed.

“Am I boring you?” she asked sweetly.

“No.”

“You’re not going to fall asleep on me, are you? I understand that, with the hectic schedules you fellows follow, you grab sleep whenever you can.”

“Did David tell you that?”

It stunned her to realize that he must have. How else would she have known? Taking pity on her sudden alarm, Daniel ignored his own question as he shifted to a more attentive position.