19
T
he dinner went surprisingly well. Apparently wanting to get back into his coach’s good graces, Matt could have been the poster boy for manners. It also helped that they spent the entire time talking basketball, with Dillon Slater giving him a crash course on the new plays he’d be expected to learn.
It was, Claire thought, as she dunked a piece of bread into the tasty white wine, butter, and garlic clam sauce, as if a lightbulb had been turned on inside Matt. The dark cloud that had been hovering over his head for weeks had lifted, and he’d visibly brightened by the time they got to the marionberry pie she’d picked up at Take the Cake bakery for dessert.
As good as it was to see her son engaged and excited about something again, she was also pleased by how well the coach was bringing Matt out of himself. There were times, when they were arguing about who was the best point guard in history, when he almost seemed like his old self.
“It’s gotta be Steve Nash,” Matt insisted. “He kicks ass in every category.”
“Which is why he was voted league MVP twice,” Dillon allowed. “I’ll bet a lot of college coaches are kicking themselves for not having seen his potential when he graduated high school. Santa Clara College was the only school that offered him a scholarship.”
“No way. That’s just wrong.” The shocked look on Matt’s face told Claire he hadn’t known that fact. She also saw a bit of worry move across his eyes.
“It’s a tough world out there,” the coach said as she topped off his coffee mug.
He had such pretty brown-and-gold eyes, Claire considered as she felt herself falling back into them yet again. And those long thick lashes were decidedly unfair to have been gifted to a man. While days would go by before she’d think to put on makeup, if she didn’t at least put mascara on her blond lashes, they didn’t show up.
“There are more than a million basketball players in men’s and women’s high school basketball programs,” Dillon said.
That dragged Claire back to the conversation she’d only partly been listening to. “That many?”
“Give or take. Some years more, some a bit less. Want to guess how many get college scholarships?” he asked Matt.
“Half?”
“On average, fifty thousand.”
“No—”
Claire knew that before Matt had wisely shut his mouth, he’d been about to argue that number. She also knew that the coach wouldn’t have any reason to make it up.
“That’s only five percent,” she said.
Despite the seriousness of the bombshell he’d just dropped on her kitchen, he smiled. “And she does math, too.”
“
You
got a scholarship,” Matt said, finding his voice again. Though it cracked slightly. And his complexion had paled.
“I did. Of course, I knew a trick.”
“What trick?”
“I knew I wasn’t big or tall enough to be all that attractive to the pros. So, right there, that diminished my odds, because college programs like having their players go pro because it adds to the number of students wanting to go there. And gets them better professors.”
“Surely you’re not saying professors actually decide whether they’ll teach at a school by how big a success its sports program is?” Claire asked.
Foregoing a traditional college, after graduating from BHHS, Claire had enrolled in Los Angeles’ Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising. Which, needless to say, had not had any sports program.
“Not every person. And not every program, obviously. But yeah, it makes a difference, because a strong team brings in more money in ticket sales and merchandise. Which, in turn, results in more income to the college or university, which, in turn, is available for professor salaries.”
“That’s depressing,” she said.
“It’s reality.”
“So what did you do?” Matt asked.
“I gave up the idea of getting any sports scholarship and went for an academic one instead.”
“
You
were a scholar-athlete,” Claire reminded her son.
“I think the definitive word there, Mom, is
were
.”
“Surely any college admission officer would overlook your grades slipping during such a difficult personal time.”
“Fortunately,” Dillon said, “your slide happened the last semester of last year and the beginning of this year. You still have nearly three years to pull your GPA up.”
“See?” Claire said. “You just need to work a little harder. You’re so smart, Matt. If you apply yourself to your schoolwork the way you do to basketball, I know you can achieve any goal you set for yourself.”
Hadn’t her own mother given her the same pep talk when the home pregnancy test had shown that little plus sign her freshman year at FIDM? Having Matt had admittedly altered her path to that glittery life she’d imagined for herself—having her jewelry routinely appear on red carpet runways, and partying with the stars—but with her mother’s help she’d managed to complete her BA in five years and had been able to have a career while being a stay-at-home mom. And she wouldn’t trade her son for all the Oscar parties in the world.
“None of us get a free pass,” the coach backed her up. “Having strong grades is a big advantage in the recruiting process. An academic scholarship doesn’t count against the total allowed to the athletic department, which right away makes you attractive to coaches, because it frees up one for a player whose grades might not be that high. Plus, there’s an additional advantage that a lot of programs are looking for players they might not have taken otherwise, if those players can help raise the team GPA.”
“Well.” What had begun as distressing news could turn out to be a good thing. Claire had been trying to get Matt focused back on his schoolwork. But he’d remained stubbornly resistant to all her appeals. Now it appeared Coach Slater had shown up at her door with the magic bullet. “That’s certainly something to think about, isn’t it, honey?”
“Yeah.” Matt’s voice was flat and more subdued than it had been earlier. She suspected that was, in large part, due to hearing those cold hard numbers.
He’d always been assured he was the best. That the basketball world was his oyster. She knew he didn’t apply himself as much as he could in school because, quite frankly, he hadn’t needed to. He’d been born with a gift for math and sciences—which she’d long ago decided he must have gotten from his paternal genes because everyone in her family tended to live in their creative right brains. Even Matt’s father, who’d come to FIDM from New York City to guest lecture on merchandising, had been a textile designer before joining the executive ranks of some of the world’s top fashion businesses. With those genes woven through his DNA, Claire had never figured out where his sports talent had come from.
Apparently Dillon picked up on Matt’s decided lack of enthusiasm, because he tabled the discussion for now.
“So, anyway, getting back to our point guard rankings, as good as Nash is—and he’s damn good—he’s got a way to go before I’ll credit him with being the best. It’d help if he had some finals experience under his belt. The obvious choice is Magic Johnson, who’s definitely in the running, because not only could he shoot, he could play all positions when he was needed, which made him a total team player. But I’m still going with Isiah Thomas.”
“You said everyone needs to be able to play both sides of the ball,” Matt argued. Claire couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad thing that he was willing to argue with his coach. On one hand, he’d gotten a bit of his spark back; on the other, would Dillon Slater see it as a lack of respect? “Thomas was a scoring guard.”
“He let Joe Dumars handle more of the passing,” the coach allowed. “But he could and did play both offense and defense. Where he stood out, in my opinion, is his absolute leadership. Who could forget the sixth game in the 1988 finals against the Lakers when he checked himself back in the game and hobbled through the fourth quarter on a badly sprained ankle, scoring twenty-five points?”
“I wasn’t even born in 1988,” Matt pointed out. “But even
I
know Detroit lost that game.”
“In points, maybe. But not only does Thomas hold the record, that game he reached a level he’d never reached before by winning. He didn’t give up. He stayed mentally strong and persevered. And that never-say-die, never-give-up-the-dream mentality was, hands down, what made him the best.”
Claire knew Matt believed she’d snatched his dream away from him by bringing him to Shelter Bay. Now she could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he considered the coach’s words.
“You think I gave up?” he asked.
“You’ve been through a lot, but I wouldn’t have put you on the team if I didn’t think you had it in you to be the kind of leader Thomas was. I’m not going to lie, Templeton. It’s going to be a rough year. The other teams in the league are used to the Dolphins providing a check in their win column. And yeah, that’s not going to change overnight. But we’re damn well going to make them work for it. And if we do, we can win more than we lose.”
“Hell with that,” Matt said. “I think we’re going to state.”
The coach surprised Claire by laughing at that. A deep, rich sound that slipped beneath her skin and sent alarm bells jangling.
20
Ka
ra Conway Douchett couldn’t deny that she loved having her husband sitting beside her in the birthing class. While many of the other husbands were obviously uncomfortable surrounded by so many females talking about detailed physical aspects of pregnancy, Sax seemed to take it all in stride.
Also, there was the fact, she thought with wifely pride, that he was, hands down, the sexiest man in the room. None of the others, in her opinion, came close.
With Jared deployed for most of her previous pregnancy, she hadn’t experienced much sexual desire over all those months. Or perhaps, she thought, since sex hadn’t been available, she simply hadn’t allowed herself to think about it.
Lately, perhaps because her body was being flooded with hormones, she thought about sex. A lot.
Although the exercises they were being led through were designed to encourage relaxation, the feel of her husband’s strong hands moving across her shoulders, then down her spine to the small of her back, then lower still, did nothing to instill calm.
By the time they made it all the way through the series of prescribed exercises, she was ready to jump him.
“All right.” The nurse-practitioner leading the class said the fatal words. “It’s time for the video.”
* * *
“I’m so sorry,” Kara said as she and Sax got back into the car. After what he’d told her about his harrowing missions in Iraq and Afghanistan, his reaction to the birthing video came as a total surprise.
“You’re laughing at me.” He leaned his head against the back of the driver’s seat. His face was an unhealthy shade of gray and his eyes were closed.
“I am not,” she said, not quite truthfully.
Hearing the faint crack in her voice, he turned his head toward her, opened his eyes a slit, and shot her a glare. “Admit it. You’re finding this funny.”
“Funny?” She put a hand on her chest, as if shocked by the accusation, even as she struggled to rein in the laughter that was rising in her throat. “Of course not.” Okay, that was a lie. “What kind of woman would find humor in watching a grown man swoon in public?”
“I didn’t swoon,” Sax replied, repeating what he’d said at the time. “Or faint, or pass out, or any other smart-ass euphemisms you might be thinking up. I merely became a little light-headed.”
“I stand corrected.” She pressed her lips together but knew he could spot the laughter in her eyes. She’d never been able to get anything past this man. Not even back when he’d been close friends with her high school sweetheart, who’d later become her first—and now late—husband.
Then, making it worse, a laugh escaped her lips.
“It wasn’t all that funny,” he muttered.
“It wasn’t. Not really.” Her breaking into full-fledged, out-of-control laughter belied her words. “I’m sorry,” she said again. Taking a deep breath, she struggled for calm. “It’s the hormones,” she insisted. “They swing all over the place these days.
“But if you could’ve seen your face!” She choked, then managed, just barely, to recover. “I honestly didn’t have any idea the video was going to be so graphic.”
Having given birth before, Kara had taken the video in stride, while many of the women in the room had looked horrified. Admittedly, Sax hadn’t been the only husband who’d looked ill. He was, however, the only SEAL present, which undoubtedly had upped his embarrassment level.
Remembering another time, when Kara had been pregnant with Trey and wept in his arms, there was no way Sax was going to be annoyed at her musical laughter now.
But when those graphic images flashed through his mind again, Sax’s stomach lurched. Willing himself not to hurl, he dragged his hands down his still-sweaty face.
“It wasn’t the film,” he lied. “I think it was the sliders I had for lunch. The shrimp must’ve been bad.”
“I had them, too,” she pointed out. “And I’m feeling fine. Besides, the Crab Shack always gets one hundred percent on its state health inspections. Jake doesn’t serve bad seafood.”
She really was enjoying this. As he viewed the sparkle in his wife’s eyes and the curve of her luscious lips, Sax decided that he’d be willing to toss his cookies every day to make this woman he’d loved seemingly forever laugh.
Never one to dwell on failure, he put the humiliating incident behind him. “I think,” he said, “that since this time of day between the lunch rush and dinner is always slow at Bon Temps, and Cody’s capable of handling whatever business drifts in, maybe I ought to go home and crash in bed for a while.”
Kara had not only been Shelter Bay High School’s valedictorian; she was still one of the smartest people he’d ever known. While she might not have realized that he’d fallen head over heels in love with her their senior year of high school, she’d definitely had his number since they’d both landed back in town.
“You just want to have sex.”
“I always want to have sex with you.” That was the absolute truth.
“Me, too.” Her teasing voice had slipped into that warm silky tone he immediately recognized.
“Guess it’s the hormones,” he repeated her earlier claim.
“No.” She unfastened her seat belt long enough to lean across the center console and touch her lips to his. “It’s you. And since Trey won’t be home from school for another hour . . .”
The kiss, which was short and potent and included a hot bit of tongue teasing, cleared his head and sent the blood flowing south.
“Sweetheart,” Sax said as he twisted the key in the ignition while she buckled up again, “you are playing my tune.”