A Lova' Like No Otha' (10 page)

As we stood in the middle of the furnished apartment, checking it out, Chase asked, “Well, what do you think?”

I sighed. “Are you sure you really want us to share an apartment?”

“We did it in Miami.”

“Yeah, but we knew that was only temporary.”

“Well, this is temporary too. Until you get settled.”

I shook my head, unsure of so many things. I didn't know how long it would take for me to find a job and save enough for an apartment. And then, I had my feelings for Chase to contend with. And I knew he also had feelings for me. We were playing with fire.

“Don't worry, Zoe. We'll be fine.” He chuckled. “I'll keep you in line.”

I hit him playfully on his arm, glad that he always knew the right words to say.

The Seattle Storm had two starting wide receivers and three backups. Chase knew there was no way he'd be able to play that year.

“Then again, you never know,” I would say to him whenever he came home a bit down, trying to cheer him up. “Miracles do happen.”

As Chase got into the routine for the team, I spent my time making our apartment a home. Even though it was furnished, we needed the little things, like linen and small appliances. I wanted Chase to feel comfortable when he came home each night.

When I wasn't shopping, I spent my time searching the classifieds, determined to find my own way. As the days went by and nothing seemed to be coming my way, I had to fight to keep my sadness away from Chase. He had done too much for me—I couldn't now bring him down with my problems.

But while nothing seemed to be going my way, things were changing for Chase.

During practice on the day before their last preseason game, things began falling apart for the team. Steven Dunn, one of the backup receivers, was injured. Then Darryl Williams, another backup, began dropping balls. Coach Sykes immediately pulled him from the lineup.

“Only Michael Powell is left,” Chase said excitedly when he came home that night.

The next day, Chase and I watched the first game of the season from our apartment. We sat in stunned amazement, when with only two minutes into the game, Calvin Baker, the starting receiver, misread his play and missed his catch, which resulted in an interception. The ball was run back for a touchdown—for the opposing team.

“That guy's in trouble,” Chase muttered, referring to Calvin.

Chase was right. But it wasn't only Calvin who was in trouble. By halftime, the Storm was down, 21-0.

“I'm gonna take a quick shower,” Chase mumbled, shaking his head and rising from the couch. I watched as he lumbered into the bathroom. Even though he was just on the practice squad, I knew it bothered him to see his team getting trounced so badly.

After watching part of the halftime show, I went into the kitchen and made two sandwiches. I hoped that I could cheer up Chase with some food.

By the time I returned to the living room, the second half was starting. I sat, took a bite of my sandwich and watched as the opposing punter kicked the ball, sailing it far down the field. It looked like the Storm was going to begin deep in their territory.

But as the ball began its descent, two receivers tried to make the play, finally bumping into each other and fumbling the ball.

“Chase,” I yelled. “Come quick! You've got to see this!” I sat on the edge of the couch. When Chase didn't come out, I figured he couldn't hear me over the shower, so I ran to the bathroom door and banged on it. “You're not gonna believe the play I just saw, Chase. Hurry up so you can see the replay.”

Suddenly the door opened and Chase stood there, with only a towel wrapped around his waist. The man was unbelievably fine. I forgot all about the replay as my hands roamed over his muscular chest, and then my lips followed. His chest was as muscular as any woman could ever desire. His fingers combed through my hair and he pulled me closer. He lowered his lips, almost meeting mine, and I blinked.

Reality came crashing in. I was still standing in front of the closed door, breathing heavily at the scene that I'd created in my mind. The whole thing had been pure fantasy.

I wished that the seduction had not been a dream. But this wasn't the kind of relationship we had, and I needed to hold off on what I thought I wanted until the time was right.

While I stood catching my breath, the bathroom door opened, for real this time. Chase stood in front of me, completely dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, rubbing a towel over his wet hair. “What is it, Zoe?”

I grabbed his arm and pulled him into the living room to the television. “Look at this.”

He watched the replay in amazement. The announcers found it so amusing they showed it several times in slow motion, followed by a shot of the coach reaming the two receivers.

“Dang, that's a trip. I can't believe this.” Chase looked at me. “Zoe, do you know what this means?” He paused as if he couldn't believe what he was about to say. “I might be the third man on Monday.”

“Do you think you can handle it?” I asked with a grin.

“Watch me! I've worked hard for this, and you know it. If I get an opportunity, you better believe I'm gonna bust it wide open,” he exclaimed, bouncing onto the couch. “Sometimes you only get one chance for your dream.”

Suddenly he jumped up and threw his arms around me. He lifted me from the floor and swung me around.

I giggled. I'd never seem him so excited. I was excited too, but not just because of his opportunity. His strong arms felt so good around me. The embrace was incredible. I couldn't help but be all into him. But I knew I couldn't let him know it. Not yet.

“What?” he said as he put me down and looked into my face. I hadn't noticed that my grin was gone.

“Nothing. I'm happy for you.”

He stroked my cheek. “I'm really glad you're in my corner.”

Chase released me from his embrace. “I've got to get prayed up.” I watched him strut down the hall to his bedroom. That man had it going on, in more ways than one!

“I don't know why you want me to go to this luncheon thing tomorrow ” I complained as I dug through my closet trying to find
something
appropriate to wear.

“It's the first function of the season. All the wives, fiancées, girlfriends and significant others are invited.”

I don't fit into any of those categories,
I thought as I lifted two pantsuits from my closet and held them side by side.

“Besides,” Chase continued, “since you don't have any friends out here, I thought this would be a great place for you to make some new acquaintances.”

“Oh, goody,” I groaned, remembering how Tasha had talked about me to my hairdresser. She was supposed to be my best friend, so I truly didn't care about having a relationship with another female.

“What's wrong?” Chase asked, touching my shoulder to get my attention.

I stopped fidgeting and looked at him. “I'm not sure I want to meet any of the players' wives, Chase.”

“Why not?” He frowned.

“You don't understand women.” I sighed. “Sometimes they're for you; other times they're against you. One day they like you; the next day they're jealous. Quite frankly I can't figure women out.”

Chase laughed, obviously thinking I'd made a great joke.

I slumped onto my bed. I hadn't met any of the NFL wives, but I was sure the luncheon would be filled with rich, snooty, arrogant women. What would they think of me? What could I talk about? What would I possibly have in common with them? I didn't care about babies, bottles, curtains, drapes or china. I didn't have the big diamonds, fancy cars and huge houses they all did. I just wouldn't fit in.

And I never expected to fit in. I didn't know who I was yet, but I knew I didn't want to be like what I imagined the NFL wives to be. I wanted a job, regardless of the feelings I was having for Chase. Even if things worked out for us, and his career took off the way he wanted it to, I'd never want to stay at home and sit on my rump. The “shop till you drop” mentality just wasn't me. “How will I get there?” I asked, knowing we just had one rental car.

Quickly he responded, “I'ma get scooped up. You can drive the car. We'll have yours shipped next week.”

It took him a few more minutes, but Chase finally convinced me to go.

“Come on, do it for me.” Those were the words that finally did me in.

As I drove to the restaurant the following day, I tried to talk myself into believing that I was going to have a good time. But I couldn't do it. I was sure that I knew what it would be like. There was no way I could have a good time. But I was doing this for Chase.

I didn't feel any better when I slowed in front of the restaurant and the valet helped me from the car. I held my breath as I entered one of Seattle's most exclusive restaurants. I paused in the doorway and surveyed the place.

Tuxedoed waiters scurried around, balancing champagne and cocktails on silver trays. The tables were covered with white linen and lit by tiny candles in crystal holders. Ladies dressed in expensive clothes chatted in small clusters throughout the room. I glanced down at my plain old green dress and realized how dreadfully out of place I looked.

A petite brown-skinned girl in a simple skirt and blouse came up and flashed a pleasant smile. “Hi. I'm Shay Smith,” she said.

“Zoe Clarke.”

“Nice to meet you.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Uh-oh. Here comes the crew.” I followed her gaze and saw three women strutting toward us. They looked exactly like I'd expected snobby NFL wives to look, right down to their perfectly styled hair. “I've been avoiding them all day,” Shay said.

“What do you mean?” I questioned.

“You'll see.” She giggled.

“Hello,” one of the ladies said with a sugary voice. “And whose wives are you?”

I couldn't speak for Shay, but I said, “I'm not anyone's wife.”

“Fiancée?” the second woman asked.

Shay and I shook our heads.

The third woman peered at us like we were trespassers probably there to steal the restaurant's silverware. “Well, who
are
you with, girls?”

“I'm a good friend of Chase Farr's,” I said.

“Who?” the second lady asked, one eyebrow raised.

The first woman leaned closer to the other two and whispered loudly enough for Shay and me to hear: “He's on the practice squad.”

“Oh,” the ladies chorused.

The three of them looked around as if it were beneath their dignity to even be seen talking to us.

“Zoe,” Shay said with a playful grin, “allow me to introduce you to these fine ladies.” She pointed to the first woman who had spoken to us. “This is Mrs. Spalding.”

I knew all about superstar running back Bryce Spalding. He'd rushed for over a thousand yards the last two seasons.

“And this,” Shay said, nodding toward woman number two, “is Mrs. Peterson.” Defensive lineman Ricky Peterson was another superstar. That guy never missed a beat. You could count on him to sack the quarterback and recover a forced fumble every game. “He came from an HBC, you know,” Shay added, knowing I would recognize the lingo for a historically black college.

Shay then introduced me to Mrs. Simmons. Defensive back Dre Simmons played baseball in the off season, and he'd signed a $20 million contract with the Storm that year. I knew all this because Chase had schooled me on the team during the past week.

While Shay introduced me, none of the ladies made eye contact or even acknowledged that Shay was talking to them. Their eyes flitted around the room as if searching for other women to be with—besides us.

Finally Mrs. Simmons said, “Well, you ladies enjoy your time here. It's a seventeen-week season, but some people's stay here is significantly shorter than others.” They disappeared into the crowd without even a backward glance.

I was right about this luncheon, I thought, irritated by their attitude. How dare they treat us like dirt just because we weren't married to professional football players? Then again, I was glad they showed their true colors right away. I would never want to make friends with such people.

I turned to Shay. She looked ready to cry.

“Why are you lettin' those old goats get to you?” I asked.

“Because I really do want them to like me.”

“Why do you care?”

Shay sniffed. “When I came here last year to visit, my man was on the bench. His name is Byron Johnson by the way. He's getting a new jersey number. This year, he's getting some playing time. He's sure he's going to be the starter soon. But he hasn't been getting any respect around here. If those ladies are treating me like a nobody, maybe Byron isn't doing as well as he's been telling me.”

“Don't be so gloomy,” a gentle voice from behind us said. Shay and I turned around. “Hi, I'm Fawn Pierce, Frankie's wife.”

Wearing a blue suit, with sparkles blaring in my face, she was dressed as elegantly as many of the other women, but she looked different immediately. The way she smiled and looked at us let me know that she wasn't like the other wives I'd just met, although she had every right to be snooty. Her husband, Frankie Pierce, was the starting wide receiver, the only one who hadn't been injured, cut or benched. He'd been in the league for eight years, and a starter for six. He was a phenomenal athlete, and most people said he still hadn't come into his full potential.

“You can't let those biddies get to you,” Fawn began, and waved her hand in the air. “They treat everybody like that. But what you need to know is that not all players' wives are that cold.”

“It doesn't even make sense for them to talk to people the way they do.”

“Well, I'm not making excuses for them, but a lot of fiancées and girlfriends never become wives. They come and go like they're moving through a revolving door. It's not that we have to be careful who we talk to, but to be honest, it's hard to remember the names. And the fact is, you two are girlfriends—”

“I'm nobody's girlfriend,” I said, cutting her off. “I'm just a good friend.”

“Of whose?” she probed.

“Chase Farr.”

“Chase? Oh, Frankie likes him. Ever since camp he's been talking about Chase. He's always telling me what a great guy he is, and how excited he is about the possibility of Chase getting playing time soon.”