Playing for Love Read online

  I’ve instructed Franklin Kremer to move your things to my house in Beverly Hills. As CEO, you’re to live there for the next year. No extended vacations or multiple overnight visits with friends and .

  Leave Pasadena for the paparazzi capital of the world? Call her father’s house home? Live down the paparazzi clogged street from Tom Cruise’s fortress and around the corner from David Beckham’s similarly stalked showplace?

  Blue mumbled something about hating dogs. Cora stormed out.

  Amber fell back into the chair, certain she could hear her father’s laughter.

  Chapter 3

  Evan let the hot shower spray pound out the abuse the team had inflicted as he listened to the locker room talk around the corner. Most athletes gossiped worse than girls. These guys didn’t realize that Evan could hear every word. Or maybe they just didn’t care.

  “He’s faster than you, Jablone.”

  “Like you didn’t huff and puff keepin’ up with him, too, Bell.” Jablone snapped back.

  Evan’s cheekbone throbbed where Jablone had surprised him with an elbow.

  “I heard he tore up the European leagues,” someone else offered.

  “Then why’d he come back after just a few years? To play streetball? I don’t think so. Damn sissy game, that is.”

  Annoyance knotted Evan’s gut. These NBA prima donnas wouldn’t last one game on the street. They played with brute force. Streetballers were all about speed and finesse. The best streetball games were played one-on-one or in small units of two or three. That was a lot of court to cover without a seven footer hanging out in front of the basket to save your ass if you were slow on defense.

  “Fool. AND1 paid Oliver big figures and put him on TV. I ain’t seen nobody propositionin’ you.” The southern twang sounded like the first unit gold-toothed point guard from Mississippi, Antoine Watson.

  “Dude, he’s got more endorsements than all of us combined. What does he need the NBA for? If I was him I’d move to a beach in Mexico where you can get all the international pussy you want.”

  Plenty of time for that later. Evan had dreamed of playing in the NBA since he was a little kid. He’d been drafted out of college, but circumstances had forced him to take the long way around to the legitimate court. No one was taking his shot at NBA greatness away from him this time.

  “All this talk is not right. Oliver is our team member now. We must treat him with respect.”

  The chorus of “Shut the fuck up, Ren,” aimed at the gangly Korean was nearly deafening and made Evan smile, which sent his cheekbone pinging with pain.

  “Leave Ren alone. I don’t care where Oliver came from as long as he helps us win.”

  At least Evan had two supporters on the team.

  “Spoken like the fuck whose job isn’t on the line.”

  “What? Would you rather Jack Gordon bring in that Richard Simmons look-alike who made us spout all that choose-voice crap before games last year?”

  “The same crap that got us to the playoffs?”

  “They ain’t bringin’ those Rules back,” Antoine drawled. “That Dooley dude died last week.”

  Evan’s fingers were puckered. He’d had enough and turned off the shower. By the time he’d toweled off and returned to the locker room, everyone was gone. But they’d left him a present.

  There was a small pile in front of Evan’s locker, all products he endorsed – a crushed Mountain Dew can, a flattened Yolo energy bar, a shredded And1 T-shirt and a discarded stick of All Man deodorant, which had been used to write the word choke on the safe above his locker space.

  Evan’s feet felt heavy, slowing with step-faltering annoyance.

  “Welcome to the NBA,” Evan murmured kicking the pile aside before tugging on a pair of mid-thigh boxer briefs. Let them have their fun. He sure as hell wouldn’t post a Twitter update about this.

  “Yeah. Welcome to the NBA.” Smirking in a vaguely familiar way, the newcomer stood two or three inches taller than Evan, flaunting his self-felt superiority with his expensive hair cut, designer tie and custom suit. The guy was either management or the press, although most reporters didn’t bother suiting up anymore. “Did you think it’d be easy?”

  His voice struck a chord, too. Evan tried to place him and failed, chalking up his faulty memory to too many recent head injuries.

  As if he had all the time in the world to bull-shit with this suit, Evan casually put on a pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt. “It’s never easy.” Most times you had to prove yourself both on and off the court, spill a little blood, blacken an eye or two, exchange insults.

  “I’m surprised you admit it.” The guy leaned against a locker at the end of Evan’s row, studying him with a look that laid claim to respect Evan didn’t think he deserved. “I’m the Flash’s play-by-play radio announcer now.”

  Now? So they had met before. Evan stuffed his sweaty practice clothes in a laundry bag with number thirty-five on it, cinched the top and tossed it into the corner with the rest of the team’s bags for the equipment manager to wash. “Trying to work your way into TV?”

  “Isn’t everyone? Except you, that is.” The weight of the man’s stare was heavy with expectation.

  Finally, Evan gave in. “What?”

  The guy unwound a slow grin. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “Should I? I prefer to forget assholes.” Evan stowed his basketball shoes in his sports bag. He never left his good shoes anywhere. That would be like Batman leaving home without his mask and cape.

  “Back at UCLA I did all your dirty work on defense and you dished me the ball when you couldn’t score. I made your game look good and what did I get? Nothing.”

  Memories resurfaced along with chest constricting guilt and a name. “Brock Hamilton.” He’d been a year behind Evan at UCLA and the most vocal of Evan’s detractors when Evan left the program after his junior season to pursue a career in the NBA. “Eight years is a long time to hold a grudge.”

  “Eight years is nothing. You left us when we were on the brink of achieving everything that’s important – championship rings, NBA offers, seven figure salaries.”

  “I’m not responsible for anyone’s success but my own.” That was Evan’s father talking, trying to quell remorse from the past. And failing.

  “You made that abundantly clear when you decided your knee was too bruised to play in the championship game. Pussies like you don’t last in the big league.”

  “Thanks for the insight.” Evan pushed past Brock toward the door, but his former teammate’s words followed him out into the hallway.

  “Enjoy your time, because it’s going to be short. And I’m in a position to make sure everyone knows what a loser you are when you fail.”

  For several minutes Amber let herself be hypnotized by the pendulum in Mr. Kremer’s grandfather clock, trying to work up the courage to speak. Fear congealed in Amber’s throat like burnt crème brûlée.

  If she walked away now, she’d never sleep again for wondering if Blue or Cora or someone else was going to unearth some emotionally wrenching and acutely embarrassing video of her. She couldn’t go through that again. If she wanted to remain hidden from the public long term, she was going to have to step back into Tinsel Town’s harsh glare for a few days. A week, tops.

  Blue stewed in the corner, while their father’s lawyer carefully organized paper clips on his desk as if they were dominoes and he sat in the game room at the retirement center.

  Clearing her throat caught Mr. Kremer’s attention. “I’ll sign.”

  Blue nearly fell over as he spun around. “Seriously?” Blue studied Amber. And then his eyes narrowed. “What role did Dad give you?”

  His attitude squared her shoulders. Amber tucked her letter back in its envelope. She had an advantage over Blue. She’d have a better chance of finding Dooley’s private stash of confidences while living in his home. “What does it matter?”

  Mr. Kremer rearranged the paper clips into a fan shape.<
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  “So he put you in charge.” Blue’s gaze was granite-hard and just as cold. “Damn it, Amber. This is our future. Don’t just jump in to check a box on the conditions of a deranged man’s will.”

  “Dad was eccentric, not crazy.” The words came out too quickly to convince anyone.

  “He showed up in a safari outfit at the last James Bond movie premier. He wore an Elvis wig when he went grocery shopping.”

  “He had to keep the Rules in the press somehow.” And in recent years he’d been unable to tap Amber for celebrity buzz.

  “Like that explains the last twenty years.” Blue scoffed. “Oh, I forgot I was talking to the Paparazzi Terminator.”

  “It was a teenage phase,” Amber said defensively, flinging the Pashmina over her shoulder as if she could just as easily toss aside her painful youth. Who would have thought a couple of misadjusted sprinklers and slingshot launched water balloons would create such a hullabaloo? Certainly not an overexposed teenage girl. Back then, those meager defenses helped Amber stop running every time she noticed a camera lens aimed her way. “Besides, a little water never hurt anyone.”

  “Just their cameras.” Blue tossed his hands. “I can’t believe you’re still so gullible.”

  “Do you plan on contesting the will?” Mr. Kremer asked Blue. “I can only advise against it.”

  “You would,” Blue glared at him, then turned on Amber. “You’re so naïve. This isn’t about taking care of us. It’s about making sure Dad’s legacy lives on. Who’s going to coach A-list celebs? Be featured in the Foundation’s DVDs?”

  Amber shrank back. “Not me.”

  “That’s right. Not you. Not Cora. Not me.” Blue crossed his arms. “What happens to your little dividend checks if the Dooley Foundation goes under?”

  Amber’s mouth dried out. She wet her lips and turned to Mr. Franklin. “We’re just going to be figureheads. Dad has life coaches on staff.”

  “Not anymore,” her father’s lawyer admitted, tugging at his wide, Nixon-era pea green tie.

  Amber tried again. “He has staff…”

  He swept the paper clips into a desk drawer. “A part-time administrative assistant. She’s working on her degree at UCLA.”

  Frowning, Amber recalled the bustle in the office years ago. “But – ”

  “Actually.” Mr. Kremer looked pained. “Your father hadn’t produced a DVD or a book in years. His business had dwindled down to only a few high profile clients.”

  The smaller royalty checks. The desperate phone calls from Dooley.

  “So…?” Clutching her Pashmina, Amber couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  Mr. Kremer nodded. “The Dooley Foundation might not survive another year, which is why if you don’t agree to his terms your dividend checks will cease.”

  Amber had to swallow twice before she could speak. “But – ”

  “Now she sees the light.” Blue rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “You knew all along,” Amber accused Blue. Her livelihood, her sense of security, her dusty stock of water pistols were all on the line here.

  Blue shook his head. “Rumors.”

  “So you’ll walk away,” Amber surmised, with a sinking feeling. She had no hope of turning the Foundation around without experienced life coaches on staff. And she couldn’t manage the Foundation without someone like Blue, who had a business degree and job experience. Although Amber backed several ventures in the Hollywood/ Beverly Hills area, she had no input in the day-to-day management of the businesses she invested in. Given the proper funding, she could hire someone more qualified to run the Dooley Foundation, but there was that issue of confidentiality, virtually non-existent in this town.

  It was Blue or nothing.

  Blue pierced Amber with a shattered ego stare. “I could do this, but I don’t need to. He made you CEO.”

  Men and their pride. “It’s just a title. He liked it more than president or founder.” But Amber stopped short of relinquishing that title to Blue. Something wouldn’t allow her to bow down to him.

  CEO? What was she thinking?

  About the past. And the future. She’d show up, find and destroy those tapes and files, but she wouldn’t sell herself out for the Foundation again. Protecting her privacy was priority one. Meeting her sales goal was priority number two.

  She needed Blue, but there was only one way to get him on board.

  Blackmail.

  Chapter 4

  “I’m glad to see you brought the girls out today.” Trina Hurst, Amber’s best friend and one of her business partners, gestured toward Amber’s chest as the two women walked up the front walk to Dooley Rule’s house.

  Amber’s spine stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean. This is a conservative dress.” Barely a hint of cleavage.

  “It’s beautiful.” Trina was quick to agree. “And you’re a knockout in it because you didn’t cover it up. No shawl, no sweater, no shrug, no security blanket. I can actually see your figure.”

  Amber smirked, regretting having left her Pashmina in the car on the circular drive.

  “Don’t give me that look.” Trina bent to gather up a week’s worth of newspapers, her chin length brown hair swinging over her delicate features. “You were blessed with a va-va-voom body. Wish that I had some of your curves.” Trina glanced down at her A-cups. “You shouldn’t let a dickhead like Kent Decklin make you feel like you need to hide your body, especially now that you’ll be working with clients in L.A. Powerful women need to make a powerful impression. So you’ve got big boobs. So Kent Decklin exposed them to the world. Get over it. There’s plenty of time to dress like a grandma when you’re a grandma.”

  “Nobody cares how I dress in Pasadena.” Amber sniffed, but unpleasant memories of the intimate video Kent had posted to YouTube intruded anyway. “Besides, you’re assuming I’m going to take an active role in the company.”

  “Honey, you’re the CEO. You can’t get any more active than that. And besides,” Trina added slyly. “Who would put their future in Blue’s hands?”

  Before Amber could admit she’d done exactly that, a black SUV slowed as it passed and then pulled over to the curb in front of the house next door. The passenger window dropped smoothly and a large black camera lens poked out.

  “Why couldn’t Tom Cruise or the Beckhams be home?” Amber wondered aloud. There were swarms of paparazzi around their homes when they were in residence. This straggler had meandered up the road and gotten lucky when he spotted them.

  Amber hurried to the door, missing her Pashmina.

  The front door to the house opened soundlessly with her key.

  Amber stood on the threshold, half expecting her father to appear in the hallway, booming out a welcome or grousing about something she’d refused to do. She hadn’t been inside her father’s house in nearly three years. It seemed wrong to return now when so much with her father was unresolved.

  Did Dad love me?

  Amber would never get an answer. That’s why after leaving the lawyer’s office she’d swung by Tingle, the Westwood bar Amber co-owned with Trina, to drag her along for moral support.

  Trina nudged Amber inside, closed the door and stepped onto the foyer’s dark chocolate tile, gazing around in amazement and dropping the newspapers in the process. “White shag carpet, orange and black club chairs, plaid fur footstool, gold marbled mirror tiles on the wall.” Trina glanced back at Amber, a fine-boned pixie in a white denim mini-skirt, blue tie-dyed tank top and simple heeled sandals who almost fit into the time warp they’d stepped into. “Are you sure this isn’t Austin Powers’ house?”

  Amber worked up the courage to take a step inside. “You missed the Rules carved in the mantel over the fireplace. If it was Austin Powers’ house there would be no rules.”

  “Pun intended, I’m sure.” Trina ventured deeper into the house. Stopped. Pointed. “Oh, my God. The kitchen...”

  Amber couldn’t move past the foyer, couldn’t take her eyes from the hallway branch to
the left that led to her father’s wing. “Still have those white plastic tulip chairs with red seat cushions?”

  “Yeah, baby, yeah,” Trina did a poor Austin Powers imitation as she disappeared into the kitchen. “And orange Formica countertops.”

  “Same old, same old.” Amber sighed and quit looking for her dad.

  Trina returned, nodding. “Crazy time machine we stepped into. When you described it I expected old, faded and tacky. This is designer sixties. It’s actually kind of cool.” Trina peered at Amber. “Are you okay?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.” Amber couldn’t have done this alone. She had no idea what they’d find in the house, much less how she’d live here for a year. “Thanks for coming, Trina.”

  “It’s not like I had a lot to do today.” Which was a lie. Trina managed Tingle and tended bar, which suited her energetic, burst into song personality. Amber was just the silent partner, providing initial funding from her Dooley Foundation nest egg to help start up the business. After two years and a long recession, Tingle was about to start turning a modest profit.

  Amber and Trina had met at fat camp when they were fifteen, bonded by the need for unconditional love food gave them. Their friendship had endured the high school drama bestowed upon misfits, Amber’s meteoric affair and breakup with Kent Decklin and Trina’s bout with anorexia. Amber had checked Trina into a clinic for the eating disorder after Trina’s twin brother was killed in Iraq. At five foot three inches, Trina was now a one-hundred and ten pound weakling, but she’d regained her appetite and will to live.

  Dooley Rule had wanted to feature Trina in an infomercial after her recovery (as if his Rules had anything to do with that), but Amber had put her foot down. They’d argued about it in this very foyer in front of one of her dad’s tacky, seventies-style drawings. Her father framed and displayed his artwork as if it was priceless. Peter Max, Dooley wasn’t, but he used the same cosmic 1960s style and vibrant colors in his art.