King of the Court

“Oh…I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” She’s back to wringing out that towel nervously. “Sorry.”

“No.” I shake my head quickly, warring with the urge to reach across the counter and grab her hand. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to be surrounded by yes-people. Nearly everyone in my life is there because I’m paying them to be or because they need me in some way: my managers, my teammates, my friends, my father. Everyone’s motives are fucked up and convoluted and honestly, I’ve lost track of who I can even trust beyond Anthony and Trey. I thought I could trust Shelby, and that backfired most of all.

“Don’t apologize,” I insist, holding her gaze to let her know how deadly serious I am.

She cracks a tiny smile, props her forearms on the counter, and leans toward me. I catch a whiff of her shampoo, and it’s such a subtle form of seduction. She doesn’t even understand her sex appeal. Just by her being here, looking like that, I want her.

“Do you wanna be my friend?” she asks, point-blank.

“What?”

The question catches me off guard, namely because I was just thinking some very unfriendly thoughts about her.

She barks out a laugh and shakes her head. “Sheesh. You should get a load of your face right now. You don’t have to look so offended.”

“No. I’m…”

“I just thought you looked like you could use a friend, so I was going to volunteer myself.”

“Right.”

“Forget I said anything.”

“So the offer’s off the table?”

“Oh yeah, buddy. Consider it fully revoked.” She laughs again, shaking her head as she walks away to get back to work.

I never told her my order, but a few minutes later, the diner’s cook slides a plate of food through the gap between the kitchen and the back counter and calls Raelynn for an order up.

She drops it in front of me with a teasing look.

“There you go. Same breakfast you had that first day. I took the liberty of adding some grits. And yes, they’re probably floating in a whole stick of butter, but that’s the Southern way,” she says with a wink before turning, about to walk away.

“Have you eaten?”

She frowns as she looks back at me.

“You want some of this?” I continue.

Her speculation is evident in the tightly pinched brows. “Why are you trying to feed me?”

Because I’m worried no one else is, I want to say. Because you look like you need it.

“You feel bad about turnin’ down my friendship?” she continues lightheartedly as the bell over the door chimes. I turn back to watch a few old men walk in together, slowly ambling toward a booth in the corner.

“I’ll be over with coffee,” Raelynn tells them. “Anything special today?”

“No, no. Just same ol’ same ol’,” one of them says, speaking for the group.

“You doin’ good, Birdie?” the tallest one asks.

I watch her smile light up the whole damn place. “Just peachy. Thanks.”

“And your nan? How’s she gettin’ on?”

Her smile falters for a split second before she recovers as she takes the coffee pot from its warming pad and heads in their direction. I strain my ears to listen to her reply.

“Good. Yeah. She’s okay.”

“Y’know I went down to try to see her a few days ago, and Kay told me you had restricted visitors for her.”

“Yeah. It’s…disorienting for her,” she says sadly. “She’s starting to get real confused with people coming in and out.”

“I’m sorry, Birdie.”

“Don’t be. You know her, John. She wouldn’t want any of us worrying about her. In fact, if she knew we were here gossiping about her, she’d chew my hide. Now hold tight. I’ll go put in y’all’s order with Cook.”

From then on, Raelynn hustles around the diner as more regulars start to pour in. Every one of them greets her with kindness, and she doles it right back out to them. Is that why she works here? Does she like seeing these people every morning? I’d ask, but she doesn’t have time to stop and talk to me anymore. I’m so focused on her I don’t even catch the reporter until he takes the seat beside mine at the counter.

“Ben Castillo, you eat here often?”

Jesus Christ.

I nearly lose my cool.

At this point in my career, the media knows how private I am. I don’t indulge them with titillating stories or potential sound bites. I answer their postgame questions as succinctly as possible, bordering on rude. Yet still, they try.

Without a word, I grab cash out of my wallet, slide it under my half-finished plate, and leave, not bothering to say a word to Raelynn on the way out. It’s better if that reporter doesn’t notice her at all.

Chapter Nine

Raelynn

I’m one of Pavlov’s dogs. Every time the bell dings and the diner door swings open, I whip my head around, expecting to see Ben walk in and take his seat at the counter. I’m surprised I haven’t sprained my neck in the two days since he’s been in for breakfast. It’s getting pretty annoying and I’m trying to get myself to stop caring if he visits me again or not, but it’s no use. I’m living on a thread of hope that he’ll be back.