“Are you guys ready to order?” she asked impatiently, placing our cups on the table harder than necessary. Coke sloshed over, soaking the stack of napkins she had set down. “Oh, fuck me,” she muttered, wiping up the mess before it covered the entire table.

“Is that an invitation?” I said the words without giving conscious thought to them. It was like an instinct.

“No, thanks. There’s no telling what I would catch.”

Chad hollered as the rest of the guys erupted into laughter. “Shit. That’s harsh. You just got served, dude.”

Courtney ignored his comment and stood disdainfully, waiting for us to place our orders. It was as if one of our moms were standing in front of us.

Chad, Dave, and Collin cleared their throats and put in their orders, leaving me for last.

“I’ll take the half-court burger with extra cheese,” I ordered without opening the menu.

“Fries or tots?”

Chad grinned widely but refrained from commenting when I kicked him under the table again. “Tots,” I answered.

“Anything else?”

“How about your number?” I figured I might as well take the shot since she had already blasted me in front of everyone.

“Why?” For the first time, I had her undivided attention.

She didn’t say no, which was a small victory. I savored it for a second before answering, “Normal reasons—talking, for example, and so I can ask you out sometime.” I flashed my full-wattage smile, taking advantage of having her attention.

For a moment I thought I was making headway until she looked like she wanted to puke. Was the idea of dating me really that appalling?

“I don’t date jockstrap wearers.” She turned to leave before I lobbed back my response.

“Lucky for me, basketball players don’t wear jockstraps.”

She paused midstep but didn’t turn back to look at me.

“Bro, I’m going to fuck you up if you kick me again,” Chad threatened once she was out of earshot.

Collin snorted, clapping him on the back. “You wish. Dalton would wipe the floor with you. One time when we were all playing a game at the rec center, some dipshit thought he could keep pushing our man Dalton here. Dalton tolerated his shit for the first fifteen minutes or so, but then the dickhead knocked Dalton out of bounds with a cheap shot. My boy didn’t even hesitate. He clocked him so hard he was out for the count. It was classic, baby. Dalton is the fucking man.”

“What are you, his manager? Or maybe it’s something else. I didn’t know you swung from that tree. Do I need to leave you two alone?”

“Shit, I’d make you my bitch, fool. Believe that. Everyone wants a piece of the Collin Man,” Collin bragged, making a show of kissing his own biceps.

“Right. You and Tater Tots here are both shooting zero-for-two at the moment. I don’t need to kick Dalton’s ass, ’cause Courtney is doing it for me.”

“Fuck that,” I piped in. “I’m just getting started, Smalls. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be closing that shit soon enough.” It wasn’t meant to sound cocky, just confident based on my experience with the ladies.

chapter five

Courtney


I pushed through the swinging kitchen door and leaned against the wall, trying to clear my head. The dirty dishes slid off my tray, crashing to the floor. Mercifully they didn’t break. Dalton Thompson had just asked for my number. He had to be screwing with me. He’d never looked in my direction the whole time we were at Grant High together and now suddenly he was interested. I felt like I was being Punk’d.

“Wow, my princess. You break-a my dishes, you break-a my heart. What has my little tigress so upset?” Jimmy asked, drying his hands on his apron and slinging a fatherly arm across my shoulders. “Whose ass do I need to kick?”

I bit back a shaky smile. “Just some jockstrap who thinks he’s God’s gift to women. He can’t seem to take a hint.”

“Someone harassing you?” Chuck asked as he joined us. Standing six foot three, Chuck was a beast. His frame was like a grizzly bear’s, so when his chest puffed up, he was quite intimidating. I briefly entertained the idea of what Dalton would do if I sent Chuck out in my place. The thought definitely had its merits, and would give me some satisfaction.

At least it might dim his inviting smile, that hypnotic voice, and those warm eyes. That was the part of him I remembered the most. I’d always loved his eyes. There was something about seeing him in person again, and the sparkle in his eyes, that didn’t project from any of the banners hanging around campus.

I patted Chuck’s arm, smiling. “Easy, big fella. I’ll handle him.”

“Maybe I should go out there and emphasize that when a lady says no, she means no,” he added, cracking his knuckles. “Tell me who needs a little reminder.”

I laughed at the thought of Chuck confronting Dalton in my honor. That was all we needed, to start a brawl with the school’s basketball savior. Chuck’s sentiment was sweet but would be the end of Gruby’s. “It’s Dalton Thompson, but don’t worry. I can handle him.”

“The Dalton Thompson? All-American, conference champion, future lottery pick—that Dalton Thompson?”

“Seriously? You, too?” I snorted with disbelief. “Please tell me you’re not riding the Dalton bandwagon like everyone else around here.”

“Honey, I’d drive that bandwagon if they’d let me. Dalton is one of those once-in-a-generation types of players. He’s got more talent in his pinkie than everyone else on the team combined. We were lucky he chose to come here to play ball. Trust me, that kid has a huge future.”

“Oh Lord. So the guy is good at basketball. Why put him on such a pedestal?”

“Dalton isn’t just a phenom on the court, he’s a good guy. Believe me, with his talent he could be a prima donna, but he seems to have a good head on his shoulders. My nephew went to his basketball clinic last summer, and let me tell you, that guy has the patience of a saint. I love my nephew, but let’s face it. Seven-year-olds can be little shits. Any guy that can tolerate a gym full of rug rats at one time is some kind of kid whisperer. Trust me. There’s probably not many other players of his stature giving up their spare time to give free basketball clinics to kids.”

I digested Chuck’s words. Grudgingly I had to agree. It was a decent thing for Dalton to do.

“Do you really not like him?” Chuck inquired.

“I don’t dislike him, per se. He’s just not my favorite person. I’m not interested in becoming part of his entourage. And I definitely don’t consider myself a basketball groupie.”

Chuck laughed. “I can’t deny he seems to do well at attracting the ladies, but from what I’ve seen here, he’s respectful.”

“Respectful, meaning he doesn’t push them out of bed without saying good-bye first?” My snarkiness continued to amuse Chuck.

“Well, I can’t speak accurately about Dalton Thompson’s bedroom behavior. All I can offer is my opinion of what I know about the guy from observing him here. I’m just saying don’t judge the guy before you really get to know him. Regardless, I think my offer to intervene was a little premature. You obviously have a handle on the situation.” He winked at me, heading toward his office.

The problem was I did already know him. Taking the chicken’s way out, I talked Amanda into trading tables with me. I could tell she was puzzled by my request, but she readily agreed. She was more than happy to have a chance to chat it up with Collin.

I dropped off the check at the table I’d taken over from Amanda. The guy handed over his credit card without even checking the bill. That was a surefire sign that a customer was ready to go. I cashed him out swiftly before heading to my table of tipsy sorority girls who were flagging me down for another round of drinks.

“Another refill, ladies?” I asked, grabbing the empty margarita pitcher.

“Woot, woot, heck yeah. Keep it flowing,” one of the girls hollered, flashing a wide smile. At least they were happy drinkers.

“Coming right up.” I left them to their not-so-private conversation about some guy who they heard had piercings in some interestingly inconspicuous places.

“Hey, Paul. Can I get another pitcher for table five?” I perched myself on one of the barstools to wait.

“Sure thing. Give me a few seconds.” He filled two shot glasses for a couple of women dressed in business suits. The lanyards around their necks indicated they worked for the university in some capacity. They clinked glasses before sucking down the contents. One of them started coughing as the whiskey burned a path down her throat, making her friend laugh while she patted her on the back. “You’ll get used to it,” she chortled. “If we’re going to play with the big boys, we need to be able to hang, or they’ll crush us.” She signaled Paul, who was putting the finishing touches on my margaritas.

“What’s up with that?” I whispered.

“Battle of the sexes. From what I gather, the school treats the men a little better than the women.”

“Shocking,” I said sarcastically. The world treated men and women differently. Why should our university be any different? Especially when it came to athletics. You could be at the highest end of the spectrum in academics, but you were still a second-class citizen when compared to big-time sports programs. “I’m surprised the president of the university doesn’t walk around with his lips stuck to the players’ asses.”

“Who says he doesn’t? You have any idea how much money the sports programs generate for the school? As harsh as that sounds, the money allows for programs at the college that might be cut otherwise,” he pointed out, sliding over to refill the ladies’ shot glasses.