Chapter Twenty-Two
“Blow me, I am hot.”
—coffee mug
Tensanne
AFTER PARKING IN the nearest parking garage, we make the short walk into the stadium. Workers are bustling around, getting everything ready for the game that begins in a few hours.
“Where do we go?” I ask, picking at my fingernails.
Seeing a worker dressed in a suit coat, we approach. “Excuse me,” Kohl says.
“Yes, may I help you?” the man asks.
“I’m supposed to warm up with the team today and I’m wondering if you could direct us where we need to be?”
“Mr. Kohl Black?”
“Yes, that’s me,” Kohl boasts.
The worker’s cold frown breaks into a grin. “Welcome, welcome,” he cheers. “Please, come this way,” he instructs, leading us around the enormous hallways.
“Mr. Black, I will show you to the locker room and Miss, I will show you to your seat. Mr. Curry is already on the court warming up.”
Kohl’s eyes are as large as saucers, “Steph Curry is already out there?” he asks his voice cracking.
“Yes. This is a rare opportunity, Mr. Black. Usually, the only people we allow down on the court are Make-A-Wish or contest winners. You must be pretty important, or know someone pretty important,” the worker tells us ushering us along.
Kohl’s eyes cloud in confusion.
I’m as confused as Kohl. Archer never said this was a big deal or a special request. How well does his dad know the contact within the organization? I owe Archer big time for this one. Seeing the excitement in my man warms everything inside me, knowing I made him this joyful makes me the happiest woman on the planet. Plus, I’m vying for the best girlfriend award with this gift.
“Here is where you can get changed, Mr. Black,” the man instructs pointing Kohl toward the locker room.
Giving me a quick kiss on the lips, “I’ll see you soon, Ten,” he calls jogging through the door. I can’t help but laugh at the child-like enthusiasm that’s on Kohl’s face. This is his dream come true and I’m elated that I could provide it for him.
“Now, Miss . . . ,” the man waits.
“Craig. My name is Tensanne Craig,” I finish.
“Miss Craig, let’s get you situated courtside,” he nods leading me into the stadium.
The floor looks so much smaller in real life than it does on the television. Not that I have a ton of experience, a few times I have glanced up from the book I’m reading while Kohl watches a game. Music rumbles through the arena, bright lights flash on the Jumbotron over the court and people bustle everywhere getting everything set up.
One player stands in the middle of the court, sinking basket after basket from unbelievable lengths. It’s impressive.
The man leads me to a set of padded folding chairs, lined next to seats the players sit in.
“One of the best seats in the house,” the man smiles, “Mr. Black will join you once warm-ups have finished.”
“Thank you,” I call as he hurries away.
Settling in, I grab a paperback out of my purse and set to reading. I don’t even notice when Kohl comes on to the court. Basketball is not my thing. I love that my man is an amazing athlete and everyone on campus adores him for it but I’m not going to pretend to like something because he does. I’ll support him and cheer for him, comfort him after he has a shitty game and celebrate with him when he breaks his own records but I will not be fake. We promised to always stay honest with each other and I think he secretly likes that I’m not drawn in by his star status.
Submerging myself in the fantasy playing out on the pages, I don’t notice when someone sits next to me.
“What’s a pretty lady like you doing sitting here all alone?” a deep voice rumbles next to me.
Turning to the sound, my eyes widen at the rugged alluring man sitting next to me. Tall, very tall. His legs stretched out in front of him go on forever. Dark skin, close-cropped hair, plump full lips turned up in smile and dark penetrating eyes that seem to be staring straight into my soul. Wearing warm up pants and a Pacers jersey, displaying the intricate pattern of ink that adorns his defined arms.
“I, uh, I, my boyfriend is out there warming up,” I stammer nodding to Kohl on the court.
“You’re not fascinated with the great Steph Curry?” he asks, mirth lighting his eyes.
“Is that who’s out there with Kohl?” I inquire glancing the men on the court. Kohl is matching this Steph guy shot for shot.
“You have the best seat in the house, a hall of fame shoe-in playing right in front of you and you’re sitting here reading a book,” he says shaking his head with a chuckle.
“Meh, basketball is not my thing. I know the ball goes into the net thingy if you want to score points but much more than that and I’m clueless,” I mutter timidly. Kicking myself mentally because I really should know more about the sport that Kohl loves so much. Even though I don’t like sports, as an intellectual woman I should at least take some time to learn the game.
“You have the main part down, I guess,” he chortles extending his hand, “I’m Paul George.”
Shaking his hand, “Hello, Paul, I’m Tensanne and that’s my boyfriend, Kohl, out there shooting.”
His eye brows shoot up and his smile grows while I shake his hand, “You really have no idea, huh?”
“No idea about what?”
“Wait, you’ll see,” he smirks, winking one dark eye at me.
Kohl keeps glancing my way in between shots, smiling. I give him a little wave and he shakes his head.
What the hell am I missing?
“Hey George, who’s that kid out there shooting?” a man calls from behind me.
Turning I see an older, tall, handsome blonde-haired man in an impeccable suit.
What’s with the tall men. I’m no slouch in height, for a woman, but these men are trees. That Paul guy stands and holy crap he’s gotta be pushing seven feet, the exact same size as the blonde in the suit.
“Hey, Mr. Bird. His names Kohl, uh Kohl . . . ,” Paul hesitates, turning to me for help.
“Black. His name’s Kohl Black. Power forward for the Jalapa State University Fighting Berries,” I finish, holding my chin high.
“What are his stats?” the blonde tower asks.
“Uh, I don’t know, but Kohl could tell you,” I answer lower my head, hating that I can’t rattle off the greatness of the man I love.
“He’s matching Curry shot for shot. Has he missed?” he asks Paul.
“Since I’ve been sitting here with this pretty lady, I haven’t seen him miss one,” Paul replies.
“Impressive,” the blonde man says nodding with appreciation, “Shouldn’t you be out there?”
“Yes, Sir,” Paul says. Grabbing the side of his pants, tearing away the material. The buttons on the sides popping revealing basketball shorts underneath.
Tossing his pants in my lap, he smiles, “It was a pleasure to meet you, young lady. Enjoy the game,” he says jogging to the court shaking Kohl’s hand.
Was I sitting next to a player this whole time?
Forgetting the man behind me, grabbing my phone, I google Paul George. My screen lights up with statistics and photos of one of the star players of the Indiana Pacers. The same man who was sitting with me for the last thirty minutes. I really need to get better acquainted with this sport, I think, feeling like a complete idiot.
The stadium starts to fill with spectators while the men rush off the court. Excitement buzzing in the air, the anticipation of the upcoming game runs like a current all around me. The smells of popcorn and cotton candy drift through the air making my mouth water. I wait, expecting Kohl to change quickly and join me in our seats.
The National Anthem plays, players are introduced and the game begins.
Still, I wait for Kohl.
The first period ends and cheerleaders are dancing on the floor. Surveying the stadium, my eyes searching, my heart wondering.
Where in the hell is he?