Chapter Two
Tamsin looked at herself in the mirror. Her thick set of chocolate brown curls looked as tame as they would ever be. She had conditioned, moisturized and combed her hair for several hours, and now it sat like a soft, curling halo around her face. She wanted to look professional for the interview, so she’d chosen a form-fitting gray dress that just about reached her knees, black stilettos for her feet and dull silver hoops. Her skin shone like bronze under the harsh yellow light of her dressing table. She was never keen on makeup, but today she wanted to look the very best she possibly could. A dark brown-red lipstick was all she had settled for. It made her already plump lips stand out even more, and her dark brown eyes shine brightly.
Giving herself the once over, Tamsin was finally ready. Her editor had given her Crosby’s address and she made her way there.
He lived in a mansion, in a secluded cul-de-sac in the wealthiest neighborhood of the city. She had never even ventured to this part of town before. His house had wide iron gates, which a security guard opened for her when she showed him her ID.
The driveway was pebbled and on either side beautifully manicured lawns spread. A marble fountain greeted her where she parked her car in front of the house.
Gingerly, Tamsin stepped out of her car, walked to the front door and rang the bell. She looked at her watch just as the door opened. She was right on time.
“Mr. Jones is expecting you,” an older lady, who was clearly the housekeeper, greeted her and led her through the foyer towards a living room. “Would you like something to drink, Ms. Clarkson?” she asked.
“Just a water would be fine,” Tamsin said with a smile, as she entered the sprawling living room. It was elegantly decorated, making it hard to tell that it was owned by a man who she assumed didn’t have much of an interest in decorating.
Tamsin sat at the edge of a lush leather couch and sank in unexpectedly. She managed to straighten herself just in time and cross her legs as a door at the other end of the room opened and Crosby walked in.
He was in a polo shirt and jeans. She was struck by how regular and comfortable he looked. His spiky blonde hair was neatly combed away from his face and was still damp, as if he had just had a shower. The thought of having watched him before in all his glorious nakedness returned to her.
Crosby walked towards her with a smile on his face and his hands dug into the pockets of his jeans.
“Good evening, Tamsin,” he said. His voice was smooth and deep. She tried to stand up but he indicated for her to stay seated. The housekeeper entered the room with a glass of cucumber water on a tray. She left it in front of Tamsin on the coffee table.
“Thank you, Mrs. Harley. That’ll be all. Please shut the door behind you.” Crosby smiled at his housekeeper as she left the room. “How have you been, Tamsin? You look well.” Crosby sat down across from her in an armchair.
“I’m good. You look well too, Mr. Jones,” she said, smoothing her dress. She wasn’t sure what to do with her hands. Her nervousness was mounting as she sensed his eyes on her.
“Call me Crosby. So, shall we begin? I did some research on you, Tamsin. Looks like this'll be your first big interview?” He had a smile on his face as he spoke, and he sat with his elbows on his knees, his legs parted as he leaned towards her. Tamsin bit down on her lip and raised her eyebrows. So he had found her out. He knew she was a rookie. “Don’t worry. It’s my first, too. We can both enter unchartered territory together,” Crosby said with a laugh, and Tamsin smirked too. He was surprisingly well spoken and she had already noticed a full book cabinet in the living room.
“Do you like to read?” she blurted out, unable to think of anything else that she could possibly say to fill in the silence.
Crosby followed her gaze to the cabinet and looked back at her to smile.
“I do. If I hadn’t started playing, I would have been able to complete my literature major,” he said. Tamsin raised an eyebrow. Crosby Jones, a bibliophile?
“You look surprised,” he said.
“I am. There aren’t that many lit majors in the basketball community,” Tamsin said, and immediately regretted it for fear of having offended him. But Crosby laughed and leaned in further.
“No, there aren’t. So what kind of questions do you want to ask me? I was thinking that we could decide on them first and then talk?” he said, and she nodded.
“Before we begin, Crosby, I am curious to know why you chose me to give this interview to,” she said, digging around in her tote for her notebook and recorder.
“Because I knew you were new to this, and you’d agree to my conditions,” he said. The smile on Tamsin’s face disappeared. “And also because I felt like I could trust you,” he added, and her cheeks were starting to feel warm again. What did Crosby Jones want from her? He couldn’t just genuinely be such a nice guy. She was going to play along. This was exactly the boost she needed for her career and she had nothing to lose.
“So what kind of questions did you have in mind?” she asked him, shifting in her seat so she could place the recorder on the coffee table between them. She saw him look at it and then back at her, the smile not leaving his face.
“I’d rather say what kind of questions I don’t want to be asked,” he said. His eyes were boring into her skull and she felt uncomfortable under his intense, green-eyed gaze. But Tamsin soldiered through.
“Like what?” she asked him, poising her pen over her notebook, ready to take notes.
“No questions about my father and nothing about my love life. That’s all,” he said, and sat back in the chair. Tamsin looked at him, hesitating. She wanted to ask about his father. The little that she or anyone else knew about Crosby was that his father had been his childhood coach. He had learned everything about basketball from his dad. Crosby’s love life was vital gossip information, too. Everyone wanted to know who America’s most eligible bachelor was dating now, what kind of women he liked, if he had plans of settling down.
“Also, no recording. You can take notes, but I don’t want you recording this interview,” Crosby added. Tamsin licked her lips and looked down at her notebook. If she agreed to this, she’d be agreeing to some of the most important aspects of her interview being removed.
Tamsin knew he was staring at her and looked up at him. Their eyes locked. His were bright and intense. He had challenged her. Tamsin’s were nervous. She wanted this interview so badly, even though he intimidated her.
“Fine,” she said, and reached for the recorder to put it back in her bag.
“Good girl,” he said, smiling widely and relaxing his shoulders. Tamsin smiled too. She wasn’t going to be taken for a ride. He might have forced her into agreeing to conditions that she wasn’t a fan of, but she was going to get her interview and she was going to make it the most explosive one that Crosby Jones had ever given.
“So tell me about your childhood, Crosby. What was little Crosby like?” Tamsin asked, ready to start taking notes. Crosby raised an eyebrow, apparently surprised that she was jumping right into it. His eyes flickered from her face to the neck of her dress where it plunged to reveal just a small part of her cleavage, then back to her face again.
“Little Crosby was not very different from big Crosby, I suppose,” he said with a laugh. “I had a normal childhood. Middle class working parents, a backyard, a dog, an older sister, two best friends at school.” He suddenly stood up and walked over to the French windows behind him. He stared out, his hands in his pockets again, as Tamsin scribbled in her notebook.
“What is your earliest memory as a child?” she asked. The sound of her pen scratching the paper was the only other sound in the room.
“My father fixing a basket on top of the garage door. It was too high for me, but he didn’t lower it,” he said, still staring out over the lawn outside.
“He wanted you to practice that way?” she asked him.
“No. He just couldn’t be bothered.” His answer was quick and he jerked around to look at her. “I said no questions about my father.”
“I didn’t ask,” Tamsin said, meeting his eyes defiantly. She knew what was going on. Crosby wanted desperately to talk to somebody about his father but didn’t want to acknowledge it.
“So your first memory is associated with basketball, but what other interests did you have?” She tried to change the subject.
“I liked reading, but I was never encouraged. The only way I could read was by sneaking into the library. My parents, especially my father, thought reading was a waste of time.” Crosby was looking at her as he spoke, with narrowed eyes. The smile on his face had disappeared, and he looked like he was angry.
“What else were you not allowed to do?” Tamsin asked him, making sure that she kept her surprise well hidden. This was a side of Crosby Jones that had never been portrayed in the media. He was always smiling on TV, always happy and celebratory.
“I wasn’t allowed to lose,” Crosby said. His voice had grown grave and he took a few steps towards her.
“At basketball?” she asked him, dropping her notebook into her lap. She couldn’t be sure what was happening. He was in a daze and she was suddenly afraid of what he might say or do.
“At anything. I was trained to be a winner, to be a human machine who could shoot baskets like a robot,” Crosby said, continuing to walk towards her. He was standing above her now, looking down. His eyes were focused on her face and Tamsin had to crane her neck back to look up at him. She didn’t know what to say.
“I lied to you, Tamsin. I didn’t ask you to come over here for just an interview. I asked you to come to my house because I wanted you. And I always get what I want. Because I always win.” His hands were still in his pockets and that smile was returning to his face. The anger was disappearing from his eyes. Tamsin felt mesmerized, like she was under some kind of spell.
“You want me?” she mumbled. Crosby continued to smile.
“I can give you your interview. Hell, you can ask me about my love life if you want. But you have to give me what I want first,” he said, and offered her his hand. Tamsin dropped her gaze from his face to his hand and gulped. Crosby Jones was offering himself to her. He wanted her. In exchange for an interview? She’d accept that offer even if the interview was not on the table.
“Deal,” she said, and licked her lips.