Standing there, watching the kids as they walked up, waited and then crossed when he signaled, the boys’ mother appeared the epitome of patience. He admired that.
“Brian didn’t eat last night.”
The kids were gone. And so, apparently, was her composure.
“And you’re going to blame that on me.”
“No, of course not.” He wondered how she could make him feel as though he’d been reprimanded without ever changing the tone of her voice. Must be the judge thing.
He’d been surprised when the boys had told them their mother was a judge.
In juvenile court.
Kirk knew more about that whole scene than he cared to remember.
“Brian’s problem existed long before basketball tryouts came along,” she continued after another group of kids had passed. “But I’m absolutely sure that being on the team would help him more than anything else. I’m begging you to reconsider your position on this, Mr. Chandler. Give Brian that open spot.”
Begging. Strong word.
“Please,” she said when Kirk played the negotiation technique that almost always won—remaining silent. “It’s a junior-high team. It’s not like their ranking is going to matter.”
“Tell that to the boys who spend every afternoon in the gym working their butts off.”
Kirk was watching the kids coming up the street, but he caught the slight movement of her high heels beneath the calf-length navy dress as she shifted on the sidewalk.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, then sighed loudly, showing a definite lack of patience as another group of youngsters came to the corner.
As always, Kirk called them by name. Joked with them. Remembered something about them so they’d know he paid attention. And cared.
“I can’t let Brian on the team,” he said as soon as they had the corner to themselves again. “For the reasons I’ve already given you.”
“Mr. Chandler—”
“Ms. Simms,” Kirk interrupted. “I just saw your boys. They were both smiling, eager. Brian was bragging about being less sore than his brother. And they were both looking forward to practice this afternoon.” He met her gaze—and ignored the thread of something personal that seemed to pass between them. “They didn’t seem to be aware that they were quitting basketball.”
“I didn’t tell them you’d refused to have Brian on the team.”
“He was at practice yesterday. He knew.”
“We didn’t discuss basketball last night.”
“Could it be that the boys want to continue with Blake on the team and Brian practicing but are afraid to tell you so?”
She shook her head, breaking eye contact with him, sending an uncharacteristic bolt of compassion straight through him.
He didn’t allow himself to feel when he went after what he knew was right. He just went.
“My boys always expect me to do what I say I’m going to do. I’m sure they’re certain I’ll get Brian on the team.”
“You won’t.”
Another group of kids approached. She looked at her watch. He wondered if court still started at eight-thirty. If so, she’d need to hurry.
“Brian’s the only one who can get Brian on that team. If you let him.”
The thirteen-year-old girls gathered at the corner, discussing some outrageous-sounding gossip about a boy and girl making it in the girls’ bathroom, were obviously completely unaware of the adults sharing their space.
“At another time, I might be willing to try your little experiment, Mr. Chandler, but there’s too much resting on this for me to take a chance—”
“They’re coming to practice this afternoon,” he interrupted automatically, going in for the close without conscious thought.
“I’ll tell them tonight.”
“Why don’t you come to practice?” Kirk delivered the alternative that his instincts were telling him would finish this off. “See what we’re doing, what Brian’s doing. Watch him on the court with the other boys. And then make your decision.”
She glanced at her watch. Flipped a curl over her shoulder. Met his gaze.
“Okay.”
He wasn’t surprised—had known she’d capitulate. And hated that he’d known. Hated that he could so easily manipulate people. Perhaps Steve McDonald had made a mistake when he’d given Kirk this opportunity to fulfill his promise to his daughter.
“But I’m going to be watching closely, Mr. Chandler.”
“I hope so.”
Kirk suspected he didn’t just mean her son’s behavior on the basketball court.
And he suspected she didn’t, either.
VALERIE FOLLOWED the sounds of squeaking shoes and bouncing balls thundering up and down hard-wood to the gymnasium that afternoon. At four o’clock she was later than she’d wanted to be, but a calendar she’d expected to be light had run longer than she’d anticipated. She’d missed the first hour of practice.
Kirk Chandler looked over as she slid in the side door and walked softly on her two-inch navy pumps to the row of bleachers pulled out from the wall. She tucked her dress beneath her and sat. Other than nodding acknowledgment, he didn’t miss a beat, blowing a whistle and yelling at the boys to pass.
“Dribble! Pass!” he hollered again and again as the boys went repeatedly through a pattern spread out in pairs across the gym floor.
She spotted both twins immediately. Their black curly hair made them easily distinguishable, even though they were dressed just like every other twelve-year-old boy there. In the middle of the room, Blake faced a boy who was half a foot taller, but somehow managed to keep the ball from the other player as he dribbled. It was the footwork, just as Chandler had said.
“Good, Brian,” Chandler called out. “Nice pass.”
Brian was on the end. Partnered with—Abraham Billings.
Almost instantly, Valerie was transported outside herself, outside the experience, detached. There was a gym. Boys at practice. Her sons working hard.
As far as she’d been aware, her boys didn’t know Abraham. Not that she’d asked. She didn’t bring her work home with her.
And in her year on the bench, she hadn’t run into even one of her kids outside the courtroom.
“Eduardo, like this!” Chandler palmed a basketball and dribbled quickly, showing the boy how to
