Take A Knee Read online

  TAKE A KNEE

  By Xyla Turner

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my family, friends, and readers! Without you, none of this is possible.

  Thank you, Phoenix Pen, for your editing genius.

  Thanks to my Protector, Provider and Provision Way Maker.

  Much Love,

  Xyla Turner

  Chapter 1

  Zora McCoy

  “Ladies, I need to see you moving your asses up and down this damn court. If you think the New York Liberty is going to care that, you’re tired and out of shape, you’ve lost your goddamn minds. This is the big leagues ladies,” I belted throughout the large arena size court. “Now, let’s go and move your asses!”

  Huffing, sighs, heavy breathing, sneakers scuffing the paint job of the waxed floor could be heard by the twenty-three players on the Philadelphia Vikings Basketball Team. The Semi-Pro team was an up and coming one, next to the Women’s National Basketball Association (WNBA). I was a ten-year coach but only served for two years with the Vikings.

  My goal was to get the national championship, move the ladies to the next division, even if that was overseas and make history. No female coach had the opportunity to take a semi-pro league and produce national and international players in this industry. It was still fairly new, and we were not as advanced as the National Basketball Association (NBA). They had been around for centuries, but we had made strides, thanks to the trailblazers like Sheryl Swoopes, Lisa Leslie and Dawn Staley.

  The practice ended with Shawn, the center, on the foul line, taking a free throw shot. If she missed, everyone ran three suicides. This was the method of running from the baseline to the foul line, back to the baseline, then to the half court line, then back to the baseline, then to the other foul line, then back to the baseline, and finally running to the other baseline, back to our baseline. If she made the shot, practice was over, if she missed it, three suicides for everyone.

  Her teammates encouraged her to take her time, but Shawn would always get in her head and usually choked under pressure. This fact had lost us several games, which is why my coaching staff and I picked, our number five, center player to end the practice on the free throw line. She had to get better, and it was my mission to have her be a dominating force and the best damn free throw shooter in the league.

  “Come on Shawn, you got this girl,” Joyce, the team captain yelled.

  Her hands were over her head, attempting to catch her breath the proper way. The rest of the team looked at Shawn with pleading eyes and hoped etched in their tired expressions.

  “Come on girl,” someone else yelled. “Up and swoosh.”

  Shawn looked around, her eyes met mine. I took two steps on the court.

  “Shawn, focus on the task at hand. No one else matters at this point.” I slapped my clipboard. “It’s you, the ball and the net. Focus!”

  She jerked her head with a quick nod, bounced the ball three times, exhaled and slowly raised the twenty-eight-point five-inch basketball in front of her face with her elbow in a ninety-degree angle. With one last inhale, Shawn bent her knees, and moved up in a fluid motion, extended her elbow as her body jumped to release the ball. It was the perfect form, her arched hand remained in the air along with the accompanying wrist snap to ensure it landed.

  The ball soared, it spun, and then it completely skipped the rim and hit the bottom of the net.

  “Son of a fucking bitch,” someone moaned, and all twenty-three players lined up to run their three suicides.

  It sucked but so did life. We play hard, but work harder.

  Twenty-three sweaty women came together in a huddle surrounding me. Some panting, some wheezing and others breathing heavy through their noses and mouths.

  I began my end of practice comments. “I know we’ve been working extremely hard and keep it up. This will pay off as the season progresses. We are five weeks out before our opener and Liberty is not one we can take lightly. They are playing us because we’re no threat to them. So, they think. Let’s show them different.” A few of the women grunted and nodded their heads. “Let’s get it in.”

  We all extended our hands together, one on top of the other, then Joyce started, “We play hard…”

  The women pushed down their hands then chanted, “But we work harder!”

  Everyone was dismissed.

  “See you all tomorrow. Get some rest and soak up.” I called as they left to gather their belongings and hit the showers.

  “Coach, you got a second?” my assistant coach of defense, Sasha called.

  “Yeah.” I nodded as I made my way to the side court bench. “What's on your mind?”

  Sasha was a strong player I worked with a while ago, at the college level. She was an All-American that had the skills to play at the professional level, but something put her off track. She’d always stayed connected with me. So, when she was available, I immediately scooped her up. Her leadership skills were a valued asset to any team she played with or coached. Therefore, hiring her wasn't even a thought.

  “I've been going over some press plays I think would be an added addition to our arsenal. Duke ran them successfully. I've watched twenty-five games already that could help us even with the pitfalls of how to recover if they break it,” she said holding her bag, signaling the videos were stored in her case. “Care to see them so you can give your thoughts?”

  This was why I liked Sasha. That woman was on her shit. She saw a problem, researched it thoroughly, and came with a solution. It was no secret our defense suffered. A lot due to a lack of coaches not focusing on the proper techniques. We came up in the Catholic league and they thrived on fundamentals. Shit like how to make a proper layup and foul shot. Now, it was about running up the score and going bucket for bucket.

  Nobody played defense, and this was something I set about to change with the Vikings.

  “Yes, most definitely. Tomorrow before practice, let's meet in my office, so we can look it over.”

  Sasha’s eyes beamed with satisfaction. “Okay, great. I'll come by early.”

  “Sounds good.” I nodded and went to my office.

  It was spacious, sterile but filled with many accolades of my accomplishments. They used to be my pride and joy but the older I grew, the more I no longer cared for the trophies, the competition or what I could get. It mattered, but that wasn't the sole purpose. I had other ambitions as I approached my forties. Trophies couldn't follow me to the grave, so they seemed to be more of a credential. Like a degree. I had two, so I knew. Your credentials, opened doors experience wouldn't. It was a necessary evil, but I was fortunate enough to have both the experience and degrees. Though, my struggle was my greatest teacher.

  Sitting at my large oak desk, with the leather bound executive chair, I twirled the elegant, card stock invitation with gold embroidered words for the sports party held at the owner’s penthouse in downtown Philly. All the leadership, staff, coaches from the various leagues would be there. It was a huge networking opportunity, but I was not in the mood for mingling. A tall glass of wine, a good book or game would work and my trusty battery-operated boyfriend. I did not want to schmooze, smile, prance around or act social.

  I wasn't.

  More importantly, I did not want to have to deal with Desiree flirting with me through the goddamn night. The girl couldn't take a hint. Shit, she couldn't even take blunt as I had been in the past. She heard me tell a guy that I didn't date men. In her mind, that meant I dated women, which wasn't true either. I didn't date anyone. There were no plans to join a convent, but I'd sworn off all men since I had enough duds in my lifetime.

  ***

  Two hours later, I entered the penthouse. The buzzing of busybodies, wine, hors d'oeuvres, wait staff, suits and little black
dresses surrounded me. I, on the other hand, wore a tailored, two-piece black suit with a burnt orange top and burnt orange shoe boots to match. I was very much like Matlock regarding my wardrobe. At least twenty different kinds of black pants suits hung in my closet and were rotated frequently. It was simple, and that was what I liked. People would tease but I never took offense. That was me and I made no apologies for it.

  Moving through the crowd, I was looking for the owner of the Vikings, Pete Wiser. My face had to be seen, before I left so the thought was to do that early enough, so I could make a speedy exit.

  After nabbing a glass of white wine from the waiter in a three-piece outfit, I took a sip. The goal was to look casual and as if I had been in attendance for more than three minutes.

  “Zora,” Pete called with his balding hair flipped to the side to cover his pasty white head. “There you are.”

  He was standing with three other men, one I didn't know but the other two were owners. The blond owned the Leopards women’s team, and the other was the owner for the Warriors. The blondish red haired man's gaze seared into me for some reason. His name was Harvey Black, and everyone knew it because he made sure they did.

  No fear was my motto, but I almost took a step back with the intensity of his stare. It was like he knew me or knew something about me. The right side of his goatee covered lips were turned into a knowing smirk and his reddish beard followed along. He was slightly tanned with clear skin and a pair of deep set, whiskey-colored flecked eyes. His profile spoke of power and ageless strength and the shadow of his beard gave him an even more manly aura.

  The man did not blink, move or even turn his head. Just openly stared at me.

  “Pete, how are you?” I moved to him as he held out his arm to embrace me for a hug that I returned.

  This placed me directly across from the man with the unfaltering eye contact. Pete placed his hand on my forearm and announced, “Gentlemen, I know you know Zora McCoy, but what you didn't know is she's going to win me a championship this year.”

  Pete said this with the utmost of confidence, which was odd because we were knocked out in the second round of the finals last season. We lost some promising talent, but we gained a few veterans. We always hoped to make it to the championship, but it wasn't a discussion. Therefore, I raised one eyebrow as I smiled at the men nodding their heads toward me with warm smiles.

  Well, two had a warm smile and the other handsome one was kindled with what seemed like a secret expression.

  “That's good to know.” I laughed.

  Two of the men chuckled.

  “Oh, she didn't know yet.” Pete kept the joke going.

  Getting to the playoffs was always in the plan but being the winner takes all, involved strategic planning and more importantly hard ass work from all involved—our defense, offense, strength exercising, stamina and the godforsaken injuries. It wasn't impossible, hell, it was the goal, not just for the players but the coaches too. This is why our strategy was as rigid as it was now.

  I almost laughed out loud again at Pete’s words. His job was to fill seats, win medals and please fans. A sure-fire way to do all three was to have his team win. If he wanted to get me on board with his plan for the things I could control, like winning the whole chip, his point was taken.

  “Zora.” Pete waved his hand around. “You know Ralph, Thomas and Harvey.”

  I shook each man’s hand with a smile and a nod. They knew of me but we had never spoke. Yet, Mr. Dark Eyes, decided to speak.

  “I don't have the pleasure of knowing the beautiful and accomplished Miss McCoy, but I've most definitely heard of her amazing work.” Harvey notes with a quick glass lift of the white wine.

  “All I know, is I want to take a page out of your book,” Ralph, owner of the Leopards said. “Getting your ladies to get their master degrees or start non-profits, so they are employable after their tenure. Fucking, genius.”

  Pete beamed and chimed in, “Hell, Zora hit the mark with that one. Brilliant. The league should follow suit. Some of these agents don't look out for the big picture. Swear that's why we got Shaw, Christy and Monique. If nobody else gives a damn about their career, their coach will.”

  The men nodded their heads.

  I took that opportunity to grab my phone from my clutch and say, “Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure, but I can only take so much talk about myself.”

  They laughed, bid their farewells, and I moved toward the bar.

  “Gin and tonic,” I called to the eager lady bartender.

  “Yes, Ms. McCoy.” She batted her eyes and smiled. “Coming right up.”

  Hell.

  Feeling a presence next to me, I slowly turned around and of course, Desiree was sitting there looking like she was worth all the money she spent on that designer dress. She was pretty, no one could deny her that, and she was excellent at her job. If I was interested, yeah, this would be a no-brainer, but she didn't do it for me.

  “Zora,” Desiree cooed. “You ready for me yet?”

  I laughed.

  “Well, hello to you too.” My mouth turned up into a smirk.

  “We’re beyond pleasantries.” She moved in close, with her shoulder touching mine. Her expensive perfume crawling up my nose. It was clear the fragrance was made to entice and seduce. “I’d much rather scream your name while your head is buried between my thighs.”

  This had me turning around to face her. Her caramel skin tone, with light freckles, gave her an exotic air. Long legs, toned body at every muscled curve, like she worked specifically on it. Arms like Michelle Obama, sculpted calves you knew could run for miles. Long, straight, hair reached the middle of her back. She was a nice-looking woman, but I wasn’t into that.

  “I'm not sure you want to bark up this tree.” I leaned back away from her. “Told you before I don’t swing that way.

  The bartender took that time to slide my drink to me and when I went to grab it, her fingers lingered. This move did not miss Desiree who quickly turned into me, slid her hand up to my face and tilted my head toward her.

  “I absolutely want to bark up this tree.” She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow while her other arm moving down my suit jacket.

  Her shit was getting beyond the limit. She was the type that needed a forceful hand. Some bitches did not understand no. My other problem, in and out of the league, is because I am a basketball coach or player, there is an assumption about my sexuality. Then, there is the other assumption because I’m more of a pants suit type of woman because the idea of stockings simply makes me itch.

  Out the corner of my eyes, I saw a hulking figure staring at us. Harvey was openly watching our exchange, or just me. I moved Desiree away from me and said again, “What part of I don’t go that way, don’t you get?”

  “Such a fucking tease.” She tugged at the bottom of her dress.

  I held up my glass toward her. “Have a good night.”

  I swirled around to see Harvey staring at me with a wry smirk on his face. It was a knowing, calculating look and fuck if that didn't make my panties wet. I stood there, openly looking back, knowing—he'd make me cry out his name. The man would work at it until he succeeded. It was evident and written all of his face that contained those hidden secrets. For fucks sake, he was a goddamn owner of a semi-professional, athletic team, a rival one at that. That was only one issue. The other was the package I knew he had between those legs. It was in his stance that smirk and those eyes. Plus, he was an arrogant, self-righteous, and exuded power from his mere presence.

  Having enough of the cat and mouse games with Desiree, Harvey and the wet panties the man inspired, I went to retrieve my coat and called for my car.

  My battery-operated boyfriend was about to be utilized.

  A lot.

  Chapter 2

  Zora McCoy

  A lazy Sunday is what I planned.

  After practice, I came to my office, to find the owner there. Not Pete, my owner, but Harvey, the other one from Friday night.
He was sitting in the seat meant for visitors across my desk with his overcoat draped over his thighs. It was such a power move even if he was merely sitting in my chair.

  When his gaze met mine, he smiled, then stood up to greet me. Dressed in a tailored, navy suit with a gold, striped tie and a handkerchief square poking from his jacket breast pocket.

  “Miss McCoy.” He held out his large hand for me to take but I stared at it first since he was in my office without my consent.

  “How may I help you?” I asked while taking his hand.

  To my surprise, the man's large hand enveloped mine. He lifted our joined fingers to kiss my knuckles, causing all sorts of spasms to run through my body. Those whiskey-colored eyes were on me, adding to the sensation.

  That was weird.

  Slowly, I removed my hand from his grasp and asked again, “How may I help you?”

  “It's probably more along the lines of I'm here to help you.” His wicked mouth, framed with a neatly manicured mustache and completed with a thick beard, slid into a knowing smile.

  All the thoughts that clouded my mind were not good. Why the cloak and dagger approach by setting no appointment and this assumption he could help me. I did not want to know. I wasn't a messy person and honestly, if he needed something from me, there were channels that needed activated before he came straight to me. Plus, the kissing of my hand, those lingering eyes, and that damn smile made me wonder.

  “Whatever I need, I will speak to my owner. No one else's,” I emphasized.

  “On the contrary,” he said with renewed enthusiasm. Though, his smooth voice elevated with excitement, the man still held the same facial expression. “You need a championship and I can give you that. This will get you that position at the national level and, my dear, that's what you'll get from this owner, not your current one.”

  Shit.

  I knew it.

  Nothing good.

  I shook my head and sank into my leather chair.