Red (Hell’s Jury MC #5)

9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

Stella

Practice is grueling and even more so because I’m upsetting Coach who is like a wicked witch when crossed. The problem is that my head won’t stay in the game. It keeps wandering to Lachlan. Some of it’s because of the guilt I’m feeling and my overwhelming need to make it up to him, but more because Lachlan said he was feeling me. And better yet, I had the courage to tell him I was feeling him back.

“Stella, get moving!” Coach yells as I miss an easy pass.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I reply as I refocus on practice. I’m on the red team today and Lexie and Selma are on the blues. Lexie grins and winks at me as we form up after the second half. She’s totally taking advantage of my distraction by coming at me hard. I mean, I know it’s what we’re supposed to do and if she didn’t, Coach would be yelling at her too. But still, she could ease up.

The basketball hits me in the head as I fail to catch the pass, then Lexie hip checks me, grabs the ball and scores from the centerline.

“Traitor,” I whisper to her.

“Shaq with bad knees,” she whispers back.

“Rodman in a wedding dress.”

Coach interrupts our banter. “Stella, get over here. Selma, keep the game going.” She stalks out of the gym expecting me to follow, which of course I do.

Once we’re in the hall, she whips around to face me. “What the hell is going on?”

“Umm, it’s personal.” It’s a feeble answer but she’d punch me if I tried to explain the whole spider-in-hair debacle.

“What did I say at the beginning of this season? How many times have I said it?”

“I know. I know. Park your personal shit at the door.” She didn’t actually say ‘shit’ but I’m feeling passive-aggressive today.

“And?”

And what? Apparently she expects more than that. “Ummm. And….”

She sucks air between her teeth. “You are a professional basketball player so act like one. You’re playing on a Div 1 team in the NCAA. You know how elite that is. Anything you do now has to be about basketball. Sleep, breathe, eat. The only distraction are your courses and all you have to do there is get decent marks so you don’t get suspended from the team. You hear me? No boys, no work, no partying.”

“I’m not,” I say feeling guilty because a boy is the reason for the distraction.

She sees right through me. “If you want to make it to the WNBA, you’re going to have to work as hard as Selma and Lexie.”

Whoa! Normally I’m very even keel but questioning my work ethic is going too far. “I do work hard, at least as hard as they do and maybe more so because we both know I’ll never be as good as Selma and Lexie. No matter what I do, I’m never gonna play for the WNBA.”

She shakes her head at me. “If you think that, then why the hell are you here?”

My eyes sting. “Because I love basketball. Just because I’m not good enough for the national league doesn’t mean I can’t compete at a high level.”

Coach purses her lips. In a warning voice, she says, “I want the best on this team. I want winners. I don’t care if you love basketball, you have to love winning too. And that right there is the biggest problem you have. You could be as good as anyone on that team, but you’re not competitive enough.”

She’s right about me not being as competitive enough. I love the game, I love playing. Frankly, I’m not sure I care whether I win or lose as long as I’m on the court. “I’m sorry,” I say as I think of Lachlan. He’s right. All I do is say sorry.

“Get your shit together and get back inside. You’re letting everyone on the team down and if you don’t start playing like you want to win, I’ll cut you.”

It’s never a good idea to talk back to your coach, but I can’t help getting defensive. “I’m distracted today. That’s a first for me and you’re turning this into a dramatic lesson on my ability in general.” I start walking backwards away from her. “Won’t happen again, Coach!”

Another unwise thing to do is to walk out in the middle of practice unless you’re hurling into a bucket, but I doubt she’ll cut me from the team despite her threats. I might not be a superstar, but I do have talent, more than a lot of Div 1 players. I just don’t have the stuff to take me all the way. I know it, Coach knows it. Selma and Lexie know it. Mom and dad don’t know it or won’t accept it, but that’s a different battle.

I sit in my car, shoulders slumped, tears threatening. I love basketball — really, truly love it and some days I convince myself that if I trained harder I could make it. But I already work as hard as I can. Anymore and I would start to take a downhill trajectory. I’ve seen it happen to other players. They want it so bad, they overdo training and injure themselves. Then they’re out for the season, which generally ruins their chances at making the national league.

I shudder at the thought as I start my car. I’m gonna have to suck up to Coach, keep my focus. Don’t let Lachlan sidetrack me. I start backing out of my parking space and almost hit a passing car. The driver rewards me with a loud, angry honk. I’m in trouble if the simple thought of him distracts me.

I head to my place, a two-bedroom apartment that Lex and I share. It’s not in the best area of Sagebrush, but I love it. It gives me independence, gives me breathing space from my parents. Selma spends most nights with Graham, her boyfriend, which is why she lives on campus and not at home. My mother would have a fit if she thought Selma was sexually active.

May as well skip my classes, I tell myself. If I can’t concentrate on basketball, I sure as hell won’t be able to concentrate on Renaissance English Lit.

What am I going to do with the rest of the day?

At home, I shovel a yogurt in my mouth, eat an apple, then take a shower and change into street clothes, which in my world means a long-sleeved Wolf Pack jersey, a pair of loose women’s fleece straight-leg joggers and my favorite pair of black high-tops. I check myself out in the mirror. Most pants and shorts bag on me because my waist is not much smaller than my hips. However, I’ve got a happening ass and super-hot legs.

I throw my wet towel and sports gear into the laundry basket as I think of Lachlan. Maybe I should go over to his house, look at the front door. I don’t have to worry about my parents being home. Mom’s a dentist and dad’s a prosecutor for the state and it’s Monday so both will be hard at it.

Mind made up, I head over and park in my parent’s driveway. Lachlan’s house seems deserted, which disappoints me, but also gives me a chance to check out the front door. Maybe I can surprise him by fixing it while he’s out.

But Stella, you have no fix-it skills.

I didn’t used to be able to walk either and look where I am now.

Even pre-kicked-in, Lachlan’s front door needed some serious TLC. It’s weather-beaten with big gaps in the peeling paint. The gigantic boot-sized hole just under the door handle kind of seals the deal. It’s barely hanging on the frame and it weirds me out that someone would leave their house without locking up.

Except of course, he can’t lock up.

And he doesn’t have much to steal.

But when he does, then he’ll need a door that locks.

Except that didn’t exactly stop him from kicking in his door.

I sit cross-legged on the cement step and stare at the door, trying to work out a plan, but my mind wanders. Lachlan’s so big, not just height, but muscles everywhere. And he’s feeling me. I start thinking about how I’d set up the house. It needs paint, the carpet replaced with hardwood, and I’d also put a walk-in closet in the bedroom.

I imagine my clothes inside that closet next to his and blush and sigh all at the same time.

Settle down, Stella. I barely know him and so far what I do know doesn’t reflect that well on him. He swears like a man possessed by the devil, he’s threatened me, kicked in his front door.

On the other hand, he seemed to handle my break-in of his house reasonably well.

I bring my attention back to the door. I should take the door off the hinges first, then the hinges off the door frame. Then remove the lock because it’ll have to go into the new door.

But what if new doors already come with hinges and locks?

No, that doesn’t make sense.

Or does it?

I google it and immediately head down that long, dark tunnel of life-wasting information. There are so many doors to choose from, some of them pre-hung, which I snicker at. I wonder if Red is pre-hung? Yeah, he’s gotta be pre-hung given that the rest of him is massive.

Stella, get back on task.

Right. I don’t know what pre-hung actually means in relation to doors, but Google assumes I do and doesn’t explain.

And the cost! Even the cheapest is out of my price range unless I stop eating for three months or sell my virginity. And the cheap ones are too ugly for Lachlan’s house. He needs a door that’s as masculine as he is. One that shouts, I’m a lion. Hear me fuckin’ roar!

The doors definitely do not come with locks, so I’ll have to buy one. A handle too.

I climb to my feet and inspect the lock and door handle. They seem good enough for a do-over, which is regrettable, because mom and dad’s new lock is dope and Lachlan deserves one like that. I don’t know what to do about the door frame. Maybe just leave it.

First things first, I’m gonna need tools. Screwdriver for sure, maybe a drill. Possibly a hammer or prybar. And I’ll need a measuring tape so I know the dimensions when I buy the door with my non-existent money.

I jog across the street and let myself into the house with the brand-new shiny key that mom gave me for the brand-new shiny lock, which I desperately want to put on Lachlan’s door.

I easily find the tools I need because dad is so organized he puts expiration dates on the spice jars.

On the way back across the street, I have a hilarious idea. What if I put Lachlan’s door on our house and mom and dad’s door on Lachlan’s house? Mom would so freak out. It’s a cookie cutter neighborhood and all the houses are similar in age and layout, so probably the doors are the same size.

It can’t hurt to measure them, could it? In case I have the guts to go through with it. I grab the tape measure and head back to our house, waving to Mr. Husband, who’s raking leaves from out under his bushes. He nods but doesn’t wave. He was one of the neighbors watching yesterday, so I suspect he’s a little wary of me.

I measure the door on mom and dad’s house, then back to Lachlan’s house and measure his door. Just as I suspected, they’re the same size. I decide to remove Lachlan’s door so I get a sense of how long it will take me, then based on that, decide whether it’s doable to switch doors.

It’s surprisingly easy and I have the door removed in about 30 minutes. I stand back and survey my work. The hinges were hard to remove from the frame and I probably should have left them on the door, but it’s too late for regrets. I unscrew the two latches from the door frame but decide not to take off the handle and lock because my mind keeps returning to the exchange-the-doors caper.

It would be so worth the trouble I’d be in just to see the expression on mom’s face. And it’s a bit of pay-back too. After all, she owes Lachlan one.

Okay, Stella, let’s do this!

I carry the hardware across the street and set it on the front step, then jog back and pick up the door. It’s heavier than I expected but nothing I can’t handle.

I’m half-way across the street, when I hear the roar of a motorcycle coming up the road.

I freeze. It’s gotta be Lachlan.

I can’t run back to his house with the door but leave the hardware at our house. And if I run to our house and hide like a coward, he’s gonna see the missing door and wonder what’s going on.

The decision is taken out of my hands as Lachlan speeds up the road, squealing to a stop dead in front of me. His jaw is clenched as he gets off his bike, removes his helmet and wings it onto his driveway.

Then he stalks up to me, so close I can smell his blood boiling