The Hot Shot(18)

Rolondo is gay. He's never hidden it, but until now, I haven't heard anyone give him shit.

"What the fuck did you just say?" I lunge for Wooster again.

Rolondo blocks me, his expression almost serene as he stares down  Wooster. "I'd say suck my dick, but I have standards. Now get the fuck  out of here and worry about improving your weak-ass game."

Wooster bristles, as if he's about to reply, but his gaze cuts between us, and he backs up. "No fucking sense of humor."

"Oh, yeah, it's our humor that's a fail here." I take a page from  Rolondo's book and make a quick jerk off gesture. "We're done."

Without looking back, I head to the free weights. I want to leave, but  I'll be damned if Wooster is chasing me away. Rolondo joins me, as  Wooster flips us off and stalks out of the room.

"Man … " Rolondo starts.

"I know," I say over him. "I shouldn't let that asshole get to me."

"Good of you to remember. Now."

I stare down at the weights, not moving to pick them up. "He give you shit before?"

Rolondo lets out a half laugh. "You worried about me, Manny?"

He sounds amused.

I lift my head. "You're my teammate."

I don't have to say more; Rolondo gets it. But his expression remains  passive. "Guys talk smack. Doesn't matter about what. Either you take  their shit or you don't." His gaze bores into me with unsettling depth.  "I'd lock down whatever it is you have going on with the photographer.  Guys will be talking about her for no other reason than she's taking  pictures of them naked."

The truth irks. I resent that she's seen any dick on this team but mine,  and I resent that the guys view it as some sort of joke they can  snicker over. But there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

"Chess is my friend." I gesture toward the direction Wooster left. "I don't let people talk shit about my friends."

Rolondo slowly grins. "I see that."

I give a short nod.

"Just one question," Rolondo asks.

"What?"

"Your dick know you're just friends?"

He laughs as I swipe at him, easy evading the hit. "That the best you got?"

We duck each other's half-hearted swings for a few, both of us needing to shake off the pall Wooster threw over the room.                       
       
           


///
       

Laughing, Rolondo reaches for his pack that he'd left by the leg press. "I'm heading out."

Strange how his words seem to highlight how damn quiet the place is. In  the far distance, a phone rings then cuts off. I'm not creeped out, but I  don't want to linger in a ghost town either.

"What are you doing now?" I ask him.

"My ma's in town."

"No shit?"

"Yeah, I'm taking her to Commander's Palace for dinner." He grins. "The  woman's been after me to go since she got off the damn plane."

"I know how that goes. My mom was the same. Had to go there and to Galatoire's."

Rolondo chuckles. "Went there the other night."

We both laugh. And suddenly, I miss my mother. Which doesn't make a bit  of sense, since I'm a grown man, she's been annoying the hell out of me  lately, and I've been avoiding her.

Rolondo goes to shower, and I'm left staring at the weights without  really seeing them. I don't want to be here. I don't know where the hell  I want to be. But one thing is clear.

I pull out my phone.

BigManny: Can I interest you in a po'boy?

Chess answers almost immediately.

ChesterCopperpot: Do you actually know any poor boys?

BigManny: Cute. Fine, can I interest you in eating a sandwich with this here rich boy?

ChesterCopperpot: I'm actually at a party right now. Dinner in the form of finger foods and cocktails

Disappointment swims in my chest. I swallow past that self-pitying lump and man up.

BigManny: Another night then. Have fun, party girl

I head toward the locker room where I've left my keys. I'll grab a  po'boy and watch some basketball. Tired as I am, a night lazing on the  couch sounds about right.

I'm almost at my car when my phone buzzes.

ChesterCopperpot: You should come here. There's plenty of food

I halt, staring down at the screen. Chess texts again.

ChesterCopperpot: I promise no one will grope you unless you ask

I smile at that.

BigManny: Will you grope me, Chester?

ChesterCopperpot: No but James would. He's a huge fan ;-)

BigManny: I'm happy to give him an autograph. But that's as far as my call of duty goes

ChesterCopperpot: Fair warning … If he asks you to sign his ball, run away

A laugh breaks free, filling up all the empty spaces in my chest. God, I  want to see this girl. But I hesitate; a party isn't exactly how I want  to spend my time with Chess.

The phone rings in my hand.

"Chester," I say with a smile.

Her husky, sex voice competes with the sound of chatter and music in the background. "So? Are you coming or what?"

"Longing to see me, are you?"

"Yes," she drawls. "I need to reconfirm that your head truly is that big."

I'm grinning wide now, even though she can't see me. "Which head are we talking about?"

"I'm hanging up … "

"All right. I'll behave."

"Sure you will." Someone shouts loud and shrill in the background. Then Chess speaks again. "So?"

"You sure you want me there? I don't want to disrupt your evening."

Chess is silent for a second. She speaks again and sounds stiff,  reminding me of the first time we met when she thought I was an asshole.  "I don't extend false invites, Finn. But you don't have to come.  Honestly, it's okay."

I think about sitting comfortably at home with a sandwich versus sitting  next to Chess in a room full of people I don't know. There is no  contest. "Give me the address."



* * *



After a quick shower and change at home, I head out to meet Chess. The  party is at a house in Uptown, near Audubon Park. Light, misty rain is  falling by the time I pull up before the double gallery home, every  window blazing with light. Louis Armstrong's version of "Don't Get  Around Much Anymore" drifts through those windows and, for a second,  it's as if I've stepped back in time.

You get that a lot in New Orleans. Old jazz, older houses, cracked  pavements, and gnarly oak trees that drip with moss pull you out the  modern world and leave you feeling haunted by history. I push past the  short wrought iron gate and make my way up to the door.

It occurs to me that I'm nervous, as I ring the doorbell and find my  hands clammy. And I have to laugh at myself. I'm grilled by reporters at  least once a week and never break a sweat. I've won national  championships with a crowd of one hundred thousand people screaming in a  frenzy, and didn't flinch. Yet here, I'm nervous as a teen on his first  date.

A woman wearing a purple 50s style dress opens the door. For a long second, she stares at me.                       
       
           


///
       

"Hey," I say, when she doesn't speak.

She blinks and then shakes her head as if coming out of a fog. "Please tell me you're a stripper."

"Stripper?" I repeat, half-amused and a little confused. Behind her, the  house is full of people in dresses or suits, and I wonder if I have the  wrong address.

"We've never had a stripper at a C&C before," she explains in an  excited rush. "But I am totally on board with this development."

C&C?

"I'm looking for Chess Copper."

Purple Dress frowns as if she's never heard of Chess, and I'm about to  drop the whole thing and leave when James suddenly appears, all but  tumbling into Purple. "Manny," he exclaims with a happy smile. "You're  here."

Relief eases my stance. "Hey, James."

He grabs my arm and tries to tug me in. I could have told him I'm too  big to be randomly pulled, but I just step inside. Purple Dress makes a  disappointed sound. "So, not a stripper?"

"Stripper?" James sounds appalled. "This here is The King. Show some respect."

"He needs a crown then," a woman with poufy hair and wearing a green dress says as we walk past her.

Inside, it's crowded and close with people. The furniture is nineteenth  century, with gilded framed portraits hanging on the walls. Cigarette  smoke hovers overhead, several people smoking in groups and holding  cocktails. And I swear, I feel a moment's trepidation, as if I actually  did fall into some freaky time warp.

"Why is everyone dressed like they're auditioning for a Mad Men reunion    ?" I ask James.

"It's standard attire for Cocks and Cocktails," he says, as we stop at side table set up with a bar. "Want a beer?"

"Sure, but …  Cocks and Cocktails?"

James hands me a bottle of beer before fixing himself a gin and tonic.  "It's a cocktail party. Only you wear your best vintage duds." He sweeps  a hand over his black and white pinstripe suit, topped with a hot pink  bow that clashes with his red beard. "Point is to be the sharpest  dressed cock of the walk, so to speak."