Flattening her hand on her midriff to quell the internal uprising, she plastered her public-relations smile on her face. “Well, I do like a good fight.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“That’s why I’m here. We don’t have to let the press run this thing. Take control of your message instead of spouting off. Make the story the one you want to tell.”
“I don’t see what there is to control,” he said with feigned nonchalance. “My wife left me for a first-round draft pick. Can hardly blame the woman for upgrading, can you?”
“Well, truthfully—”
“He’s got two working knees, more vertical lift than I had on my best day, and according to our good friend Brittany at NSN”—he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as he referred to the perky, blond reporter from the sports network—“charisma.” He nodded to the darkened screen, then shrugged. “God knows Brittany would know.”
“Brittany doesn’t know squat.”
He guffawed. “You do have a way with words.” He crossed to the wet bar and plucked another clean glass from the shelf. “You’re hired.”
“Thanks, but I already have a job.”
“See? You don’t even want me,” he muttered as he pulled the stopper off a decanter. “Charisma,” he growled. “Don’t think I ever had any, even when I had game.”
She hated this. Hated seeing this proud, cocky man lose his swagger over a woman who was little more than a piece of dandelion fluff. Sucking in a deep breath, she approached with caution. “Ty—”
“My game was okay one-on-one.” This time, he sloshed three fingers of whiskey into the glass and sucked a few droplets from the back of his hand before replacing the stopper. “Took a lot of English classes in school, so I could quote poetry and shit.” He picked up the glass and stared hard at its contents, then took a healthy slug. He didn’t even gasp as the liquor went down. “Girls always liked that.”
She placed a gentle hand on the center of his back. “Don’t.”
He stiffened, then slowly lowered the glass to the bar. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t downplay who you are. Don’t brush off everything you’ve accomplished.”
Ty didn’t acknowledge her encouragement, but he didn’t lift the glass again either. “What? What have I accomplished? An NCAA championship? Nope. Only made it to the finals. We lost. A spot in the NBA Hall of Fame?” He shook his head and gave a bitter laugh. “I didn’t even have a dozen starts in the league.” He picked his head up and glanced over his shoulder. “Did you know that?”
“No.”
Millie knew his NBA career was roundly considered a failure, but she wasn’t one to keep up with sports stats. He’d had medical issues; she knew about those. Something about fractures in his legs never healing completely. She let her hand fall to her side and curled her fingers into her palm. A part of her wanted to slug the people who called him a disappointment square in the nose. Not that violence would do much good. She was better at using her words to fight the good fight. But still, the man wanted to play. The issues he faced weren’t of his making.
“Eleven starts in five years,” he grumbled.
Ever the one to put the best face on things, Millie responded reflexively. “You did well overseas.”
He whirled to face her, but his balance was compromised by too much strain on his bad knee and not enough sleep. Maybe a little by the booze he’d just swallowed, but Millie doubted it could hit a guy his size that fast. He staggered to the side, and she lunged to catch him—as if she could even slow his progress if he decided to face-plant. At a fit six foot eight, he was over a foot taller than she was and outweighed her by at least eighty pounds.
“Whoa, big fella,” she crooned, the soles of her shoes sliding a bit as they corrected course.
He stared down at her, undeterred by their awkward little waltz. “I’m fine. My knee is messed up too.”
“I know.”
“I can’t even get drunk,” he said derisively. “Did you know that? Never have been able to catch a buzz, and believe me, I’ve tried.”
“I believe you. You’re a pretty big guy. Probably takes a couple of gallons,” she speculated, eyeing him from head to toe with a comical leer.
“You know, I tried to jump-start my career when my legs strengthened, but too little, too late. No one here would touch me as a player.”
Millie softened when she heard the wistfulness in his tone. “But you did good as a coach, right?”
She gave his bare forearms a squeeze to drive home her point. And yes, there might have been a little joy in handling him in a non-PR sort of way. She was still breathing, after all. Lordy, the man was beautiful. That little ditz he’d married had to be out of her mind.
“You are an awesome coach, Ty. Everyone knows you are. Even self-centered little shits like Dante Harris. Who got him where he is today? You did.”
“I only want to do my job.” He gestured to the television screen. “I don’t want to deal with all this. I just want to do my job.”
“Right. And you’re great at your job. You did a good job with those kids at Eastern, and now you’re doing amazing things with the program here at Wolcott. We’ve never had a first-round draft pick out of our men’s program before.”
The bit of bragging was out of her mouth before she even realized what she was saying. It was true. Ty had produced his program’s first star by coaching Dante to play up his potential. And Dante had repaid him by ditching
