Page 32 of Caught off Guard

“That’s a random question. Are you asking why I’m not a stereotypical basketball player? Or at least what you think a basketball player should be?”

Zora gave me a sheepish grin as if she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She scratched the side of her neck with a manicured nail.

“Kind of. I wasn’t trying to be offensive. I’ve been piecing together everything you’ve shown me so far. Your diction is perfect. You’re cosmopolitan—as polished as any of my faculty at Liberation. You are in no way what I expected of a basketball player.”

I had received this question from numerous reporters who attempted to place me in a box of their choosing, so I was prepared to respond to Zora’s question.

“My parents were wealthy long before I joined the league. They were members of Jack and Jill, the Links, and every social organization that would have prepared me as a Black man to be a top-notch lawyer or Fortune 500 CEO. I earned a full academic scholarship to Harvard but chose to play basketball at Penn State instead. My parents were disappointed at first but believed that I would be stellar doing whatever I chose, even if it required me to use my body more than my mind. What they soon discovered was that I needed both to be successful.”

Zora nodded and pointed to my library of thousands of floor-to-ceiling books and then my Kindle.

“This room proves that you’re nobody’s dummy.”

“I’m glad you like it, but I didn’t bring you to my home to work all weekend. Relax with me if you can,” I said.

She pushed her glasses up her nose as she closed her laptop.

“I’m done.” She lifted her hands in surrender before pointing to the Kindle in my lap. “What are you reading?”

“This and that.”

“With your eye for the arts, I bet it’s Shakespeare.”

“No, it’s something a little more lighthearted.” I grinned, thinking of the male protagonist in my book who just flipped a Mafia queen’s body onto his lap and made love to her on an eighth-floor balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

When I read the scene, I wondered what kind of lover Zora would be.

“Lighthearted like what?”

“On game days, I engage in what many would call ‘fluff’ reading—mainly spicy Black romances full of crazy drama that offers insights about what women want from their dream men. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to apply any of the freaky moves I read about…yet.” I wiggled my eyes at Zora, then lowered them to her tight black casual pants, which gave me the perfect view of her thick thighs.

Instead of being shy, she set her laptop on the small teak stool table between us and leaned my way.

“My, my, my. Mr. Kinney is a romantic. That’s so cute.”

I licked my lips.

“Is it now?”

“Yes. What’s your favorite kind of romance?”

I rubbed my beard and smiled, angling my body toward Zora.

“Instalove.”

Her smile disappeared before she formed a small “O” with her mouth.

“Instalove?”

I nodded.

“Yes, the kind of stories where the protagonists meet and fall in love quickly. They make passionate love with no logic about why the guy tosses the woman onto a bed and pummels her guts so thoroughly she passes out from the ecstasy of it.”

Zora clutched her imaginary pearls and blushed before turning her head away and back to me with doubting eyes.

“Do you believe in that for real?”

I stared deeply into her eyes and placed my hand over hers, which rested on the table. I took a big breath and spoke my truth.

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