The Spirit Girl

"Stallings is a two. It would be nice to get back someone that can play Henin's position rather than create a log jam in the backcourt."

I nodded. "Plus, it's no secret that Chicago would love to be rid of him. If you take him off their hands, you might even be able to get something else in the deal."

"Draft picks?"

"They've got two second-rounders in next year's draft."

"Hmm. I'll think about it. Thanks, son."

I went downstairs and sat staring at my computer. What was dad going to do? He'd asked my advice, but would he take it? Indeed, SHOULD he take it--how confident was I in my own recommendation? I felt good about it now, but who knew...anything could happen. The one thing I had learned already; for every model, there was at least one player who turned out to be exactly the opposite of what was predicted. I was beginning to appreciate the significance of "intangibles."

Dad ended up pulling off the trade, but did one better than my suggestion: Henin and our second-rounder for Igenko, Jefferson and their first-round pick in the upcoming draft. Poor Sandy Clark, our PR person, got all buy lynched by the local media when the trade was announced. Sports radio guys lost their minds that we'd traded the only "pro caliber" player besides Jacobs for a bucket of balls. It got so bad I went up and apologized to dad about all the flack the trade had gotten. Dad just shook his head. "You've got to have a thick skin in this business. And besides, what they're saying today doesn't mean a thing; in a year we'll be able to evaluate whether this was a good trade or not."

"I know. I just feel like I've caused all this bad press. And it can't help at the box office."

"I talked to your grandfather before I made the trade, told him everything you told me. He said if we're going to ask you to run numbers, then we're going to have to be ready to trust those numbers even if they're not what we expect. And I talked to Coach, who said he remembered good things about Jefferson in college. So if this doesn't work, it won't just be your fault. We're all on board with the trade."

That made me feel better--but not as much as being right did. Coach started Jefferson off at the three, just a few minutes a game at first, but he showed excellent offensive instincts. Better still, he showed a natural affinity with Marshall Jacobs; the two seemed to instinctively know how to find each other on the court. Within a month he was getting 20 minutes a game, scoring double-figures and threatening to break into the starting lineup. The throw-in was singlehandedly replacing Henin's production. That was a good thing, because Igenko proved to be nimble as a battleship, totally useless in our transition-style offense. He was cut at the end of the season, and went back to play in Russia. But nobody had asked me whether I thought we should have traded for HIM.

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I was meeting Samantha at the coffee every Sunday afternoon to do stats, and every other week we got a lot accomplished. But on weeks when the team was in town, Samantha was always cutting our meetings short. And at the bar of course, Sam was always friendly and nice to me until she got her booty summons, at which point she was out the door. Jenna started complaining about Marshall Jennings and how badly he was treating Samantha. "I don't understand why she puts up with it. He just calls out of the blue, and ten minutes later she's out the door. He's got her on call like a fucking escort service. It doesn't matter if she's got plans; when he calls, she goes running to him and does anything he wants."

"Anything he wants, huh?" I muttered. I was all too vividly picturing Marshall shoving a big black dick into Samantha's tight little ass. The vision literally made me want to puke, but I couldn't shake it from my mind.

I noticed that Jenna was giving me a strange look. Then mysteriously she said "Oh... I'm sorry, Dave... I didn't know..."

"Didn't know what?" I had no idea what she was talking about.

"I didn't know that you liked Sam. I'm sorry—I should shut up..."

"What makes you say I like Sam?" I asked in a last-ditch effort to keep my secret in the bag.

"It's the way you said 'anything he wants;' you were disgusted by the thought. Guys usually kind of dig hearing about girls' sex lives—unless it's a girl they like, in which case hearing about them messing around with another guy is like stabbing them in the eye."

I nodded sadly. "Guilty as charged. I guess now my secret is out."

"Don't worry Dave, I won't say anything. Believe me, I'd much rather see her going with you than whoring herself for that asshole." There was silence for a moment. "Dave, when I said she'll do anything he wants, I was talking as a girl. I just meant she'll meet him anytime and anywhere, ready to go. I think guys read different things into a statement like that. I don't know if it makes any difference, but I know for a fact that there are things Samantha will not do in bed." I smiled wanly; it did make me feel a little better that Marshall probably wasn't plowing her ass. But how much did it matter, since it was proven fact that he was plowing her everywhere else?

Things started to come to a head on March 1. I met her to go over stats, but she was there barely a half-hour when she got a text and suddenly left, saying something had come up. I thought to myself,I don't think anything's come up yet... but I'm pretty sure it's about to. I tried to stay cool and confident, but I couldn't stop driving myself insane imagining the two of them in bed together, especially since I knew Marshall was being such a jerk to her. I sent Jenna a text;Samantha just went off to be with Marshall again.

I got a response. I can't believe it. She was just complaining how far behind she is in stats, and still she goes running when the asshole calls. Ima kick her ass when she gets home.

Monday night Samantha called me, sounding desperate. She apologized for ditching me on Sunday, and told me she was still struggling; was there any way I could meet her to do stats? Part of me didn't want to, because now I felt like I was being used, too. But I was too smitten not to take every opportunity to be with her. It's not like I had something better to do.

The first thing she did when we met was apologize again, then gave me a thank-you card. It had a picture of a life preserver on the front with the words "You're a Life Saver." She had hand-written a little note inside. "I really do appreciate all the time you're taking with me. There's people in my class spending $75 an hour for tutoring; you're doing all this out of the goodness of your heart, and then I give you the run-around on top of it. Most people wouldn't do what you've done, and I know it."

I wondered to what degree she understood my motivation for continuing to help her--then again, as long as she was hooked on Marshall Jacobs, what did it matter? So I just said thank you and we sat down to work, but it was obvious right away she was distracted. I had to go through things two and three times, which I never had to do; I could literally see her zone out in the middle of an explanation. Finally I said something about it.

"I'm sorry," she moaned, "I've just got a lot on my mind."

"Do you want to stop?" I took a sip of my coffee.

"No, no, I've got to get this done..." she protested, but immediately her gaze de-focused again. I sat silently. Out of nowhere, she asked "Dave, isn't your office pretty close to the locker room?"

"Right off the training room," I agreed.

"Do you ever hear the guys talk? I mean, do you ever overhear things?" She was drumming her pencil nervously on the table.

"Quite a bit, if the whirlpool's not on," I said cautiously. I had a pretty good idea what she was trying to find out, but it didn't seem my place to say--although I knew what she wanted to know. I wanted her to know—but I didn't want to have to be the one to tell her.

"What kinds of things do they talk about?" she asked vaguely.

"If you want to know if they talk about the girls they're dating, yes," I said pointedly, "and of course, the girls they wish they were dating." Her gaze snapped to me. She wanted to ask, but she didn't know how to give away who she was seeing... I saved her the trouble. "Yes, Marshall Jacobs is definitely one of them." Her face looked as though she were struck by lightning. "What, did you think people didn't know? I'd imagine anyone who's been in the 5th Quarter in the last few months knows."She blinked, digesting my words, and nodded slightly. It was obvious, now that I'd pointed it out to her. Anyone who was looking could see them leave together every night.

"So... does Marshall talk about... me?"

"Sometimes. Look, Samantha, I know where you're going with this, but I'm not comfortable passing on things I overhear in the locker room. It's not my information to share, you know?"

She searched my face, considering my statement. It was a valid concern, and she knew it. But she also accurately read between the lines. "Something tells me that you've already told me what I needed to know."

"I didn't say anything," I begged off, waving my hands in innocence.

"No... you didn't," she agreed, "but you wouldn't feel the need to protect him if there wasn't anything to protect." She had me there. "At least answer me this: does he talk about other girls besides me?"

I looked at her eyes. I could see the hurt in them. I was conflicted. I wanted to out him because he was a jerk--not to mention it might open up a chance for me. But if it came out that I was passing on locker room secrets, it might lead the players to not trust ownership, which could come back to haunt us when it came time to re-sign players. Finally I said: "sometimes guys just talk, you know? Make shit up to impress each other. So I don't know whether any of what the guys say is really true or not."

"But Marshall Jacobs talks about other girls?"

I probably didn't need to pile on, but I responded "He likes to name names, and I've heard him talk about sleeping with a lot of different girls. I'm sorry, Samantha..." It broke my heart to see her brave chin quiver. She turned away, trying to hide a tear.

"No," she croaked unsteadily, "thank you for telling me. At least now I know what a sucker I've been played for." She sat there, eyes closed tight, clenched inside, for a long moment. Then suddenly slammed her book closed, stood up and started putting on her coat. "I'm sorry... I just can't do this right now. I'm sorry I made you come all this way..."

"Don't worry about it," I soothed. "I understand. Call me whenever, OK? Even if you just want to talk--it doesn't have to be about stats."

She stood and threw her things into her bag. "OK. Thanks." Then she disappeared before she lost it completely.

I sat for a long time, looking at my coffee. Something was going to happen--but what? Had she finally had enough of Marshall Jacobs? Somehow I doubted it. And even if she had--what were the chances she'd be interested in me? I worried about her because she had been so upset when she left. I texted Jenna to warn her about our conversation. I got a reply some time laterThx Dave. We're sitting here talking about it right now. I felt better that at least Samantha had found a shoulder to cry on.

There was a game that Tuesday. Samantha didn't let any of her pain show while she was performing, but she didn't come out to the bar after the game. Jenna she said she didn't feel like coming out that night, and that was understandable. I texted her, though.Hey sry to hear ur not up to coming out tonight. I understand, but its not the same without you.

Her reply wasI'll be ok. Prob be there Friday cu then.

She did come out Friday. About a half-hour after the girls arrived, Samantha's phone buzzed to announce a new text, but she ignored it. It happened two more times; Samantha pretended not to notice. I was encouraged, but I was also cautious. Samantha was hurt; I thought it was too soon to be receptive to another guy's advances just yet, especially since I was the one that had outed Marshall Jacobs. But I stayed close, just to make sure no one jumped in to fill the void before me.

As the girls were talking, the subject came up about a big hip-hop concert at the arena next week. The girls wanted to go, but tickets had been sold out for months.Hmm,I thought.I have access to grandpa's suite for any arena event. So I said "I wonder if I can get a hold of one of the luxury suites? They usually just sit empty during concerts; I wonder if I can get access to one and we could watch the concert from there?"

Samantha and Jenna got all excited, asking if I really thought that was possible. I said "quite possibly, I know they're not sold for concerts because the leaseholders control rights to them. But if I can get permission from one of the leaseholders, we should be able to use it. Most of the time, even you have permission you can't get in because the box level isn't staffed except for games. But I think I can get in with my key, so that wouldn't be a problem." This kind of scared the other girls off, because it sounded like something we shouldn't be doing. But Jenna and Samantha were pumped. We worked out some logistics on how we would do this; my increased heart rate tipped me off that Samantha seemed to me standing closer to me than previous nights at the bar. I crossed my fingers that Ricky's advice might actually be paying off.

When I went back to work Monday, I went and talked to my dad about maybe using the family suite the big concert Wednesday. He said technically we had the right to, although the promoter wouldn't be too happy, and of course usually the area was locked. I told him I'd buy general admission passes, and I wasn't planning a big party, only to see it with a couple of friends. I also said I hoped that no one would even notice we were there. I think he sensed that there was more the story, but he gave me the go-ahead.

Things were all set. I had tickets, I'd confirmed I had keys to enter the suite level, I knew when and where I was to meet the girls. Then the night before the show, she did it to me again. Samantha called, apologizing about cancelling so late but she was no longer able to go to the concert. I was very disappointed, but what could I say? I was pretty short on the phone. After hanging up, I texted Jenna.Samantha backed out of the concert. You still want to go?

I don't need to, Sam is the one that's so into it. Besides, I'm pissed at her right now. Two guesses why she's suddenly not available.

I replied:But the team isn't even in town!

Her answer wasThe cities on this road trip are all drivable. A bunch of the guys are coming home for the big show between games. A moment later part two arrived:Marshall called, said he was sorry he treated her bad, and told her he had front-row seats. She fell for it. I shook my head, lost in my thoughts.I give up. She believes every line that playa' feeds her—obviously she wants to believe them. Is it because he's famous? I certainly won't ever be famous like him. Is it because he's got money? I could tell on that I'm the heir to the team—but if that's what it would take to get her interested, I don't want her. While Ricky would not have understood, I was firm on that one. Ever since high school my dad and my grandpa both warned me about staying away from gold-diggers. I had to look up what it meant at the time, but he was right. If you've got money, you'll always wonder whether a girl that's interested in you really likes you or just your money. That's why I introduced myself as just Dave, especially to girls I liked in more than a 12-hour diversion kind of way. After all the ways that Samantha bent over backward for Marshall Jacobs, if she suddenly found out who I was and became more interested, like Ricky's girl-of-the-hour Carmen had seemed to—well, I guess I'd have a hard time very believing it was real. I liked Samantha, and she seemed generally positive with me. But if she really came to like me, I needed it to be without her knowing my family connections.

So instead of being at the concert, I sat home, watching basketball on TV. We were two games out of the 8th and final playoff spot at that point, but the team we were chasing was putting a whoopin' on New York, which wasn't doing much to help my foul mood. My phone chirped; a new text. I picked it up lazily to see who it was and if I wanted to bother reading it. It was from Jenna, so I did. Are you busy? If you're free, can you come down to Rusty's? It's about Sam.Rusty's? That was a neighborhood bar frequented by college kids, a couple miles from the arena. Why Rusty's? And why would Jenna be texting me to meet her there, to talk about Sam? I was telling myself I had to wash that girl right out of my hair, but the truth was I was nowhere close to having done so. I took the bait. It would be better than sitting home alone watching the team we were trying to catch add another half-game to their lead.

Parking sucked around Rusty's, so even though I didn't change or anything it took me a while to get there. It was dark; I could only see people right close to me when I first walked in and I didn't see Jenna. When my eyes adjusted, I finally saw Jenna sitting at a tall table in the back. She wasn't alone. All I saw was the back of a head as I first started approaching, but when it turned slightly I recognized it: Samantha. Jenna said it was ABOUT Samantha; she didn't say anything about her actually being here. I stopped for a second, not sure what I should do, but Jenna saw me waved enthusiastically my way. It was too late to duck out.

Samantha turned to see who Jenna was waving to. Then a look of horror crossed her face and the tucked her head behind her raised arm, trying to avoid being seen. I drew nearer; I heard Samantha nearly shriek "you fucking TOLD him to come here!?!?! He's the LAST person I want to see" clearly enough that I could hear. I think Jenna's response was "you've been whining all night that you should have just gone to the concert with Dave rather than believe more of Marshall Jacobs' lies. Well, here's your wish—here's Dave."

I arrived at the table. Jenna looked relieved, perhaps just being able to share some of the load that Samantha was dumping on her. Samantha had her head down on the table in her folded arms like a school girl at quiet time, avoiding me. It was clear they had both been drinking. As I often do in awkward situations, I resorted to humor. "Good evening. I am Sherlock Holmes, the world-famous detective. Allow me to deduce what has happened here."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes," Jenna replied, mimicking my faux-English voice. "And what is your deduction?"

"I deduce that Miss Sullivan was invited to attend a certain concert this evening by a certain famous personage, prompting Miss Sullivan to change her prior plans. But then said famous personage withdrew his offer, leaving Miss Sullivan hanging. The only question is, did said personage pretend to not even be in town, or merely that he wasn't able to get tickets?"

"Pretended to not be in town," Samantha said in a voice muffled by her arms. She lifted her head; anything she was trying to hide was now out in the open anyway. She wasn't dressed to go out; she was dressed for studying. Tears had smudged her mascara and eye liner. She looked at me then turned away. "I can't even face you. I stood you up, you know it, and all because I'm too stupid to learn that Marshall Jacobs it a selfish, two-timing jerk."

"Sherlock thinks you know it," I commented in my regular speaking voice, "but for some reason you don't want to accept it. Only you can answer why that is." There was silence. Samantha wiped her cheek again. I continued, "I'm not afraid to admit it: I was kind of hoping that we would have fun at the show tonight, and if so maybe we could go out some time. But if you're still focused on Marshall Jacobs..."