It's been quite a while since I posted. The Fall Season is always crazy for me with my three children returning to school and all their activities starting. I've got one in High School Marching Band and another in Girl Scouts and Art Club. They keep me hopping for sure.
My writing has slowed considerably, mostly because I've been focused on completing and editing the new and improved Moondrake. From 38,000 words to now over 80, it's been a huge endeavor. Hard to get inspired to write anything new, but thankfully... in stepped Beaten Track Publishing with a new idea. Always the best ones. Our task was to write something, anything, based on a song by ABBA.
Well, I like ABBA, but I'm no great fan. Still the idea was intriguing, and I already had a plot bunny I'd been wanting to try out. Thus... here you all go. My Valentine's gift for you...
Hustle and Hart:
The Name of the Game
My steel resolve melted under the onslaught of sky-blue eyes, blinking lazily down at me. I sucked in a breath, then sucked in another as pain shot from my elbow to my brain.
“Fuck. Damn. Shit.”
“Hurts, huh?”
“Motherfu—”
“Hustle! What are you doing on the floor?”
I sprang to my feet. “Coach! I…uh…”
“My fault, sir. Size fourteens.”
“And you are?” Coach asked, eyeballing Mr. Blue Skies, and that was when I saw the ball.
“Tripp Hart, sir.”
Coach smiled. My mouth dropped open. Coach never smiled like that. A gleam actually made his eyes sparkle and his teeth shine. I'd been pretty sure Coach didn't even have teeth. No, sirree. Just fangs, sharp ripping cuspids, and grinding molars only.
“Hart!” Coach held out his hand and Tripp shook it. My knees wobbled. Coach didn't shake anybody's hand, only the opposing coaches and any scouts that bothered to show up at games. His athletes got slaps on the back.
Why…? Oh. Figures. Coach’s been wanting to bring in the Division One scouts. Guess he was tired of the peon Divy twos and threes. Tripp Hart must be his D1 ticket.
I withheld the long suffering sigh and retreated to my desk, cradling my arm and rubbing my elbow.
B-ball was my game. No way was I thrilled to see a potential competitor for the starting lineup. Just who was Tripp Hart?
I slipped my phone from my sweatshirt pocket and hit up Google for the down low. Top scorer, top offensive rebounds, top blocks. My heart sank as my body slid lower in the chair.
What was this southern boy doing in a northern town? I searched article after article, finding nothing but the same until a few pages in. There was a small anecdote from last year mentioning Tripp had been injured and would be out for a series of games last year. There was no follow-up as to what the injury had been or what caused it.
“Hustle!”
“Yeah, Coach?”
“Practice after school till five. Don't be late.”
“I'll be there.”
Coach left, and as I panned back to my cyberstalking, I caught Hart looking at me. He held my gaze for a long moment then turned away. He gathered his backpack and basketball and stood. Next thing I knew he was dropping into the empty seat beside me.
“Ya play?” he drawled.
“I don't know what you're talking about.” I did not want to be friends with Mr. Sexy-as-fuck. Nope. No can do.
Hart slapped my arm lightly. “Don't be a dick, man. You play varsity too. Coach said.” Hart turned towards the front of the room when our English Lit teacher entered. He was a school favorite, but he liked to exaggerate with his hands and facial expressions so much that I’d taken to creating fun names for him. Mr. “American Lit is Awesome” Simon. Not awesome. Boring. The only literature I was interested in was drawn and colored and contained muscle-bound heroes in tight-fitting costumes.
“What’s your preferred position?” Hart whispered.
What? What! I slapped my hand over my mouth, attempting to contain the bark of laughter. Bug-eyed, I stared at him.
He frowned, but as realization dawned, the corner of his mouth twitched, then twitched again until he was grinning stupidly at me. I got completely lost in his radius of happiness.
“Mr. Hustle, care to fill us in on the joke?” Mr. “No fun at all” Simon did not look pleased.
It took me a rather long minute to pull myself together. “Sorry. Sorry. Hart said something that I really shouldn't repeat. It wasn't meant to be funny, but, you know, context.”
Mr. “Sighing dramatically at our young foolish ways” Simon gave us a withering glare as we straightened up and got out our notebooks. “Mr. Hart, welcome to American Literature. We've just started The Great Gatsby. Have you read it yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Excellent. I'll have to scrounge you up a copy. In the meantime, you might as well work with Quinn.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. “Head-bobbing” Simon nodded several times then addressed the class. “Everyone, new student, Tripp Hart. Tripp, would you like to introduce yourself?”
Tripp rose gracefully. How, I'm not sure. Getting out of these desks when you top 6’2” and 180 pounds was no small feat. “Hey, y’all. I'm Tripp. Just moved here from Georgia, and Ima hoping to play for your basketball team.” He palmed the ball he’d brought, raised it to shoulder height, and then spun it on his fingertip. Show-off.
“Hope you got game to go with that showmanship,” I muttered.
“I got game, Hustle.”
“What game is that?”
“The one that I play better than you.”
A couple of kids around us turned their ears in our direction. “Really? You got a name for this game?”
“Strip poker.”
I don't know how I managed to keep a straight face. My fellow students guffawed. Mr. “I'm not pleased” Simon strode towards us, shutting down the laughter faster than you can say detention.
“Mr. Hustle, Mr. Hart. Am I going to have to separate you?”
I shook my head, having no words. Thankfully, Tripp did.
“Hustle and Hart. Can't keep us apart. It's all in our name…the love of the game.”
Want more free stories from some amazing authors? Click here for the Beaten Track Publishing Page and links to more ABBA inspired poems, prose and short stories
