SIX

Like a prospector prepared for a big dig, Reese had shown up at the University of North Carolina with her future clearly mapped out. She knew that to get the type of man who could afford the things a girl like her deserved, first she had to get the hell out of Queens, and since she wasn’t quite ready to conquer the Big Apple yet, she needed a pit stop. The University of North Carolina proved to be the perfect outpost.

Reese surmised that any man with bankable credentials wanted his wife to at least have a college education; that much was simple to her. While most people viewed a degree as necessary for career success, to Reese it was like a sharp chisel: a precision tool needed to get better results quicker. The decision to go to UNC specifically was even more tactical: It was an excellent place to start her NBA scouting expedition.

Before Reese knew what a technical foul was, she decided that plan A was to marry a professional athlete, preferably a basketball player, and the Tar Heels always had a great team with an impressive draft record. Besides, most of the females among the hicks of Carolina offered negligible competition, so catching one of those country bumpkins with a good jump shot would be like snaring fish in a barrel for someone as clever and cunning as she was.

The Pro Plan, as she referred to it, was a step-by-step guide, outlining the tactics necessary to marry a professional athlete. It took Reese barely one week to scout out the players in each class who were favored to go pro. An NBA recruiter couldn’t have done a more thorough job at picking promising talent. Her number one draft pick, LaShawn Brown, was a senior from Raleigh, North Carolina, who was a shoo-in for a high lottery pick. He was destined for a lucrative NBA contract and years of product endorsements. The boy had flashes of brilliance like Jordan, with the personal charisma of Magic. He was a true star. The only problem was that Reese was about two years too late to bag him. LaShawn already had more women in his life than he had brain cells in his head. Like most star athletes he had a main girlfriend and a second string of three or four extras, and even his bench warmers ran three deep.

It wasn’t that Reese didn’t feel qualified for the job or up to the challenge, but she was nothing if not realistic. After all, this wasn’t sport for her; she was on a mission. Reese figured that she had only two good shots at catching the prize. The third time a girl was linked to a player she was automatically labeled a groupie—or worse, a whore, in which case, she was no longer marriage material to anyone of significance. Therefore, Reese’s operation called for extreme selectivity and a well-thought-out strategy. She was playing for keeps, not for one-night stands.

Her second-draft pick was Carl Hightower, a junior who was definitely a comer. In fact, if LaShawn weren’t such a star, Carl would already be flashing in the center of everyone’s radar. Fortunately LaShawn was graduating this year; then everyone would realize that Carl had the only three-point jump shot. As promising as he was on the stat sheet, the boy also had a diction problem that was hard on the ears, but nothing that a few extra zeros in a bank account couldn’t mitigate.

Her third and fourth picks were both sophomores (freshmen were too risky—who knew if a brilliant performance in high school was simply a flash in the pan or the real thing?). One was Chris Nolan, who so far showed real promise, but he was somewhat inconsistent with his game; he was also as boring as reruns of Gilligan’s Island. If it weren’t for his eye/hand coordination the boy wouldn’t be able to buy pussy at a fire sale.

The other contender was Buster Russell, a ghetto kid straight out of the projects of Newark, New Jersey. He was six feet, eight inches of street thug. The boy was good—in fact, really good—but his attitude set him back just as far as his skills got him. Of them all, he was definitely the most fuckable to Reese; she loved a bad boy, but this mission wasn’t about sex—or love, for that matter. She was keeping it real. It was all about the Benjamins, baby.

While the amateur groupies were busying themselves staking out locker rooms and lurking courtside at every home game, Reese was much more subversive in her approach. Her secret fuck-buddy was Bobby Hicks, the dorky team manager who was happy to catch any of the leftover tail that the team didn’t consume. Reese was given the scoop on players in exchange for rounds of sex between the sheets. Through him, she found out which classes Carl would be taking the next semester, and promptly registered for his English Literature course. The first day of class she hung around outside the auditorium until she saw him go in. After he took a seat—predictably in the back—Reese quietly sat one row in front of him and one seat over, knowing that most people kept the same seat throughout the semester. Her moves were as smooth as Michael Jordan’s during the play-offs. Carl never even saw the slam dunk coming.

The first two classes she wore short (but not too short) baby doll skirts that accentuated her long, curvy legs. The low sandal was just enough to further elongate her calves, but not too much to show gross premeditation. Of course, the sweaters she wore were fitted to highlight a full C-cup, but the pièce de résistance was her long, wavy hair, which she would shake and toss periodically to make sure that he was paying full attention. Aside from all of that, she did nothing for a couple of weeks! No coy batting of the eyelashes, no babbling on about his latest on-court theatrics; hers was a slow, steady seduction.

Reese lay in the cut, patiently waiting for just the right moment to hook and reel him in. It came one day as they were leaving class. She was walking ahead of Carl as a group of boys, who were horsing around, ran out in front of her, giving Reese a good excuse to stumble and almost fall, her books and bag spilling forward. Just as she predicted, Carl reached out and grabbed her, breaking her fall in the process. As rough around the edges as he was, the boy was raised by his grandmother to be a bona fide Southern gentleman.

“I’m so sorry,” she gushed. “How clumsy of me.” Reese played the damsel in distress to the hilt: eyelashes batting rapidly and manicured fingers spread across her clavicle as she tried to catch her breath.

“You aaiight?” he asked in a deep Southern drawl.

“I’m fine, just embarrassed.” She smiled awkwardly, and quickly begin gathering her things, which had scattered to the ground.

He bent his lanky, six-foot-five-inch frame to help her. While stacking her papers and books in a neat pile, he stopped abruptly when he saw tickets to an upcoming NASCAR race at the Bristol Motor Speedway in Tennessee. “These here yours?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She shrugged as though it were perfectly normal for a beautiful young girl from New York to have tickets to a NASCAR race.

“That’s gon’ be some race.” His eyes lit up like fireflies in June.

“It should be awesome, Earnhardt Junior and Danica are both racing,” she replied, as though she gave a rat’s ass about the sport, and got no greater thrill than seeing cars run around a track a million times over. What a thrill!

After the last of her things were gathered they both stood up. “Are you a racing fan?” she asked as though the thought had just occurred to her, when her pillow talk with Bobby had uncovered the fact that he was mad about both NASCAR and Formula One racing. Not exactly a black man’s sport, and most certainly not a black woman’s. She’d purchased the tickets immediately and had carried them to class for a week, waiting for the opportunity to bait her trap.

“Man, I love racing.” A big cheese-eating grin spread across his face. “I can’t say I eva met a woman who did. Most women can’t stand it.” By now he was eating out of her well-manicured hand, so she continued to feed him one morsel at a time.

“I’m not most women,” she said, lowering the books that she’d been holding to give him a peak at two very enticing morsels. As with most men, the sight of mammary flesh had the desired effect, killing smart brain cells by the hundreds, while multiplying the stupid ones.

From his towering perspective, Carl had a bird’s-eye view down the fold of her cleavage. “I see.” His mouth had slacked open, and he wore the goofiest expression on his face.

She smiled coyly, then turned to walk away, stumbling just as her weight landed on her right ankle. Again he was Johnny-on-the-spot, ready to catch her. “You sho’ you okay?”

Reese grimaced, feigning pain. “It does hurt,” she whined.

“You should go to the infirmary. Here, I’ll help ya.” He took all of her books in one arm and supported her with the other.

She limped along gingerly, clinging to him as though her life depended on it, and to Reese it did. “No, I’m sure I just need to prop it up and put some ice on it, but maybe you can help me to my room.” She gave him the doe-eyed look.

“I’d be happy to,” he answered. “Anything I can do to help.”

Game.

Set.

Match.