Read Online Scot on the Rocks by Brenda Janowitz - Free Book Online Page A

hadn’t, either. At five foot four, even Billie was taller than him. When I would pass him in the hallways at work, he always looked as if he was terrified of his own shadow. At a large law firm, that sort of thing could be considered normal what with how stressful the work is, but Bob looked that way all the time. I once saw him at another tax associate’s birthday party and there he stood, in a corner all night, looking downright scared, speaking to no one the entire time. I imagined that if you ever did speak to him, no sound would come out of his mouth. Or, if it did, he would have nothing else to discuss but the Internal Revenue Code. I could not, for the life of me, figure out why Jack had put him in the game at such a crucial moment.
    The ball was in play, and I sat forward on my seat, anxious for a Gilson Hecht victory.
    Two minutes left on the clock.
    I called out, “Defense,” and Vanessa shot me a dirty look. (Even though everyone knows that when you have courtside seats, you simply
have
to yell out “defense.”) Billie was holding her own on the court — paired against an Arby Scheweitzer attorney who towered over her, she managed to block a few shots. Even Vanessa was moved to lean over and quietly tell me how well she thought Billie was playing. (Vanessa never really did get into the spirit of courtside seats.) The clock was down to a minute and Billie stole the ball from the player she was defending and passed it to Jack. He practically flew up the court toward the Gilson Hecht basket, leaving the Arby Schweitzer attorneys in his wake.
    Vanessa and I sat forward in our seats, ready for Jack’s big slam dunk. He got all the way down the court and paused for a moment. The breath was caught in my chest as I puzzled over just what Jack was doing. He dribbled and then passed the ball. Passed the ball to Bob Frohman. To Bob Frohman? What on earth was he doing? Was he losing the game on purpose? Was he trying to lose a bet?
    Thirty seconds left on the clock.
    Bob looked just as confused as everyone else as he caught the ball (barely).
    “You got it, Bob,” Jack said with a nod, as he looked on and threw his long arms out to block an opposing player.
    Bob bounced the ball down once and then went for it. He threw it up toward the basket and everyone whipped their heads around to see if it would go in or not. The ball circled the rim, slowly, taking its time, like the tiny silver ball on a roulette wheel. The clock buzzer rang, signifying the end of the game, and everyone looked on, watching the ball go round and round. Everyone was frozen, heads tilted up, waiting for the final verdict.
    The room stayed silent until, finally, the ball fell through the hoop with a tiny whoosh and the Gilson Hecht team erupted into a chorus of screams and yells. Everyone was screaming, jumping (myself included, and even Vanessa) — everyone except Bob. He stood frozen, still looking at the basket, not registering that it had actually gone in. The team dove into a huge group hug, and Jack grabbed Bob to get him in on it. At first tentative, Bob quickly fell into it, smiling and laughing. Jack directed the team to all put their hands into the center of the circle as he counted down from three.
    “Three, two, one,” he called out as the team joined him in screaming, “Gilson Hecht!”
    Jack led the team in shaking the hands of the Arby Schweitzer players and then off the court. Bob looked like a kid in a candy store as he lined up to shake the other players’ hands.
    Vanessa and I rushed up to congratulate Jack.
    “How did you know he would make it?” I asked Jack as he threw a towel onto his head.
    “I didn’t,” he said, as he disappeared into the men’s locker room. Ten minutes later, he reemerged with a wet head and we were off to our local watering hole.
    This being New York, our local watering hole was actually the bar of a fabulously trendy new midtown hotel. It boasted views of the Empire State Building and