Page 41 of The Hot Shot

I smile at that.

BigManny:Will you grope me, Chester?

ChesterCopperpot:No but James would. He’s a huge fan.??

BigManny:I’m happy to give him an autograph. But that’s as far as my call of duty goes.

ChesterCopperpot:Fair warning... If he asks you to sign his ball, run away.

A laugh breaks free, filling up all the empty spaces in my chest. God, I want to see this girl, but I hesitate. A party isn’t exactly how I want to spend my time with Chess.

The phone rings in my hand. “Chester,” I say with a smile.

Her husky voice competes with the sound of chatter and music in the background. “So? Are you coming or what?”

“Longing to see me, are you?”

“Yes,” she drawls. “I need to reconfirm that your head truly is that big.”

I’m grinning wide now, even though she can’t see me. “Which head are we talking about?”

“I’m hanging up...”

“All right. I’ll behave.”

“Sure you will.” Someone shouts loud and shrill in the background. Then Chess speaks again. “So?”

“You sure you want me there? I don’t want to disrupt your evening.”

Chess is silent for a second. She speaks again and sounds stiff, reminding me of the first time we met when she thought I was an asshole. “I don’t extend false invites, Finn. But you don’t have to come. Honestly, it’s okay.”

I think about sitting comfortably at home with a sandwich versus sitting next to Chess in a room full of people I don’t know. There is no contest. “Give me the address.”

After a quick shower and change at home, I head out to meet Chess. The party is at a house in Uptown, near Audubon Park. Light, misty rain is falling by the time I pull up before the double gallery home, every window blazing with light. Louis Armstrong’s version of “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” drifts through those windows and, for a second, it’s as if I’ve stepped back in time.

You get that a lot in New Orleans. Old jazz, older houses, cracked pavements, and gnarly oak trees that drip with moss pull you out of the modern world and leave you feeling haunted by history. I push past the short wrought-iron gate and make my way up to the door.

It occurs to me that I’m nervous as I ring the doorbell and find my hands clammy. I laugh at myself. I’m grilled by reporters at least once a week and never break a sweat. I’ve won national championships with a crowd of one hundred thousand people screaming down at me and didn’t flinch. Yet here, I’m nervous as a teen on his first date.

A woman wearing a purple ’50s-style dress opens the door. For a long second, she stares at me.

“Hey,” I say when she doesn’t speak.

She blinks and then shakes her head as if coming out of a fog. “Please tell me you’re a stripper.”

“Stripper?” I repeat, half-amused and a little confused. Behind her, the house is full of people in dresses or suits, and I wonder if I have the wrong address.

“We’ve never had a stripper at a C&C before,” she explains in an excited rush. “But I am totally on board with this development.”

C&C?

“I’m looking for Chess Copper.”

Purple Dress frowns as if she’s never heard of Chess, and I’m about to drop the whole thing and leave when James suddenly appears, all but tumbling into Purple. “Manny,” he exclaims with a happy smile. “You’re here.”

Relief eases my stance. “Hey, James.”

He grabs my arm and tries to tug me in. I could have told him I’m too big to be randomly pulled, but I just step inside. Purple Dress makes a disappointed sound. “So, not a stripper?”