© 1995

The sound of men at play reached Madeline’s ears as she got out of the car. Slamming the door, she paused, surveying the scene they made. The cracked asphalt of the basketball court was a jumble of males, most stripped to the waist. A half-dozen others stood on the sidelines shouting words that could not pass for encouragement. None of them glanced her way and she felt a moment of uncustomary hesitation. There was something about the sight of all those masculine bodies gleaming with sweat in the late spring sunlight, the noise of their exertions and the jeers of their audience that almost made her reluctant to intrude on their domain. Ruthlessly squashing that sentiment, she raised her chin and walked toward the court.

She winced at the sound of human flesh colliding and a moment later a body hurtled into the chain links separating her from the court. She jumped back reflexively, but the young man just grasped the fence and jumped to his feet nimbly, sending her an appraising look. Seeing her chance, she called, “Is Cruz Martinez around?”

The man trotted back to the court. “Martinez,” he called in a plaintive croon, “babe’s looking for you.” The word quickly spread across the court.

“Hottie with a body.”

“Smokin’!”

“You playin’ on her court, bro?”

Madeline damned her fair complexion, which she could feel heating from the shouts of the men. She drew herself up even straighter and crossed her arms. The body language was unmistakable. It elicited further observations from the court.

“Uh-oh, BWA.”

“BWA, son, watch out!”

Cruz Martinez grinned and bounced the basketball to the man next to him. As he jogged slowly toward the fence, he couldn’t help agreeing with those final shouted assessments.