Block Shot: A HOOPS Novel

by Kennedy Ryan

  Is this a good thing? My confusion must show because Banner chuckles and explains.

  “Quinn developed a fitness app called Girl, You Better. It’s still in beta,” she says, pride shining from every pore. “It gives you messages like a Garmin would, but sassier.”

  “It’s affectionately known as the ghetto Garmin,” Quinn pipes in with a laugh.

  She, Iris, and Banner are chatting more about the app and Quinn’s line of workout gear when I leave to get the nachos.

  Quinn really is a beautiful woman. Beyond her red hair and creamy skin, there’s a strength and power on the inside. It comes across. She has talked more than once about how Banner pursued her when she was depressed, suicidal in the hospital after she lost her leg. She wouldn’t be a multimillion-dollar empire if Banner hadn’t seen her potential.

  Good for you, Banner.

  She’s not like the rest of us. I knew she wouldn’t be, but I’m not allowing myself feelings. Elevation is at a crucial place in our development. If you’re not with us, you’re against us. And Banner is definitely not with us.

  When I return with Sarai’s nachos, Iris is screaming at the refs as usual. August may have found a girl who loves basketball as much as he does. I sit . . . finally. Damn, I’m exhausted and still have to drive back to LA tonight. If I hadn’t promised August I’d stay with the girls until the game is over, I’d leave early. I’m also not used to being this close to Banner for any amount of time.

  She’s fully engaged with the game when I return to our seats with Sarai’s nachos—or doing a great imitation of it and just ignoring me.

  Probably that last one.

  “How are you liking LA, Jared?” Quinn leans forward to ask. “Iris was just telling us you’ve only been there a few months.”

  “Yeah. I’m getting settled.” I’ll stick to the personal stuff since Banner and my business should not mix. “Whole Foods and Starbucks are the marks of any great civilization. Long as I have those, I can figure out the rest. I’m looking for a gym, if you know of a good one.”

  “Come to my gym!” Quinn clasps her hands under her chin. “It’s called Titanium.”

  Banner almost imperceptibly shakes her head, widening her eyes at Quinn, a subtle signal to shut the hell up.

  “Oh, I’ve heard of that,” I say, injecting my voice with more enthusiasm just to bother Banner. “I’d love to come.”

  “I have guest passes,” Quinn says absently, squinting at Banner like she’s trying to decode the message her friend is sending. “I can leave them up front in your name.”

  “Excellent.” I catch Banner’s eye and wink. “Then it’s settled.”

  Exasperation skids across her face before she smooths it over.

  “You’ll love it,” she says neutrally. “Seems like you’ll be everywhere I turn. My city. My gym.”

  “It’ll be like old times,” I murmur, allowing just enough suggestiveness in my voice to maybe make her blush. Laundromat Banner’s cheeks would be flushed pink by now. This new Banner doesn’t even blink but stares at me like she’s waiting for me to come harder.

  Come harder? I need to check my thoughts because coming harder shouldn’t be in the same zip code as this woman.

  We retreat to our corners for the next three quarters, her talking and laughing with Quinn; me answering Sarai’s one million and one questions and helping Iris keep her entertained. How could someone so small be so much work? By the fourth quarter I’m convinced August deserves a gold medal. Even though we don’t exchange two words, I’m acutely aware of Banner beside me. I surreptitiously take in the changes she’s undergone. I never really paid attention to Banner’s weight before, ironic since that was ultimately what sabotaged whatever we might have had, but even I can tell she’s lost a significant amount. I glimpse flashes of toned thighs in the fashionably holey jeans. She’s wearing makeup, which conceals the seven freckles I know march across her nose.

  At a break in her conversation with Quinn and mine with Iris, I lean toward her.

  “So who you got?” I ask.

  She does a double take, like she had forgotten I was even here.

  Flattering.

  “Oh, sorry.” She spares me a quick glance before turning her attention back to the court. “What did you say?”

  “Who are you pulling for?”

  “My client,” she replies cagily, full lips tweaking.

  Of course, she has a client on each team. Kenan on the Waves and Zo on the Vancouver Titans.

  “So, you and Vidale, huh?”

  I didn’t mean to ask that question. I usually exercise more control over the space between what I think and what I say.

  “Excuse me?” Her voice is imperiously chilly when she turns to look me in the eye.

  “I heard you were dating your client,” I say, hoping it makes her uncomfortable because what the hell? I thought she was smarter than that. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

  So much for controlling what comes out of my mouth.

  “And I thought you were better at minding your own damn business,” she snaps, eyes pinched at the corners. “There is nothing unethical about my relationship, business or personal, with Zo.”

  “Then why are you defensive?”

  “Why are you prying?”

  “I’m not,” I say, my own tone icing over. “The question isn’t is it ethical. The better question may be: is it wise?”

  “And maybe an even better question is why do you care?”

  “Hey.” I twist my lips and shrug. “Just trying to help a friend.”

  “I’ve seen your idea of ‘friendship,’ Jared,” she says stiffly. “I’ll take my chances.”

  Before I can address those fighting words, Mitch Sanderson approaches with a tall young man in tow. Sanderson is such a waste of space. He’s an awful negotiator and a shit agent. He wouldn’t know a good deal if it sucked his dick under the table. How he’s still at Bagley, I have no idea. Actually, I do know how. The Pride. The same way he got there in the first place.

  “Banner, I want you to meet someone,” he says, stopping in front of Banner and Quinn. “This is Lamont Christopher.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Lamont,” Banner says, smiling warmly and shaking the kid’s hand. “I hope Mitch is taking good care of you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answers with a hint of a southern drawl.

  “Enjoying the game?” Banner asks.

  “We have been,” Sanderson replies before Lamont can. “But we’re gonna head out to beat the traffic.”

  You gotta be kidding me. Banner is letting Sanderson handle the presumptive overall number one draft pick? I assumed she was handling discussions with Christopher since she is known around the league as The Rookie Whisperer. Setting up rookies to succeed in their finances, performance, and general well-being is her MO. Her rookies are notorious for keeping clean noses and full bank accounts even post-ball.

  She basically babies them into stellar careers.

  But if she’s trusting such a prize to Sanderson’s ineptitude, blocking this shot will be like taking candy from a baby.

  “Good to see you again, Lamont,” I interject since neither Banner nor Sanderson seem inclined to introduce him to the “enemy.” Smart. Well, Banner’s smart. I won’t make assumptions about Sanderson.

  “Mr. Foster.” Lamont’s eyes light with recognition. “Good to see you, too.”

  I visited a few of his college games, but he got into some trouble near the end of his freshman year. His on-court abilities make him a hot commodity, but his off-court antics make him a possible liability. I had decided he wasn’t worth the trouble, but now that I know Bagley’s after him, I may change my mind. If I’m recalling correctly, he likes strip clubs. Of course, he does. Pigs love slop. It’s self-evident. He’s a red-blooded male. It’s tits, ass, and lots of cash floating around—an unholy trinity few men can resist.

  Sanderson and Lamont exit the arena, and Banner resumes conversation with Quinn,
studiously ignoring me for the rest of the game and not revisiting our budding argument from before, which disappoints me. There are few things more arousing than Banner on a warpath.

  She stands as the final buzzer sounds and would probably leave without another word to me if not for Quinn’s manners.

  “It was nice meeting you, Jared,” Quinn says, her friendly smile determinedly in place, even though her friend’s glare must be burning a hole in the side of her face. “Don’t forget, I’ll leave the guest pass at the Titanium front desk for you.”

  “Thanks. That’s really sweet,” I say and mean it. Quinn seems like a genuinely kind person, an endangered species in LA.

  “It was great meeting you, too, Iris,” Banner says, reaching around me to touch my sister-in-law’s shoulder and brush a hand over a sleeping Sarai’s curls.

  “Same,” Iris near-gushes. “I’ll see you next week in Denver.”

  “Sure thing.” Finally, reluctantly, Banner’s eyes land on me, and she speaks grudgingly. “Good to see you again, Foster.”

  “I’m sure we’ll see more of each other now that we’re both in LA,” I remind her. “Maybe at the gym tomorrow.”

  She grimaces but salvages it into a grin at the last minute.

  “One can only hope.” She turns to Quinn. “You ready? I need to find Zo.”

  “Finally a night together,” Quinn says, her tone teasing and salacious.

  Banner flashes a quick self-conscious look my way, but doesn’t answer. She just takes Quinn’s hand and drags her in the direction of the opposing team’s players’ tunnel.

  So he’s staying with Banner instead of flying back with the team. Makes sense. If Banner was my girl, I’d stay back and fuck her, too.

  If Banner was my girl.

  The phrase boings around my head on a pogo stick for a few minutes while I escort Iris and Sarai to the opposite players’ tunnel where August will be. As soon as they are safely with him, I head for my car to start the trip from San Diego to LA. I pull up the Bluetooth for a phone call before I even make it out of the lot. It’s late to call my assistant, but she knows how I operate.

  All the time.

  “Seriously?” Chyna sounds like she was asleep. It’s not that late. “This is way after hours, Jared. What do you need?”

  “Now don’t go drawing personal boundaries,” I tell her, letting her hear the rare affection I hold for her and so few others. “It’s too late for that shit. You’ve spoiled me all these years.”

  Her heavy sigh is followed by a long-suffering chuckle.

  “One day you’re gonna meet the woman you can’t charm.”

  Already did, my friend. Just left her.

  “So what we got?” she asks. “Now that I’m up?”

  “You remember the guy we met who owns the new strip club downtown?”

  “Yeah. You said he reminded you of a lizard in snakeskin.”

  “That’s the one.” I laugh, pushing the button to lower the top on my convertible. It’s a glorious night for a drive. “Call him. I need a favor.”

  10

  Banner

  “Girl, you better get you some.”

  In the early morning quiet of my bathroom, I shhh Quinn’s app like it understands me. It’s five o’clock and I’m recording my food and workout from yesterday because I forgot last night. In addition to tracking nutrition, fitness, and water intake, it also logs sexual activity and menstrual cycle. Considering my PCOS diagnosis, I need to monitor this closely. Zo spent the night with me instead of at the hotel with the team. He’s in the bedroom asleep, and I don’t want to wake him up.

  We had sex. That’s not unusual in a healthy relationship between two consenting adults, but we’ve been best friends since he coerced Cal Bagley into making me his agent nearly ten years ago. At that point in his life, Zo needed a friend more than he needed sharp negotiation skills and experience. I was that friend. I walked with him through that first year following his family’s death. In interviews, he always says he probably wouldn’t have gotten through the pressures of his rookie year and all the grief he had to process without me. It went both ways. I needed a friend just as badly. I got tossed into a pool of sharks, sink or swim. It was the rookie year for us both, and he was there for me, too.

  Only in the last year did he express that he wanted more than friendship. Initially, I was a hard no. Why ruin a good thing? And frankly, as fine as Zo is, I’d never thought of him that way. I told him as much, but he kept asking. Eventually, I caved and we went out on one date. And then another. And then a third. I’m not going to say lightning struck. It didn’t, but it was nice to have someone as attractive as Zo want me. It was nice having someone to cuddle with while watching a movie. Nice to be holding someone’s hand when walking on the beach.

  The first time we made love, I cried into my pillow after. Not because it was awful. It was good. It was sweet and tender and . . . good. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had just ruined something precious. That I jumped off a building and was just waiting for the splat. But there has been no splat. Just falling. I guess this is falling in love? It’s a shame that at thirty-two years old, I’ve never been in love, but who’s had time? The occasional hookup. Drinks here and there. Dinner. I’d made myself vulnerable to two men in college, and both were disastrous. I may still be falling for Zo, but I know I can trust him, and he knows he can trust me. That must be a huge part of love.

  “Girl, you better get your butt in gear.”

  My workout times are also scheduled into the app, so “she” knows I haven’t left the house and should already be on my way to Titanium.

  “I’m going,” I grumble.

  Before I leave, I perform my everyday ritual of looking at myself naked in the mirror. There was a time I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stand naked in front of a mirror and just stare at myself, take in my imperfections without flinching. Without hearing the criticisms from culture, of men on the street, of my exes.

  From myself, the harshest critic of all.

  And looking at myself naked each morning, I may see a little extra flesh around the middle. Or one day, not yet thank God, some boob droop. Or God forbid, a square-er ass, but I make the choice every day to accept the girl who stares back at me. To offer her the same unconditional love she offers the people she cares about, her family and friends. I would never judge those closest to me, never say the things to them that I used to say to myself. If there are things I see that I want to change, I develop a plan to work on them. If there are things I cannot change, I work to accept them.

  I will never be petite. I’m just not made that way. Some of it’s just genetic. My hips, my ass, my very bones are too big for that. I’m not interested in being tiny. I want to be strong and healthy and feel good in my clothes, and now I do.

  When people first started realizing that Zo and I were dating, Hollywood Hannah referred to me as “the biggest Kardashian.” I thought that was so cruel. Not only to me but to Khloe. I understood the reference. Khloe has worked hard to have a strong, healthy body, but when you see her standing beside her sisters, she is and will probably always be the biggest Kardashian. Like me, she’ll never be tiny.

  My relationship with food is more complicated than any relationship I’ve had with a man. My feelings drive me into binges or starvation. In counseling, I sorted out what food should be to me. It’s for nutrition. Not to make me feel better. It’s not comfort. It’s not a companion to make me feel less lonely. It is not a friend I celebrate special occasions with. It is fuel. It oils my engine so I can live my best life. So I can pursue my dreams. So I can make this world a better place.

  Once I’ve braved my daily look in the mirror, I tame my hair into two long braids, brush my teeth, and splash water on my face. I’ll shower at the gym, but I’m wearing no makeup. I look about sixteen. Not exactly my tough chick face. I grab pieces from Quinn’s Titanium workout gear collection out of my laundry basket. Even a year ago, I never would have worn something
this revealing, though it’s modest by most standards. The cutoff T-shirt reads “The Future Is Latina” and shows my midriff, consequently leaving my hips, ass, and thighs exposed in the capri work out pants.

  I can’t resist. I turn my back to the mirror and stare at my ass. Accepting myself as I am doesn’t mean I won’t work to improve and be the best version of myself inside and out.

  “Sponge Banner Square Pants, huh?” I say aloud. “Extra squats for you today.”

  I tiptoe through the bedroom, making sure the drapes are drawn tight to keep out light until Zo is ready to wake up. I peer down at him, picking out his striking features in the shadows. He’s a beautiful man, inside and out. He’s won citizen awards for his humanitarian work, and is generally held as the kindest guy in the NBA. You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who doesn’t love Zo. I drop a light kiss on his unruly mop of dark curls. I’m a very lucky girl.

  I climb into my Ivory Range Rover with butterscotch hand-stitched leather seats, a special treat to myself, and keep counting blessings on my way to the gym. I try to start every day with gratitude. Zo is at the top of that list, along with my family and friends like Quinn.

  Every time I walk through Titanium’s doors, I feel a spark of pride. Quinn, that broken girl with bandages covering fresh slits on her wrists, the one who did nothing but glare all day at the space where her leg used to be . . . she made this. She wept on my shoulder after each rehab session, not because learning to walk with only one leg hurt so much, but because she wanted her other leg back so badly. That girl did this. I believed in her so much that I even invested seed money into this gym. Best investment I ever made.

  I fob in at the front desk and head up to the studio where Quinn trains me three times a week. I would have referred to I’ve never been able to shake the image of the types of girls Jared dated when we were in college. It only heightened my embarrassment, realizing how gullible I was to think he actually wanted me that night. I hope it was worth it, being a part of The Pride. He told me he didn’t join, but I’ve seen photos of him with Bent on yachts, at galas, ski trips. They remain close, and Bent stood with that group of jackals who taunted me. I know August West is involved with Elevation, probably funding much of it, but you don’t end up owning an agency like Elevation at Jared’s age without a lot of favors. And nobody does favors like The Pride.