Block Shot: A HOOPS Novel

by Kennedy Ryan

  I suppress a grin, not quite prepared to see any humor, but knowing one day I might be able to.

  “And me?” he asks, a forced lightness to the question. “What will they think of me? Of us together? I know compared to Zo, I’m not exactly the boy you bring home to Mama.”

  I look up from my spot on his shoulder, studying his face for the things he’s not saying. The tightness around his mouth. The concern in the eyes searching mine.

  “I didn’t think you would care what they think,” I say and flatten my hand over the hard muscles of his stomach under his T-shirt.

  “I don’t. For me, I don’t care. We’re going to be together if the Pope himself doesn’t approve.”

  “I don’t think our relationship requires Papal approval.” I laugh and caress his back. My hand freezes under the shirt as the word “relationship” lingers in the air. Even after all he said on the terrace, telling me he wanted more than sex, that he wouldn’t share me and I wouldn’t have to share him . . . it still feels like I’m assuming too much to call what we’re building a relationship.

  “Not Papal,” he agrees with an easy smile, obviously not nonplussed by the word. “Is Mamal a word? I think your mother will be the hardest to get on board.”

  “True.” I nearly shudder thinking of the tongue lashing in store for me over Zo.

  “I know you love your family,” Jared says soberly, reaching down to gently grip my jaw. “I love mine, too, but they have no say in this. No one does except us.”

  I search his face for perfidy or any duplicity, but there’s only the same sureness I saw in him last night. Sureness about me and our relationship. I simply nod and lay my head back on his shoulder, content to listen to his heartbeat and the wash of waves a few yards beyond the villa door.

  In the distance, a phone rings shattering the comfortable quiet we’ve been lounging in.

  “Ugh,” I groan, shifting on his lap. “My phone.”

  “Leave it,” he urges, kissing the curve of my neck. “Stay here and fuck. We’ve only had sex once today. Are we losing the magic already?”

  I chuckle and kiss his cheek with finality.

  “As tempting as that is, it’s Cal’s ringtone.”

  I haul myself to stand and rush toward the staircase and up the steps. I only told my boss that I needed a few days away and my team is more than capable of holding down the proverbial fort while I’m away. We’ve got a lot of off-season deals in the works, though. I can’t ghost completely on my clients. This could be something I should handle myself.

  Or maybe Zo told him he’s leaving Bagley because I can’t, in his words, keep my legs closed. That would be a much more embarrassing scenario, but I’m prepared for either.

  “Hey, Cal,” I reply, winded from racing to catch the call. “What’s up?”

  “Where the hell are you?” he demands immediately, discarding social graces.

  “I told you I was taking a little time off.” I pick up a pillow from the bed we’ve made love in so many times this week I’ve lost count . The pillow smells of Jared’s clean, addictive scent.

  “Yeah, well it’s really bad timing since your biggest client is in the hospital while you’re off smelling the roses or whatever the hell you’re doing.”

  I go stock still, the pillow pressed to my face and Jared’s scent still in my nose.

  “What’d you say?” The question stumbles over my tongue and out of my mouth. “Which client? Who?”

  “Zo. Who else would be your biggest client?”

  “Zo?” I can barely breathe deeply enough to push out his name.

  Jared appears at the door, leaning one shoulder against the frame with folded arms and a frown.

  “Yes, Zo, Banner. Where the hell is your head?”

  “What’s . . . what’s wrong? Where is he?”

  “Like I said he’s in the hospital,” Cal replies, a touch of impatience evident in his answer. “Has been for three days.”

  “Three days? In a hospital?” I shout, confusion, frustration, and anger infighting as I try to get answers. “Zo hates hospitals.”

  Ever since he sat in that waiting room while all his family died one by one, he has avoided hospitals at all costs. The thought of him lying in a hospital alone for three days . . .

  “What happened?” I demand.

  “Apparently, he was up in Vancouver for some standard off-season stuff. They had him doing a stress test when he passed out.”

  Zo has never passed out in the ten years I’ve known him, not even from the excruciating pain of his torn ACL.

  “The team thought we should know, so they called the office,” Cal says.

  “Why didn’t they call me immediately?” Frustration sharpens my tone. “They’re supposed to.”

  “Zo told them not to.” Cal’s curiosity crackles across the line. “What the hell is going on, Banner? If you two are having some kind of lover’s quarrel, I don’t need to know, but if this shit is affecting business, you need to fix it.”

  “I’ve got everything under control.”

  My reply sounds certain despite the chaos my life is spinning into. Jared’s face is stone as he listens to my side of the conversation. Cal’s questions, demands, and thinly-veiled threats nip at me over the phone. And somewhere in a Vancouver hospital, my best friend has suffered alone in what he would consider his personal hell. Nothing is under my control, especially not my galloping heartbeat or the trepidation and anxiety roiling inside.

  “You better,” Cal warns. “Get up there, figure out what the hell is going on, and report back.”

  He hangs up, and I stare at the phone for a few seconds, immobilized by worry and shock.

  “Zo’s in the hospital?” Jared asks softly from his spot at the door.

  “Yes.” I swallow tears and choke back all the questions and fears fighting for a way out. Jared is not the person I should talk to about Zo. He can’t be. I walk over to the closet, drag my suitcase out, and start tossing clothes in, not even paying attention to what I’m packing.

  “Hey.” Jared gathers my hands in his and forces me to stop long enough to look at him. “Tell me what’s going on, Ban.”

  “He passed out.” I close my eyes and try to block all the worst-case scenarios. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, but they’ve been running tests for three days.”

  Helpless tears fill my eyes, and I want to be weak for a moment, but there’s no time for weakness. Zo may have no time for my weakness. He’ll need me strong. The worst part is that I’ll have to convince him to let me help at all.

  “So you’re leaving?” Jared asks, a muscle flexing along the sharp angle of his jaw.

  “I have to.” I shake my hands loose to cup his face, staring into the concern and doubt in his eyes. “Zo hasn’t told them yet that he’s leaving. Cal didn’t know about any of it.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t plan to fire you after all,” Jared murmurs, his full mouth in a humorless tilt. “I wouldn’t if I wanted you back.”

  “This isn’t about him wanting me back.” I turn to the closet again and pull clothes off hangers and toss them carelessly, swiftly into my suitcase. “They haven’t been able to figure out what’s wrong, and he hates hospitals.”

  “And you’re off to the rescue, of course,” Jared says. “I’m sure he has a spot at his bedside waiting for you.”

  I pause long enough to glare at him.

  “That’s not fair,” I snap. “Could you just be human enough to care about someone other than yourself for one damn second?”

  At my harsh words, a guard drops over Jared’s face, like the visor of a helmet in battle, and he steps back, away from me.

  “Jared, I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s true, though, right?” His laugh is a mace swinging through the air, and I don’t bother ducking. “I’ve said it myself. I’m a selfish bastard, but I won’t pretend this doesn’t bother me.”

  “I get that, but please believe what I told you last night.
” I reach for him, frame his handsome face in my hands and let him look into my eyes so he can see that I mean what I’m about to say. “It’s just you.”

  I can feel the tautly held muscles in his face relax under my touch. One arm scoops me in close and the other buries his fingers in the hair at my neck. I can’t say I’ve ever seen tenderness on Jared Foster’s face, but the way he’s looking at me now, it’s the closest I think he’s come.

  “I didn’t mean to be an asshole.” He grimaces. “I mean, that is my naturally occurring state, but I know he’s in the hospital. He’s your client. He’s your friend. Of course, you’ll go make sure he’s okay.”

  “I have to.”

  “You have to,” he agrees, nodding and tightening his hands on me. “Just remember us, okay? That we have something . . .”

  He grapples for a second, searching for the word that is already on the tip of my tongue.

  “Special?” I offer quietly.

  He nods and bends to kiss the spray of freckles across my nose.

  “Yeah. We have something special.”

  31

  Banner

  “Who the hell called you?”

  Zo’s angry question is the first shot fired as soon as I enter the hospital room. I set aside any distress I feel at seeing him, big and vulnerable. Too big for the hospital bed, too vulnerable to be the strong man who has been my best friend for the last decade.

  “I think the better question is,” I say, arranging my face into the implacable agent I need to be for him right now, “why didn’t you call me?”

  “Do you really want me to tell all these nice people why you would be the last person I call?” he asks, still in English.

  I meet the curious stares of several doctors crowding around Zo’s hospital bed. Ever since we started working together, Zo and I would retreat to Spanish when we needed to say things we didn’t want others to know. Maybe rude, but we didn’t care. We were a team. Clearly things have changed.

  “I don’t care what you tell them,” I reply honestly because I’ll air all our dirty laundry in front of strangers if that’s what it takes. “But you’re contractually obligated to notify your agent of any invasive medical procedures, preferably before they occur and definitely within twenty-four hours.”

  “Bullshit.” Zo spits the word out, his eyes bitter slits in the striking face.

  “Yes, I thought you might need reminding.” I plop my Botega Veneta Cabat bag at the foot of the bed, extract a copy of his contract and extend the sheaf of papers to him. “Page forty-four.”

  He accepts the contract, flipping to the page I marked with a tiny red flag sticky note.

  “I don’t care what the contract says.” He tosses the contract back to me and it lands at my purse. “I don’t want you here.”

  “Tough.” I plaster my negotiator’s face over the hurt his words cause. “My career is inextricably tied to yours as long as I’m your agent, so anything that happens to that body happens to me.”

  “You’re not my agent.”

  “According to this contract,” I say, holding it up, “I am, and unless you can produce legal documentation proving that you have formally dissolved our agent-client relationship, not only do I have the right to be here, but it is my responsibility.”

  “Get out,” he says harshly.

  “No.”

  I cling to the calm façade and hide trembling hands in the pockets of my expertly-tailored, wide-legged pants. The silk blouse, stilettos, diamond stud earrings, expensive cologne, upswept hair . . . it’s all professional armor I’ve wrapped myself in for this confrontation. He doesn’t need a supportive girlfriend. He needs a fighter, and the flawless makeup I painstakingly applied is my war paint.

  “Who’s in charge here?” I ask, swinging my inquiry around the room.

  “Apparently, you are,” answers one white coat-clad man with a receding hairline and glasses.

  “I need to be brought up to speed immediately,” I say, ignoring his attempt at humor I don’t have time for. “Doctor . . . what is your name?”

  “Dr. Clintmore.” He steps forward and shakes my hand.

  “What is the status of my client?” I ask. “What has been done and what is being considered? What do we know?”

  Dr. Clintmore glances at Zo, silently requesting permission to share information before he divulges anything. Zo zips a look from the contract at the foot of the bed to my face and scowls but nods to go ahead.

  “Mr. Vidale’s blood pressure was dangerously low,” Dr. Clintmore says. “He passed out during the stress test, but that wasn’t his first time. He reported blacking out two other times over the last few weeks.”

  “What?” I can’t help it. Concern slips through my mask, and I seek Zo’s evasive eyes. “When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Does it matter now?” Zo blows out a long breath.

  “Yes,” I answer, my voice unyielding. “Tell me.”

  “Once in the locker room near the end of the season,” he says like the words are being dragged from him. “And a few weeks ago when I was in Argentina at the orphanage.”

  “And you didn’t think to share this information?” I don’t know if I want to shake him or hug him, but I’m spitting mad and scared as hell.

  “I thought it was nothing.” He hauls in a breath that stretches the muscles of his wide chest. “In the locker room, it was after a game when I played almost the whole time. I assumed I was probably exhausted and didn’t hydrate enough. This summer, I had been working all day in the sun on the orphanage’s new cafeteria.”

  Something flickers in his eyes when they meet mine. He’s probably remembering that building the cafeteria was my suggestion the last time I accompanied him to the orphanage.

  “So Mr. Vidale assumed those incidents and the weight loss were typical,” Dr. Clintmore inserts.

  I asked him about the weight he had lost, but he dismissed it as the intensity of the playing schedule. Why didn’t I persist? How could this have escaped my notice? Guilt spears me right down the middle, but I try to focus on what the doctor is saying.

  “Did you say biopsy?” I demand sharply when I tune back in. “He’s had a biopsy?”

  “Yes, which has come back normal,” Dr. Clintmore continues. “We’ve run tests on his heart, his lungs. All results have come back within range, except—”

  “Except what?” I cut in, gripping the bed rail.

  “The albumin levels in his blood are extremely high.” The doctor spreads a cautious look between the other physicians in the room before going further. “There are many things that could be related to, so we won’t speculate, but will wait for the next results.”

  “What is albumin?” I ask.

  Dr. Clintmore nods to one of the younger doctors to reply, and I realize the other doctors present are medical students.

  “It’s a protein your liver produces,” the younger physician answers. “It helps keep fluid in your bloodstream and prevents it from leaking into other tissues.”

  “And what do high levels of it in the blood usually indicate?” I ask, tensing while I wait for his answer. He flicks an uncertain glance at Dr. Clintmore, who nods that he should continue.

  “Alone, it’s not conclusive enough for a formal diagnosis,” he says. “When we biopsy his kidney—”

  “Biopsy his kidney?” Surprise unhinges my jaw. “What does that involve exactly?”

  “We’ll drill a small hole in his back,” Dr. Clintmore says, his eyes drifting between Zo’s face and mine. “And extract a sample of his kidney to examine.”

  I gulp but keep my features straight and absorb everything I’ve learned since walking through the door.

  “How long before we’ll get those results?” Zo asks, the tiny tick in his jaw the only tell of his concern. Otherwise he looks like we’re discussing what he’ll have for dinner.

  “Just a few days.”

  “And can I go home in the meantime?” His shoulders tense while he waits
for the doctor’s reply. I know better than anyone how much he hates hospitals. He’s probably been coming out of his skin the last three days.

  “Of course,” Dr. Clintmore says. “Wait here for the release paperwork. Take it easy. We’ll call you to discuss results as soon as we have them.”

  “Sounds good.” Zo flips long legs over the side of the bed and climbs out, straightening to his full six foot six. His dark hair has grown over the summer and waves past his ears. He walks to the closet, impervious of the audience viewing the taut muscles of his bare ass and back in the hospital gown. He spends half his life naked in locker rooms with other men, and God knows I’ve seen him naked enough that he shouldn’t be self-conscious with me. The team of doctors clear their throats and head for the door. I quietly ask Dr. Clintmore to contact me directly when the results are in so I’m kept abreast.

  I cross over to stare out the window, eyes fixed on the parking lot below but mentally synthesizing the information the doctors shared. A sense of foreboding spreads over my body like an invading army. My bravado, the false calm I armored myself in, the tough act . . . none of it will be enough if there is something really wrong with Zo, and I allow myself to feel helpless and afraid for the span of a few clipped heartbeats before wrapping myself in fake courage like chain mail and facing Zo again. He’s fully dressed, tall and handsome and looking like he hasn’t a care in the world. I know him well enough to spot the lie of his expressionless face.

  “Why wasn’t there anyone from the team here?” I ask, more to delay the things he’ll say now that we’re alone than out of real curiosity.

  “They were here earlier,” he replies. “They’d left by the time the doctor came with his news. Look, you and I both know this is ridiculous. I haven’t had the chance to tell Cal I was leaving. Your presence here will only make things worse. I want you out of my life. I thought I made that abundantly clear.”

  I take the comment like a knife in the ribs but keep pressing forward.