Block Shot: A HOOPS Novel

by Kennedy Ryan

  I finish the massage and cap the bottle. One glance tells me he is already drifting off. The fatigue is like a rain cloud dumping bouts of sleep on him throughout the day. I work while he sleeps, though there is almost as much to do for him as for my job. Between managing insurance and keeping notes organized from his doctors, I’m less and less involved in the day-to-day with the LA office.

  God, it hurt to tell Cal he should find someone else to manage the office. I worked hard to earn that opportunity, but I couldn’t do it well and give Zo my best here. Fortunately, I’ve been able to keep up with my client load. A nurse comes in a few times a week, which helps me keep my life afloat, but most of it falls to me. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Zo would do it for me. I’d do it for Mama, Camilla, Anna, or anyone I loved.

  I’d do it for Jared, but I rein in my thoughts about him as much as possible. They always tell you to count the cost before you undertake a challenge. I can’t allow myself to calculate what I may be losing with Jared by choosing to be here with Zo. Managing this, being here for Zo, requires complete focus. I don’t have time for self-pity or second-guessing. Not when time is not on Zo’s side.

  As I figured he would, Zo falls asleep pretty quickly. He had chemo yesterday and is wiped. I’ll take advantage of this time to look over a few contracts for Hakeem. But first, I check the app on my phone I use to manage Zo’s myriad medications. Amyloids, the abnormal proteins produced in Zo’s bone marrow, get deposited in multiple organs. Thank God they haven’t reached his heart, but his kidneys, liver, digestive tract, and even his central nervous system are all affected. Further down the line, he may require organ transplants and most certainly dialysis. For now, we’re relying on a multidisciplinary team of specialists to manage all the various organs and affected areas. Since the proteins travel in the blood to latch onto the organs, his hematologist runs point and coordinates with the gastroenterologist, nephrologist, and the neurologist who are also working with us. There are medicines for each organ, prescribed by each doctor. It’s overwhelming. Thus the app.

  I’m double-checking the new doses Zo’s clinical trial implemented, when I get a text.

  Quinn: Hey, stranger!

  Me: Hey, chica. How’s the road treating you?

  We made it official with AesThetics a few weeks ago, and they immediately put the Titanium Sweetheart to work as their new spokesperson. She’s been going to conventions and doing trade shows and presentations all over the country. She heads to Europe next week.

  Quinn: Not too bad. I’m exhausted but can’t complain. I’m headed into a meeting, but I’ll call tonight so you can complain. Sound good?

  I smile because she knows I won’t complain. She’s visited a few times but has been so busy herself it’s hard to get up here.

  Me: Sure. Whatever you say. How’s the book coming?

  Quinn: Ugh. You just don’t let up EVER, huh?

  Me: LOL! This is not a new development. Answer the question.

  Quinn: What book? I’m not a writer.

  Me: No, you’re a LIVE-er. You’re a how-to manual on surviving hell. People will be inspired by your story. Write it so I can sell it. I have a short list of literary agents I think we should meet with.

  Quinn: Of course you do. I’ll think about it. Gotta go. Give Zo my best and hang in there. I love you.

  I blink at the tears that would spill over if I’d let them. I miss our talks. I miss having dinner with my friend and laughing about trivial stuff and all the things I took for granted when I thought I had a lot on my plate.

  Me: Love you, too.

  I’m just setting the phone down to get some work done when it rings.

  Madre.

  “Mama, hola.” I pop in my earphones and switch to Bluetooth so I can multi-task.

  “Hola,” Mama says. “How is he?”

  I bite my lip before I answer. I hate worrying her. She sees Zo as a second son and flew up from San Diego when we first moved in to help me set up the house. She’s been back a few times—but not since Zo’s gotten so thin.

  “He’s good, Mama.” I pull up Hakeem’s shoe contract, scrolling to the section I need to modify.

  “His hair? Has he lost his beautiful hair yet?”

  “Uh, no.” I cut and paste from a similar contract into Hakeem’s. “I actually found these cold caps he wears to reduce hair loss. They seem to be working pretty well. It’s minimal, but he went ahead and cut it close anyway.”

  “Did he get the rosary I sent?” Mama asks. “You know I used that rosary when your Aunt Valentina had breast cancer.”

  “I know, Mama. You told us.”

  “Every day I prayed. She ran a marathon last year,” Mama says with supernatural satisfaction. “That’s twenty-six miles, Bannini.”

  “I . . . yeah, I know how long a marathon is, Ma.”

  “Remission.” She says the word in triplicate, the three syllables like a prayer.

  “There is no remission with amyloidosis,” I remind her. “It’s incurable. When Zo’s clear of the proteins, he’ll be in what they call response until they come back. And they will always come back.”

  “Not always.”

  “Yes, always, Mama. It’s the nature of the disease.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Mama says with confidence. “And what about his sperm?”

  I stop mid-type.

  What the . . .?

  “What about his sperm?” I laugh, a little taken off guard by the question.

  “You will want to have children later, Banner,” Mama says like she’s talking to the village idiot. “Did he not put the sperm on ice?”

  It hadn’t occurred to me. It should have. I can’t think of everything, but anything I miss gouges me with guilt. Even though Zo and I won’t have children together, I should have thought to ask. Maybe he and the doctor discussed it privately, though Zo has so little privacy from me these days.

  “I’ll check on it.” I dig back into the contract.

  “Those are my grandbabies, Bannini,” Mama says, her voice sorrowful. “Don’t let them fry.”

  “Zo doesn’t get radiology,” I say absently. I don’t add that his sperm are not her grandbabies. That would be as hard for her to process as Zo’s illness. By tactic agreement, Zo and I don’t discuss our relationship with each other or with anyone else. The media have basically dubbed him a martyred saint, and I’m the little woman standing by her man. He knows I’ve honored his request not to move forward with Jared, even though he doesn’t know it was Jared.

  Is Jared?

  I haven’t seen Jared in six weeks. I’m not sure if our tense is past or present anymore, but I miss him. I dream about him often. Conversations we had, jokes we shared in the laundromat years ago, and yes, I dream about us making love. All the time. It’s so real, I almost expect my sheets to smell like him, expect to find golden hairs on my pillow. But my bed is cold and lonely. I can only hope his is, too. I know Jared’s sexual appetite firsthand. I trust him when he says he’ll wait for me, but I wouldn’t blame him if he couldn’t. It would gut me, but I wouldn’t fault him, especially not when the woman you think of as “yours” everyone else celebrates as someone else’s.

  “So you will be back in time for the quinceañera?” Mama asks.

  “Uhhh, yeah.” I email the revised contract for Hakeem to look over. “We should be done with this round of chemo and back in LA by then, but I doubt Zo will be able to attend, Mama. After this, he has stem cell replacement. That’ll strip his immune system and he probably won’t be out much for a long time.”

  The other end goes silent, which my mother never is.

  “Ma?” I ask, closing my laptop and focusing on her completely. “Did you hear me?”

  A muffled sob stabs me through the heart.

  “When does it end?” Mama cries softly. “He’s such a good man. For him to bear so much . . . Dios ten piedad.”

  I can’t do this. I can’t be the one to comfort her, to listen to her pain. I ha
ve my own pain. And it is not time to indulge tears. There is too much road ahead of us for me to submit to tears right now. They’re corked, and like a bottle of champagne, when that cork pops, they’ll overflow.

  “Mama, I have to go.”

  The silence again. This one stiff. Hurt.

  “Banner, I know this is a lot for you, but you must talk to someone. You cannot be strong all the time. You will break.”

  Not yet, I won’t. She didn’t see his face creased with agony after the bone marrow biopsy. She hasn’t caught him staring blankly at the stranger in the mirror with the shrunken frame or witnessed his helpless anger when the diarrhea is so bad he has to wear adult diapers just to leave the house. A man so proud, so regal, brought so low. I’ve seen Zo’s cracks and know how close he is to breaking.

  No, it’s not time for me to cry. I don’t get to break yet.

  “Mama, I’m fine.”

  “You’re not wavering, are you? I mean in your love for him. I know it is hard to see the man you love so weak, but you are not a fragile woman.”

  “No, I’m not fragile.” I leave the love alone. I do love Zo, probably more than I ever have, but I know what kind of love it is, what it should always have been.

  “I’ll come back up soon,” Mama says. “I’ll cook all his favorites.”

  “He can’t keep anything down. I make him vanilla smoothies with a little pineapple. That’s about all he can tolerate. Everything else just comes back up.”

  “He loves pineapple and you hate it,” she says with a little laugh. “Surely there’s something I can make for him or maybe I could . . .”

  I feel her fix-it from here. I get it from her.

  “Mama, just come,” I say softly. “You don’t have to do anything or try to make it better. Zo loves you. That’s it. He doesn’t get to see many people because his immune system is shot, and he would especially love to see you.”

  “I just want to do so much.” Tears soak her voice. “He cannot die. I’m praying. I go to Mass. He is in God’s hands. Tell me you believe he will be okay.”

  My faith is a coin toss. Heads. Tails. Fifty-fifty.

  So I do for her what I do for myself every single day. I toss the coin in the air, hope for the best, and make myself sound certain of things over which I have no control.

  “Mama, I believe.”

  34

  Jared

  So this is what twenty years with the same woman looks like. With the right woman. My father and stepmother literally glow when they’re together. I saw it the first time he brought her home, and twenty years later, they’re just as bright.

  I never resented Susan West marrying my dad. Losing my mother took something from him, made him sad in a way I thought would never go away. With Susan he was happy again, and that was all that mattered to me.

  Also, she made a mean pot roast.

  “Oh, Jared,” she gushes, one hand over her mouth the other hand holding the tickets to Hawaii I gave them as an anniversary gift. “It’s too much.”

  My dad catches my eye and silently mouths, “It’s not too much.”

  We share a smile, and I can’t help but remember the conversation Banner and I had about my father that night at dinner. I’d never considered that he retired for me, but now I realize he probably did. I touch his arm to keep his attention before he goes back to opening more gifts from the pile in front of them.

  “Hey,” I say, waiting for him to look at me. “I just wanted to . . .”

  He lifts thick fair brows in silent inquiry, waiting for me to do something I never do.

  “Just thanks for all you sacrificed for me,” I mumble, dropping my hand from him and feeling like an idiot. I glance at Susan, who is smiling and tearing into a brightly wrapped box. “I’m glad you found her. You deserve to be happy.”

  I’m ready to move on, feeling awkward. Why am I so bad at being nice? My dad, though, excels at kindness, at connecting with people in a way, despite all my agent’s charm, I never could. He clutches my shoulder, his eyes not brimming with tears but with emotion all the same.

  “Nothing I ever did was a sacrifice, Jared,” he said. “It was a privilege raising you, one I took very seriously.”

  I usually hate this burning sensation in my throat and this pricking behind my eyes, but tonight I don’t. It’s evidence of the love I have for my dad, of the love he has always made sure I felt from him. There is an understanding in the grin we share that maybe we’ve never shared. Probably because I never took the time, but having Banner in my life carved out something in me that wasn’t there before. I’m not less of who I was, but she’s added something. One of the things I love about Banner is how she flips things around so I see them in new ways.

  One of the things I love about Banner is different from saying I love Banner. I’d be a fool to let myself say that with things as they stand right now. I haven’t seen her in six weeks. We’ve barely talked. The whole world is planning her deathbed wedding to Zo. It’s morbid. I can’t stand it. I hate that they don’t know she’s mine. That everyone thinks she’s some tragic heroine so deeply in love with Zo she would never leave his side—when she touches herself at night and thinks of me.

  God, I hope she does.

  Or am I alone in this pathetic farce, the one in which I don’t even know the role I’m playing? Maybe I’m reciting my parts, hitting all my marks, the whole time thinking I’m the lead when I’m actually the chump pining for the girl, not the one who gets her in the end.

  They open the rest of their gifts, and we cut a huge cake and there’s dancing and it’s all wildly romantic and the last thing I want to do. It’s a reminder of my limited options. The woman I want isn’t here meeting my family like I had planned, but she’s in Palo Alto with her . . . boyfriend? I don’t know what to call him. I don’t know what they are.

  What if he’s won her back? I mean, six weeks in a house together, something has to happen, right? I wouldn’t be in the same house with Banner for a day without bending her over something and fucking her from behind.

  But that’s just me.

  I’m reminded every day that Zo and I are different people. He’s the philanthropist. He’s the patron saint. The goodwill ambassador. I’m not any of those things.

  And I don’t give a damn. She’s still mine. Not Zo or all the commentators combined on Sports Center and Good Morning America will convince me otherwise. But what about Banner? Does she remember whose she is? And that across the country in Maryland, there is a black-hearted, horny motherfucker who, by some miracle, has convinced himself that he is hers?

  I need some air or at least some space. I wander away from the herd of joyful partygoers and into the den, which is really my father’s man cave. There is never a time when the television isn’t on, and I’ve never seen it on any channel other than ESPN. I flop into the leather recliner usually reserved for His Royal Highness and settle in to check some scores.

  Only it’s not scores they’re discussing.

  “We have an update in the ongoing story of Alonzo Vidale,” the commentator says, his face appropriately grave. “Who, as most know by now, is fighting a rare disease called amyloidosis.

  “A few photos surfaced on Instagram from a fellow patient at the facility where he’s being treated,” the co-anchor says, blinking her false eyelashes like she’s trying not to cry. “I think we all send Zo our best wishes and prayers.”

  As they’re talking, the photos that were posted come onscreen. Again, people suck. Who does this kind of shit? Sees a man being treated and posts pictures of him at his lowest for the whole world to see? His face is gaunt in a way you immediately recognize is due to illness. Obviously his height hasn’t diminished, but when he and Banner walk out of the hospital, she seems to be holding him up, even though she’s only holding his hand.

  Why is she holding his hand? Is that really necessary?

  I hate feeling this way. These thoughts are awful—even for me. He’s fighting an against-all-odds, u
phill battle for his life, and the only thing I can care about is the fact that he shouldn’t be holding Banner’s hand when I don’t even get to see her.

  “You okay in here?”

  I glance up, pulling myself out of my selfish musings to nod at August.

  “Yeah, just tired.” I drop my head back against the recliner and close my eyes. “Long flight.”

  “Oh, good,” he says. “I thought it might have something to do with Banner Morales and Zo Vidale.”

  I open my eyes and turn my head slowly in his direction.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, eyes narrowed on August’s face.

  “Just a wild guess.” He shrugs and offers me a Stella. “Want one?”

  I accept the beer without further comment, and we fall into an uneasy silence. Uneasy because I know it won’t last long.

  “I only asked,” he continues after a couple of sips. “Because Iris mentioned seeing Banner at the office shortly before news came out about Zo. She thought things looked pretty intense between the two of you.”

  “That right?” I fix my eyes on the interview with Stephen A speculating about the upcoming season.

  “Yeah, and then I remember she told me you came to Banner’s session at that conference and seemed really into what she was saying. That you guys knew each other in college.”

  “Wow, that Iris is really observant, huh?” I take a sip, still not looking at him.

  “Look, if you need to talk to someone,” August says. “And I suspect you do, you know you can talk to me. I won’t judge you.”

  “Oh, so if I tell you I’m fucking Banner Morales, you won’t think that’s bad?”

  His jaw drops, and then he snaps his mouth shut in a hard line.

  “Bruh, I didn’t think you’d taken it that far,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Jared, you can’t. You’ll be a social pariah.”

  He leans over to peer into my face.

  “And so would she,” he says in a low voice. “You know that, right? That if word got out, it would ruin her reputation. She’d be reviled.”

  “Right. I know that,” I snap. “And you can rest easy. I’m not.”