HOOK SHOT: A HOOPS Novel

by Kennedy Ryan

  “Yes. Let’s debrief tomorrow.”

  “Bless you. Bye, B.”

  “Bye, Kenan.”

  As soon as she hangs up, I close my eyes and try to absorb the quiet into my very pores. Extended conversations, even with people I love, sometimes leave me feeling drained. I’m an introvert. The things that refuel me don’t involve people at all. I love being alone.

  “Children and bored adults need to be entertained. Grown men living with purpose require time and quiet and energy.”

  That’s what my dad used to say.

  God, I miss him. Thinking about the wisdom he always shared with me, sometimes welcome, sometimes not, sears me even a year after his death.

  “Son, fuck her, but don’t keep her. The two of you are oil and water, and will make each other miserable.”

  He said that when he met Bridget.

  “You weren’t wrong,” I mutter to no one but myself. That was probably why, even after more than a decade of trying, Bridget and I didn’t work out. She craves the limelight. I shun it. I believe in fidelity. She had an affair with one of my teammates, a supposed close friend. Just minor philosophical differences.

  Now she has the audacity to join this new reality show Baller Bae . . . I need to stop thinking about this, or I’ll be walking into that party growling and scowling, in direct opposition to Banner’s orders.

  We drive through the city, which hums with some force I’ve never experienced anywhere else. I can’t quite place it, but it feels like potential energy—like you could toss a ball from any spot here and it would travel around the world. No wonder people come here to dream.

  The partition rolls down. “We’re here, Mr. Ross,” the driver says.

  I peel off several bills and offer them through the opening.

  “Oh, it’s taken care of,” he says, even though he’s eyeing the cash.

  “I take care of myself.”

  I give him the money, flash the briefest of smiles, and climb out. While I walk toward the massive boat moored to the pier, I rehearse social cues like smiling, nodding, and feigning interest. A tall dark-haired man and a woman with a snowy-white bob stand at a velvet rope greeting party guests approaching the boat.

  “Mr. Ross,” she says with an accent I can’t quite place. “I’m Vale, Jean Pierre’s assistant. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Oh, hi.” I accept her hand with a smile. “Thanks for sending the car.”

  “No problem,” she says warmly. “And this is my husband, Keir.”

  “How do you do?” he asks.

  “Fine. Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Mr. Ross!” a man says from a few feet away.

  He claps his hands once, and his eyes roam from my shoes to my head. I have no idea if this short man with dark hair, an open smile and the beginnings of a paunch is Jean Pierre or not, but he’s wearing an ascot and has a French accent, so there’s a good chance he could be.

  “Or should I call you Gladiator?” he all but purrs.

  “Don’t do that.” Judging by the look on his face, that came out wrong. “What I mean is my teammates call me that, but not many other people do. Kenan is fine, and you’re Jean Pierre?”

  “Yes, well my”—he does air quotes and winks—“’teammates’ call me JP, and you’re welcome to as well.”

  “Okay. JP then.”

  A pretty blond woman walks up beside JP, her blue eyes assessing.

  “Well hello there,” she says. “I’m a huge fan of the game, and you in particular. We’re so glad you could make it.”

  JP frowns at her, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because she keeps staring and batting fake lashes at me. Nothing against fake lashes. I just don’t like it when the woman blinking them is fake, too. I’ve had one of those already.

  “Kenan, this is Amanda,” JP says. “One of my favorite stylists.”

  “One of your favorites?” She affects an affronted look. Or maybe it’s real. I can’t tell.

  “Don’t be a greedy little so and so,” JP says, diffusing the chastisement with a smile.

  “You’re the last guest to arrive,” Keir says smoothly, unclamping the rope and gesturing for us to walk the short board to the floating boat.

  The yacht is huge, and everyone seems to be spread over two decks. A DJ plays everything from house music to hip-hop, to 80s and 90s pop. Servers bearing trays laden with food glide between clusters of guests. We’re moving so slowly on the water I barely feel it, but the pier has drifted farther away every time I glance back. The skyline, dotted with glittering buildings against the velvety night, keeps distracting me from the conversation.

  “You hungry?” Amanda asks. She’d take a bite of me if I was down, which I’m not. I’ve had enough experience with man-eaters to last a lifetime. She’ll find someone else to devour. I’m sure any reasonably attractive millionaire will do.

  “Uh, nah. I’ve eaten.” I shake my head and tap my leg with twitching fingers. My workout regimen has been thrown off the last few days transitioning into my new place and moving. I can tell I have a lot of pent-up energy. They probably don’t have anything I can eat anyway. The key to me playing as long as I want to and going out on my terms is playing smarter, not harder. Smarter means living like a monk year-round, if you’re a monk who works out twice a day, soaks in ice baths, and can still have sex.

  That could be why I’m twitching. Bridget and I may have been on opposite sides of every issue, but we slept in the same bed, and shame on me, I fucked her long after I stopped loving her. But my vows were sacred, at least to me, and she was my only option. No sex was not an option.

  And yet . . . here I stand with twitching fingers and pent-up energy. I could definitely use the summer fuck Banner suggested.

  “Drink?” JP asks.

  Not usually, but alcohol does help me smile when I feel like scowling. “Sure. Wine’s fine. Red.”

  I avoid the hard stuff as much as possible, even in the off-season. Besides, if I plan to make it off this boat without Amanda taking advantage of me, I need a relatively clear head.

  JP grabs a glass of red from one of the trays and introduces me to several more people. They may as well be the same person as much as their names and faces compute.

  “It’s a lot,” a pretty redhead with green eyes says. “We’re a lot, but we mean well. I’m Billie, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Billie,” I say.

  “The games will help you get to know everyone,” JP assures, as if that assures me.

  “Games?” I ask. I play one game. Basketball. Anything else, I can’t be bothered.

  “They always have games,” Billie says dryly, offering a commiserative glance. “You don’t have to play, but it usually turns out to be fun. We’ve played hide and seek.”

  “Pin the tail,” JP adds jovially.

  “Dodgeball,” Amanda laughs.

  “We broke a twenty-thousand-dollar vase that night,” a male voice says from behind me. “Needless to say, no more dodgeball.”

  I turn to face the voice, and immediately recognize the guy who goes with it. The dark-eyed, petite, sexy-as-fuck pixie I can’t stop thinking about was with this dude the last time I saw her.

  “Chase, right?” I ask, making a conscious effort to un-bend my eyebrows because I can feel the scowl forming. “I think we met at a Christmas party a few months back. You’re a photographer?”

  You were with Lotus is what I think, but don’t say.

  “Yup, great memory.” He smiles, and I want to snatch the dirty blond man bun from his scalp hair by hair. I recognize it’s an extreme reaction, but that is the only way to describe how I feel when I’m around that woman. Extreme.

  “Chase is the reason we found each other,” JP says, giving him a pleased smile.

  “How so?” I ask. This alliance is looking less likely with every passing minute and each revelation.

  “Your arms.” Chase nods to my forearms, exposed by my short-sleeve shirt. “Remembe
r at the party I said you had great arms?”

  He says it like that should explain everything, but I raise both brows meaningfully, silently encouraging him to elaborate.

  “When JP told me he was looking for a watch spokesperson,” Chase continues, “I thought of you.”

  My mind latches on to a vague improbability. “Do you know Lotus, too?” I ask JP directly.

  “Know her?” JP laughs heartily, shaking his little paunch and straining the buttons on his silk shirt. “She works in my atelier.”

  Note for later: Google atelier.

  I’m not one to believe in fate, but my first week in a city this big, I have a six-degrees-of-separation with the one woman I‘d summer fling and summer fuck. When fate knocks, you answer.

  “So is she . . .” I clear my throat. “She’s not here, is she? On the boat?”

  “Why?” Chase asks, suspicion lacing his voice now, the easy friendliness from minutes ago gone.

  None of your damn business, is what I want to say, but Banner’s still in my ear.

  “We have mutual friends,” I say, eyeing him as closely as he’s eyeing me.

  “I didn’t realize that,” JP says. “I wonder why she didn’t mention you know each other?”

  “Know each other is a stretch,” I tell him with a humorless grin. “Like I said, we have mutual friends. One of my teammates is married to her cousin. We’ve met a few times before.”

  “She’s here somewhere,” JP says, scanning the deck.

  Considering that at the Christmas party, she basically fled the scene as soon as she realized I was there, I wouldn’t lay odds on actually getting to speak to her. She’ll probably jump overboard. Knowing she’s here, though, shouldn’t make me feel this way. I barely know the woman. Correction. I do not know the woman, and she has made it clear she doesn’t want to know me. Amanda wants to know me. Bridget claims to want me back. I could find a dozen, no, more, women tonight who want me.

  And perversely, I’m drawn to the one who doesn’t.

  “I’ll find her,” JP interrupts my inner monologue, “and call her over.”

  “That’s not necessary.” I say it half-heartedly because I don’t plan to stop him.

  “Yari,” JP calls across the deck. “Where’s Lo?”

  An attractive Latina woman—maybe Puerto Rican, Dominican—turns her head from the person she’s talking to. Her eyes drift from JP to me and back again.

  “Upper deck maybe?” Yari answers with a shrug.

  “Be a doll,” JP says drolly, “and go get her for me?”

  She says something to the person standing with her and then disappears up a set of stairs.

  JP, Chase, and Amanda continue talking, moving on in the conversation. I’m tuned into the discussion with half an ear and a quarter of my attention. I’m starting to believe Lotus really did abandon ship rather than see me when her friend Yari returns.

  And Lotus follows.

  Somehow she looks different every time I see her, but there is something about her that never seems to change. I’ve seen her with platinum braids and hair cut so short it framed her face, but I should have known better than to think I could predict her.

  The petite woman who descends the stairs is another incarnation of the one who fascinated me from the first look we shared in a hospital room two years ago. August, my teammate, her cousin Iris’s husband, had a concussion. She came to visit while I was there, and it felt like a horse kicked me in the stomach when she walked in. It knocked the air out of me, out of the room. Such a small woman completely commanded a space doing no more than stepping through the door.

  She does that again now, but this time there are no braids. Her hair isn’t cropped, nor is it platinum. It’s a halo of textured curls, her natural hair, layered in shades of honey and wheat and gold, contrasting with her skin. She’s a little darker than the last time I saw her, like she caught the summer sun and trapped its warmth inside her skin until she glowed. Her wide mouth, though unsmiling, is still soft; the curves lush and tempting. There’s something feline about Lotus. The careless grace of her movements. The heart-shaped face with its pointed chin, flared cheekbones, and tipped-up eyes. She pushes her hair back, and I see a trail of gold studs dotting the fragile shell of her ear. In the other ear she wears one oversized gold hoop. A sleeveless blood orange sundress flows over her slim curves like fire and water. She looks like a sun-kissed gypsy.

  She doesn’t look away. I’ve been rude as hell when we’ve met in the past, staring at her like I had no home training. Most women would clear their throats, roll their eyes, snap their fingers in my face. Something to indicate what the hell, man, but not Lotus. She’s stared back every time. Not like she was studying me as closely as I studied her, but more like she was allowing me to look my fill.

  And I do.

  By the time she makes it to JP’s side, I’m braced and ready to maintain my cool and not make an ass of myself . . . again. We’ve only seen each other a few times and never for very long. Up close with time to study her, I see new details I missed before. The thin straps of her sundress bare more of her than I’ve seen in the past, and several colorful, intricate tattoos decorate her burnished skin. Script kisses her collarbone, but I’m not close enough to read. Moons adorn three fingers of her right hand—a crescent on the ring finger, half on the middle finger, and full on the index.

  She’s wearing flat sandals tonight instead of heels, and her head doesn’t quite reach my shoulder. God, as big as I am, I could crush her if I wasn’t careful. Not that I’ll ever get the chance to be careless with her. The look on her face says it; that long-suffering unyieldingness; that eloquent silence tells me in no uncertain terms my interest is duly noted and not reciprocated.

  “You needed me, JP?” she asks, the warmth of her voice chilled to room temperature, probably for my benefit.

  “You didn’t tell me you knew Kenan when I mentioned him in the meeting today,” he says with gentle accusation. It’s obvious he’s fond of Lotus.

  Long lashes drop to cover her eyes before she lifts them to boldly meet mine. “We don’t really know each other,” she says with a little lift of her slim shoulders. “His teammate is married to my cousin. Good to see you again, Kenan.”

  It’s the first time I’ve heard her say my name. It’s quiet for a few seconds while the various people in the tight circle slide looks between Lotus and me, no doubt trying to figure out what’s really up.

  While I try to figure out what’s really up.

  “Good to see you again, too,” I say, forcing a small smile.

  “How were Iris and August when you left San Diego?” she asks, snagging a few of the olive hors d’oeuvres from Chase’s small plate.

  “Good. Working on the nursery.”

  She goes still for a moment, a natural smile curving her mouth, before she turns to her friend Yari who walked her over.

  “So how do I convince you to wear my watches, Mr. Ross?” JP asks.

  All the attention falls on me. “Let’s play it by ear,” I reply and sip my wine.

  “Well, you do have great arms,” JP points out unnecessarily and again. “It’d be total arm porn.”

  I wince, because that still just doesn’t sound right.

  “You have no idea what that is, do you?” Lotus leans over to whisper. She’s in my space, and she smells fresh and sweet and spicy, like she dabbed drops of her personality at her wrists and behind her knees.

  “Um . . . it sounds like some freaky shit.”

  She laughs, and it’s the first time her openness, the freedom of who she really is, has been unleashed on me. I’ve seen it from a distance with Iris and her daughter Sarai, but Lotus’s dark eyes shine with humor and her lips twitch even after she’s done laughing.

  We don’t have time to go deeper because Keir grabs a mic and verbally herds everyone into the yacht’s main saloon.

  “Thank you all for coming tonight,” Keir says, spreading a warm smile around the room. “It wo
uldn’t be a party without one of our legendary games, now would it?”

  He and Vale laugh when the crowd lets out a collective, exasperated groan.

  “Tonight, in honor of our special guest, Mr. Kenan Ross,” Vale says, gesturing over to me, “we’ll play a new game.”

  Not wanting to be the center of attention for long, I offer a brief, probably awkward smile, and hope they’ll get on with it.

  “You can thank me later,” I whisper to Lotus once they’ve moved on, taking a chance that the ease which existed a few moments ago might linger.

  “You’re a Drake fan?” she asks.

  “Huh?” I run the conversation over in my head. Why would she ask me—

  Oh, the Drake album, Thank Me Later.

  “Not really,” I reply honestly. “I mean he’s aight, but he’s not like top five.”

  I’m about to ask for her top five, considering this is the longest she’s ever spoken to me, when the word “kiss” arrests my attention.

  “What’d they say?” I turn to ask Lotus, but she’s not there. She’s gone and is standing with Chase and nibbling off his plate. He bends to whisper something in her ear. She shakes her head, starts to walk off, but then steals his plate first before joining Billie and Yari a few feet away.

  “He said we’re playing Hook Shot,” Amanda says with a look I think is meant to be sexy.

  “Uh . . . that’s a game?”

  “Yeah, in your honor. You know the hook shot in basketball, when you—”

  “Yeah, that part I get.” I point to myself. “I’m a basketball player, so yeah. Hook shot, but what’s the game?”

  Vale approaches, her Icelandic blue eyes cool and smiling when she proffers a leather bag.

  “Pull,” she says with an encouraging nod.

  “Pull?” I ask, still wondering what the hell is going on.

  “Yes.” Her tone is patient and she shakes the little bag. “It’s a drinking game.”

  Even more lost.

  “So,” she continues, slowing her words, like that might help me, “you pull your icon.”

  “Icon?”