HOOK SHOT: A HOOPS Novel

by Kennedy Ryan

“Well I didn’t tell her we won’t have sex for a long, long, long—”

  “Really?” I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “That many longs, huh?”

  She tosses her head back and cackles.

  “You’re evil.” I laugh, shaking my head and pulling into my building’s parking garage.

  “Funny. Your note today sounded like you like me a lot.”

  Her small hand curves around mine on the console between us. “Thank you for the flowers and the note. It made my day.”

  “You mean after my ex-wife destroyed it.”

  “Oh, no.” Lotus shakes her head. “She doesn’t have that much power over me.”

  We’re pretty quiet once inside the building, and keep our distance until we board the private elevator that leads to my apartment. When the doors close, I pull her into me.

  “Hi again.” I lean down and tease her lips open, then slip in to taste her. God, so sweet. She goes up on her toes, and I grab her ass and lift her.

  “Kenan,” she laughs into the kiss. “Put me down.”

  “Why? I bench press more than you every day.”

  “Show off,” she says, her mouth curled into a happy smile.

  “I have to find some way to impress you.”

  She rests her elbows on my shoulders and caresses the back of my neck. She’s suspended in the air. “You’ve impressed me from the beginning,” she says.

  “Oh yeah?” I set her on her feet when the doors open for my floor, take her hand, and walk to my apartment. “Is that why you were always so eager to kick it when we saw each other the last couple of years?”

  Her smile slips and then disappears. “I suspected this could happen.” She waves a hand between us. “And didn’t think it was a good idea.”

  “Why?” I let us into my place and immediately bring her close. She snuggles into my shoulder like she missed me as much as I irrationally missed her. All out of proportion to how long we’ve known each other. Beyond the few kisses we’ve shared.

  “Why didn’t you think it was a good idea?” I ask again.

  She wraps her arms around my waist and lays her head to my chest.

  “The women of my family make fools of themselves over men,” she says, her voice a confession. “They let men influence them. Ruin them. I don’t want that.”

  I kiss the top of her head and draw her a few inches closer. “I don’t want to ruin you or make a fool of you. I know how that feels.”

  “I know you do.” She glances up at me, her eyes as guarded as they are vulnerable. “That’s why I decided to kiss you in Brooklyn.”

  “Why?”

  “You have as much to lose as I do—as much of a leap to trust again.” She shrugs. “Maybe I’m kidding myself because I was tired of resisting the attraction, but that’s what I told myself before I kissed you.”

  I nod, thinking this may be the one time all the crap Bridget put me through has worked to my advantage. I take Lotus’s hand and lay it against my chest, cover it, completely eclipsing hers. She’s so small, but not fragile. If I’m using one of MiMi’s Bible stories that even I know, Lotus is the pebble David slung to take down Goliath. Maybe I’m not the gladiator after all, but Goliath. Am I falling? Falling from a little pebble right between the eyes?

  “Let’s eat,” I say after a few moments like that.

  We walk into the dining room where the chef left the food in warmers.

  “Nice place,” she says, surveying the open-plan apartment and settling into the dining room chair.

  “I can’t really take credit. It came furnished. The only thing I’ve really added of my own is the ice bath.”

  “Ice bath?”

  “I take ice baths after every game and really hard workouts. Helps with recovery. I had one installed for while I’m here.”

  I press a few buttons on the wall and music, “In A Sentimental Mood,” seeps into the room. Some of the tension I’ve carried in my shoulders ever since Lotus told me about Bridget drains away. Each note from John Coltrane’s saxophone seeks out the knots in my neck, and rolls over them with precisely the right amount of pressure.

  “I actually think I recognize this one,” Lotus says, propping her chin in her hand.

  “Is that so?” I serve a portion of the grilled chicken and vegetables for her plate and a larger portion for mine. I set them both on the table and nod for her to start. “Dig in.”

  “Yeah. It’s from the soundtrack for Love Jones,” she says and slides a forkful of mushrooms and asparagus into her mouth.

  I almost spit out my water mid-sip. “One of the greatest songs of the last century, by John Coltrane, a genius, and your context for it is a movie?”

  She laughs and shrugs, teasing me with her eyes and taking another bite.

  “Wait,” I say. “Are you messing with me?”

  She squints one eye, and squeezes her thumb and index finger together, leaving a small space. “Maybe just a little.”

  That is the pointy tip of Lotus’s sharp humor.

  She shows me a lot of it over the next hour. We talk so much during dinner my food gets cold, neglected because I’m absorbed in how she thinks, the way she voices her opinions. The entire night is a stream flowing easily from one topic into the next. Our conversation drifts effortlessly from movies to music to politics. We don’t align on every point, but hearing how she arrives at her opinions is as satisfying as sharing them. Coltrane yields to Chet Baker and his Funny Valentine. By the time we make our way to the couch, Miles Davis takes center stage, and we fall quiet, me sitting in the corner of the couch and her snuggled against me, knees tucked beneath her.

  “It’s this one,” I tell her when “It Never Entered My Mind” begins.

  “Your favorite song?” she whispers as if afraid she’ll interfere with the dialogue between the man and his instrument.

  I nod, hearing it not in this room now, but in the book-lined walls of my father’s study for the first time; sitting with him, listening while he reviewed material for his court cases and I did my homework. “It was my dad’s favorite, too.”

  She turns eyes filled with compassion up to me.

  “You miss him.”

  I swallow, surprised by the burn in my throat. It must be remembering him with this song playing, reminding me of his contemplative nature and appreciation for beautiful things. How he passed both on to me.

  “Yeah. I do,” I answer after a few seconds. “You think you’re fine and then . . .”

  She nods against my shoulder, biting her lip and knotting a handful of my shirt in her fist.

  “I think about MiMi almost every day,” she says. “Not always sad. Good, too. Something she told me, taught me. A recipe. A sewing pattern. I used to fight memories of her because it hurt, but I realized it was like her knocking at my door, and me not letting her in.”

  She shrugs, a sheen of tears over her dark eyes. “She always let me in. Not thinking of her would be like forgetting parts of me exist. The best parts.”

  “I never thought of it like that.” I kiss the top of her head and draw her a little closer. “I want you to meet my mom. She’s not dealing with it well. I think she’ll like you.”

  It only occurs to me after I say it that it might be too much. That she might think I’m already wanting her to meet my family, and it’s too fast.

  She smiles, blinking the last of her tears away. “That’d be nice.”

  I return her smile, glad it didn’t feel like a big deal to her. “And you can meet my sister Kenya next week. She can’t wait.”

  “You told her about me?” Surprise colors her voice and the look she angles up at me.

  “Only that there was someone I liked.”

  “I tried that with Iris, but now she knows it’s you,” Lotus says, her laugh rumbling into my chest. “She’s been hounding me.”

  “God, August is the same.”

  “Why they so obsessed with us?”

  “I know, right? Did you tell her about our first kiss?” I a
sk, hoping to disconcert her. She blinks a few times, but doesn’t otherwise seem surprised or affected.

  “No,” she replies with a little pull of her lips.

  “And our second one?” I ask, smiling wider. “Did you tell her about Brooklyn?”

  “No, I’ve been kind of protective of this—of all of it, and not wanting a lot of input, I guess. Testing my instincts and limits. Does that sound weird?”

  “No, but it has me wondering.” I shift so I can reach her lips when I’m ready to. “Will you tell her about this kiss?”

  “Which kiss?” she whispers, her eyes fastened to my mouth.

  I press my mouth to hers, tease her tongue out to play with mine, and her sigh, her moan, the sounds she makes, rocket through my blood. I sit up, pulling her onto my lap, and one lean denim-clad thigh and then the other fall on either side of my hips. She comes back, opening my mouth with hers, thrusting her tongue in aggressively. I slide my hands under the thin tank top and explore the silk of her back. She rocks her hips over me and we both gasp.

  “Do that again,” I command hoarsely.

  She obliges, grinding into me and drawing a groan from my throat. She wraps her arms around my neck and dusts kisses over my jaw, my cheekbones, my nose. It’s tender and sweet and hot as fuck.

  I don’t even realize my hands have drifted to her ass and are coaxing her hips into a steady ride that has her panting and my dick hard in my jeans. Her whimpers grow louder, her cries harmonizing with the notes falling from Davis’s trumpet. She’s close. God, she’s gonna come. I pull back enough to see her face, riveted on the play of emotions, the hunger, her mouth dropped open, her head hung back.

  And then she stops.

  “Kenan,” she breathes, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “I’m still off dick.”

  I sit perfectly still and will my cock to shrink to its normal size. Will my breathing to steady.

  We sit like kids waiting for a storm to pass, only we’re the storm. This feeling between us is a tempest, and I have no desire to take shelter. When she kisses me, I forget everything and want to stand in the rain.

  “Obviously, I’m attracted to you.” She breathes a laugh, shakes her head, and lowers her lashes. “But there are some things I’m still working out.”

  She glances up to search my face.

  “Are you mad at me?” she asks. “For getting you worked up?”

  I pass my thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. “I’m not a teenager. If I can’t stop when you ask me to without sulking, I shouldn’t be kissing you. You’re off dick until further notice. That’s the deal, and I’m fine.”

  She drops her forehead to my chin and nods, but slips her hand to my nape and brushes her fingers there over and over, as if she’s calming a wild animal. The way my emotions and hormones are raging, that’s not too far off base.

  “Are you ticklish?” I ask, needing a distraction from the way my body still burns and my blood still roars.

  Her head pops up and she bites into a grin. “Not at all.”

  “Liar.”

  I flip her onto her back on the couch and tickle her sides. Her squeals drown out the first strains of Sarah Vaughn. After several minutes of wrestling and tickling, and almost getting worked up again, she stands, breathing hard.

  “I should go. I have a really early morning and late night tomorrow,” she says. “We have fittings and a lot of other stuff to do the closer we get to Fashion Week.”

  I nod, a lot more disappointed that she’s leaving than that I’m not getting laid tonight. Am I horny? Oh, hell yes. I’ll probably be putting the ice tub to extra use for the foreseeable future, but I honestly would be happy just to have her here close against me, Miles on repeat, talking and tickling. I hate that she has to leave.

  “I could take the train home, you know,” she says in the elevator down to the lobby. “I do it all the time.”

  I don’t justify that with a response, but keep my eyes on the flashing numbers.

  We don’t talk much on the drive, but it’s okay. She reaches for my hand, toys with my fingers, stretches to rest her head on my shoulder. When we pull up in front of her place, she insists I not park or come up.

  “That means you have to kiss me here then,” I tell her.

  The kiss heats fast, smoldering, sizzling in the front seat until she climbs over to straddle my lap. Her hips are rolling. I’m thrusting up. We’re sharing sharp, hot breaths, and clawing at each other’s clothes. If we don’t stop, I’ll be fucking her in the back seat in front of her brownstone.

  I jerk my mouth away, and bury my head in the arch of her throat.

  “Lotus, we gotta stop or I . . .” I palm her head and turn my face into the sleek line of her jaw, leaving safer kisses there.

  “I know.” She nods and burrows into my neck.

  She crawls awkwardly back to the passenger side, grabs her purse, and gets out, not waiting for me to open the door. She turns to leave and then comes back, leaning her head into the open window.

  “What will you do about Bridget?” she asks.

  Lotus said Bridget would be the last thing on my mind when we fuck, but she already is. I hadn’t thought about her all night, but I know I have to deal with her.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I say, my voice quiet, my resolve steely. Bridget has ruined things for me so many times. She’s not ruining this.

  I lean across the console and Lotus meets me halfway, popping her head into the car for one last sweet kiss.

  I’ll take care of you.

  21

  Kenan

  “So when do I get to meet her?”

  “Meet who?” I ask my sister absently, pausing on the sidewalk to look at a retail space for rent. “This space is great, but Soho’s not right for Faded.”

  “Nah.” Kenya presses her face to the window, peering in. “Brooklyn, Queens. Harlem, even. One of those. Now don’t avoid the question. I asked when I get to meet this girl you can’t stop talking about.”

  “Who? Lotus?” I shoot her a puzzled look. “I’ve barely mentioned her.”

  “Yeah?” Kenya resumes walking beside me. “Then how do I know she works at JPL Maison, was born in New Orleans, and that she sews? Oh, and she likes mumble rap. She has a lotus flower tattoo around her belly button and—”

  “Okay. Maybe I shared a few details.” I toss a grin to my sister. “And she only pretends to like mumble rap to push my buttons.”

  “Well I’m in town until tomorrow, so I need to meet this woman who’s turned you out.”

  “She has not turned me out,” I scoff. “And you’ll meet her at dinner tonight.”

  “And where do things stand with Bridget since she rolled up in there, guns blazing?” Kenya smirks. “That is some basic bitch stuff, showing up at homegirl’s job like that.”

  “We aren’t exactly on the best terms.” I grimace. “It wasn’t pretty when I confronted her, and she tried to lie, say it was a coincidence. I’ve told her if she keeps meddling in my life there will be consequences.”

  “Money?”

  “It’s my only leverage with her right now.” I say. “I pay her twice what our agreement stipulates, plus alimony. Simone’s needs are more than taken care of. Everything else is gravy, but it’s gravy Bridget likes. We’ll see if it works.”

  “I hope it does.” Kenya looks down at her phone. “Hey, we’re here.”

  We cross the street and enter the gallery. The Gilded Bean boasts an airy space filled with paintings, photographs, and sculptures.

  “Nice, huh?” Kenya asks. “My coach swears by this place. She got all her artwork here. And they’ll deliver out of state.”

  “Let’s see if there’s anything you like.”

  I’d love to buy a few things for her, but she’s as proud as I am. Maybe prouder. She makes decent money, but I make more for one game than she does the whole season. I really do need to bring up the women’s salary increase at the next Player’s Association meeting here in New York. I was elected t
o the executive committee three years ago, and it’s been one of my favorite things I’ve gotten to do in the league. Many of my heroes who came before me served in the same capacity. It was Oscar Robertson who negotiated free agency for players when the NBA and the ABA merged. We’re still benefitting from his work.

  I’m a fan of the Big O myself.

  Lotus’s joke from our day in Harlem replays in my mind, making me grin and shake my head. I find that happening a lot. We haven’t gotten to spend much actual time together. She had to accompany JP to Milan unexpectedly, which sucks. She got home last night, and we’re trying to arrange for her to meet Kenya tonight.

  “Your girl into hip-hop?” Kenya asks, texting and not lifting her eyes from her phone.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “There’s this concert. Maybe we could go after dinner.” She looks up at me, but something over my shoulder captures her attention. “Man, that would look good on my wall. Shit, that would look good on anybody’s wall.”

  I glance over my shoulder to see what’s so great and stop, the blood freezing then boiling in my veins. I cross the gallery with quick strides to join a small group clustered at the base of a photo that must be blown up to six-feet tall, mounted on the wall.

  It’s a woman.

  The slim figure is tucked into the corner of a window seat. Her lean legs, smooth and sun-kissed copper, are slightly parted. Her head, haloed by a caramel and butterscotch mane of wild curls and coils, is flung back, exposing the sleek muscles of her throat and a wisp of bone, her clavicle, inked with scripted words. She’s wearing a man’s white shirt, unbuttoned, opened, the tails hanging on either side of her toned thighs. One breast is partially covered by the shirt, but the other is exposed, the shirt dripping off her shoulder and running down her arm. A tiny gold bar pierces a plump berry-colored nipple dangling like heavy fruit from a vine. The beginnings of a tattoo ringing the tops of her thighs peek out from beneath the shirt tail.

  Her pussy is in shadow, but it’s obvious she’s not wearing panties, and the lightly muscled plane of her stomach rises above her lap, decorated with a flower blooming around her belly button. Her hand, limp at her side, is adorned with one silver ring, and tattoos of the moon on three fingers. My eyes follow the line from her knee, past her calf, to the well-crafted bones of her ankle. The black polish on her toenails is slightly chipped, an intimate, candid detail, like all the other intimate, candid details no one in this fucking gallery should be gawking at.