Block Shot (Hoops 2)

“You mean science? Facts? Truth?”

“No, I mean in terms of the last man . . . person . . . standing . . . in terms of having to eliminate everyone else so that you come out on top. A food chain culture that thrives on atavism.”

That sounds like life to me, but I let her keep talking.

“I think less Darwin, more . . .” her eyes search the room as if the answer might be painted on the laundromat’s Pepto-pink walls “. . . Maslow.”

“Maslow?” I ask. “Two completely different schools of thought.”

“Yes, but both predictive of human behavior.” She leans toward me, warming to the subject. “Darwin used evolution, our most base biology, and Maslow used psychology, but both sought to understand why humans do what they do and how we end up with the best of the best.”

“And you think Maslow has it right?” I ask skeptically. “Convince me.”

She quirks her lips at my continued nod to Professor Albright.

“I think Maslow is at least another way to approach it. Darwin’s approach considers us no better than animals.”

“We are animals.”

“We are human,” she asserts pointedly. “We’re higher functioning, not only intellectually, but emotionally. Darwin assumes evolutionary competition leads to survival. Maslow believes that survival is a need, and if that need is met, we have the emotional margin for compassion and cooperation to meet the needs of others too. With Darwin, there is a last man standing. With Maslow, we could all be left standing.”

She tucks her hair behind an ear again, sliding her eyes away. “Guess this is why my advisor thinks I don’t have that killer instinct.”

“Maybe you’re the killer with a heart.” I lift her chin with one finger. “Maybe you’ll take all that caring shit and use it to win clients over. Leave the heartless, ruthless stuff to people like me.”

When she glances up, her dark eyes, fringed by thick lashes, snare me with the sincerity, the earnestness there. Still holding her chin, I stroke the powder-fine texture of her jaw. Confusion wrinkles her expression for a second before she pulls away from my touch.

“Um . . . maybe.” She runs her hands over her face and slumps her shoulders. Tugging out the pencils anchoring her hair, she tosses them on the table. Sable waves fall over her shoulders and across her chest. I can’t look away. Don’t want to. She’s usually so pulled together. Seeing her literally let her hair down is a privilege I’ve only had a few times this semester.

“Well, at least today showed him I can do something right,” she says sardonically, laughing without much humor. “In spite of my ovaries.”

“What happened today?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you.” A smile lights her face. “I got the Bagley internship.”

“No way.” I shake my head, genuinely impressed. “I didn’t know you were still in the running. I got knocked out in round two.”

“It’s not a big deal.” That faint flush rises over her cheeks, and she waves her hand. “I just didn’t want to jinx it. I honestly thought I had no chance. I figured Prescott had it on lock.”

Hearing Banner say that asshole’s name, I go still. Has he ever approached her with the kind of crazy shit he proposed to me tonight? I’d break him in half.

“Prescott?” I reach for a water from the neat rows of bottles she always keeps at hand when we study. “I didn’t think you even knew him.”

“I don’t.” She shrugs. “But I found out his dad is like best friends or fraternity brothers or something with Cal Bagley. I assumed it was Prescott’s to lose. I know he did, too.”

Damn. All the pieces fall into place, and I understand why he wanted to humiliate her. Payback is a whiny, entitled, selfish bitch named William Prescott.

“Wow,” I say even while the wheels keep turning in my head. “Congratulations. That’s amazing.”

“It is,” she says, her grin wide and proud. “They decided late, though, so now I’m scrambling to find a place in New York and to get my schedule adjusted for next semester.”

She stands and heads out to the main room where a load just finished drying.

New York.

I clench my fists on my knees, absorbing the information. She’s transferring a load from the dryer to a plastic basket when I venture back out there.

“So, New York, huh?” I ask, digging into the stack of white T-shirts and starting to fold.