Block Shot (Hoops 2)

Even though it turned out well, it still grates that one of the best deals I ever negotiated got left on the table when August walked away from it.

“Is this really the best time for an I-told-you-so conversation?” August asks, irritation clear in his tone.

“It is when I told you so.” I laugh at the heavy sigh he releases on speaker phone. “Soon, Brother. It takes time. And with you and Kenan on the same team, it’s only a matter of time.”

“We do work well together,” he admits. “Which reminds me, we have a charity project we wanna collab on. I need to talk it through with you. Sponsors and details and stuff.”

“Sure.” I glance up when Chyna walks in, an I-got-a-secret smirk plastered on her face. “Hey, let’s talk later, Gus. Some developments with that Christopher kid I need to handle.”

“Nice. Alright, Brother. Later.”

I disconnect and lean back in my chair, hands linked over my stomach while Chyna plops down into the seat on the other side of my desk.

“Whatcha got?” I ask, returning her eager smile.

“Lamont and his cousin Eric enjoyed their night on the town,” she purrs, flicking one dreadlock over her shoulder and sinking deeper into the leather seat.

“Good.” I grimace remembering that night. “They went hard. I could barely keep up.”

“Well we did provide a bottomless stack of singles in LA’s hottest strip club,” Chyna says wryly. “So going hard was the point.”

“Any fruit from our labor?” My voice is casual, but inside I’m anything but laid back. I’ve never liked or respected Mitch Sanderson, but after the things he said about Banner, blocking his shot feels personal. My inner tiger wants off the leash.

The daughter of a lion is still a lion.

She thinks I’m in The Pride, which means she still thinks that night was about some stupid rite of passage. Over the years, as the gulf between us widened, it seemed less important that she believe me. She had her life, her career in New York, and I had mine in Chicago. Now that we’re in the same city, moving in the same circles, I have to admit I want something with Banner again. She’s dating Vidale, so I keep telling myself I’d settle for friendship. That’s the right thing to do, but the right thing doesn’t always come naturally to me.

“Are you even hearing me?” Chyna demands, ripping me out of my own thoughts.

“Sorry, yeah.” I refocus my attention on her face. “What’d you say again?”

“Man, I hope your head is in the game for this meeting,” Chyna says sharply. “We’ve invested a lot into this deal. Eric says Lamont is ready to sign.”

“Shit.” I did zone out. “Where? When?”

“His hotel in under an hour.” Chyna taps her phone. “Just sent you the address. Get over there and close the deal.”

“Contract already sent over?” I ask, adjusting the surgeon’s cuffs on my shirt and slipping into my suit jacket.

“Yup.” Chyna nods and also stands, heading back to her desk in the outer office. “Emailed you the standard contract, already modified.”

I’m on my way to the elevator but circle back to her desk. I drop a kiss on her cheek and walk backward to the elevator and point at her. “Now don’t you go falling in love with me.”

Chyna laughs, sitting down at her desk and shaking her head, but looking pleased. “I’ve seen girls after you’re done with them. No, thank you. I like my heart in one piece.”

So do I. The closest I’ve ever come to a broken heart was Banner, and she didn’t even know it. Still doesn’t realize how real it was, what I felt for her. I haven’t allowed myself to think of what could have happened, how things might have gone if Prescott hadn’t ruined that night. With Banner back in my orbit, my mind keeps drifting back to those possibilities. As I make the fifteen-minute drive to Lamont’s hotel, that’s what I think about instead of what it will take to seal the deal with this year’s number one draft pick.

“Get your shit together, Foster,” I reprimand myself when I pull up in front of the hotel. I hand the keys to the valet, enter the hotel, and head up to the suite Chyna texted me. I’m rounding the corner when Banner emerges from a room just ahead. She’s dressed in all black. Wide-legged cuffed pants and a fitted black turtleneck, punctuated with a red belt tied at the waist. Red lips, shiny stilettos, hair a sleek, dark curtain hanging loose past her shoulders.

“Banner, fancy meeting you here.” I glance at the room number above her head. Lamont’s room.

“Very fancy,” she replies, stepping around me. She takes a few steps and then snaps her fingers, turning to find me still watching her. “Oh. I almost forgot. Knock, knock.”

I’m piecing this together, and I’m not sure how one of her infamous knock-knock jokes fits in, but it’s a blast from the past I’ve been mentally revisiting all day.

“Huh?” I ask.

“Knock. Knock.” She quirks her mouth so that damn dimple dents one cheek. “Humor me.”