Block Shot (Hoops 2)

“Technically, no,” Dr. Clintmore replies with the calm of a man well-used to delivering life-ending news. “We call it a cousin of Multiple Myeloma, which is a cancer of the blood. A cancer of plasma cells. You’ll often see the two conditions coexisting, sometimes one to a lesser degree than the other, but we categorize amyloidosis as a rare disease, not a cancer.”

“You said you believe he has it,” I say, homing in on any sliver of doubt, any chance that there is a mistake or that this is not serious. “So there’s a chance he doesn’t?”

“We would like to biopsy his bone marrow to confirm the diagnosis,” the doctor replies, compassion leaking through is professional mask. “But we are fairly certain given the results we already have.”

“A bone marrow biopsy?” Zo frowns and swallows convulsively. “What are we talking about here? Like, what are my odds? What is the prognosis? When can I play again?”

With each question, Dr. Clintmore’s marbled expression cracks a little more. The last question makes him sigh.

“I think playing is . . .” Dr. Clintmore pauses, obviously weighing his words. “A lesser concern considering the expectancy is generally six months to two years.”

Expectancy?

“Do you mean life expectancy?” The question barrels from my mouth like cannon ball. “You’re saying he has six months to two years to live?”

“This is not my specialty,” Dr. Clintmore says hastily. “There are generalities and many variables that factor into each individual’s prognosis. I wouldn’t want to speak hastily. We need the biopsy results and to start treatment as soon as possible with a team of doctors who know more about this condition than I do. Immediate and aggressive treatment will improve whatever prognosis he has.”

“What kind of treatment?” Lowell asks, rubbing his chin, a speculative look in his eyes. I know exactly what is running through his mind. He’s thinking of his team, which has been built primarily around Zo. He’s thinking of his upcoming season, in which Zo would have featured prominently.

“Even though it is not a cancer,” Dr. Clintmore says. “It follows a similar course of treatment. Aggressive chemotherapy.”

“Chemo?” Zo runs a hand through his lustrous hair. “Like I’ll lose my hair and be sick and can’t play ball?”

That’s it. I’m done with this shit. Lowell is over there silently scheming on how to cut his team’s losses, and Zo is trying to figure out how to salvage the season and when he’ll be back on the court.

“Fuck ball,” I snap. “Did you hear the man, Zo? Six months to two years. The last thing I care about right now is when you’ll get back on the damn court. You are in the literal fight of your life. Do you understand?”

“You think I don’t know that?” he asks harshly, his dark eyes flashing fear and frustration. “That I don’t realize how hard the road ahead is? But I need a goal, Banner. Something to help me at the end of that road. I need . . .”

You.

He doesn’t say it. He wouldn’t, but I know, even if he doesn’t know it yet. Even if he won’t say it. And a stony resolve builds itself brick by brick inside me. Hail Marys, prayers, rosaries, miracles . . . We’ll do all those things, but what this will also require is someone determined that Zo won’t die and foolish enough to believe it no matter what.

And that someone is me.

Jared flashes through my mind like lighting. Sharp and striking. Bright and dynamic. His sun-warmed body tangled in the luxurious sheets of our Caribbean villa. The golden stubble roughening his kisses first thing in the morning and the deep rumble of his laughter when we’d stay in bed and talk, some mornings for hours, just digging around in each other’s heads and delighting in the treasures we found. I already know what I have to do for Zo, even though it’s gonna be a bitch convincing Zo to let me, and I don’t know how Jared will feel about it.

But I do know that I have no choice.

Over the next hour, we hash out a plan. Based on information Dr. Clintmore gives me, I call the closest hospital with any real record of treating amyloidosis, Cedars-Sinai, but they cannot even see him for six weeks. Fortunately, Stanford has an actual Amyloid Center and clinical trials Zo may qualify for. Every door I knock on swings open to reveal more possibilities. I can see the road forming that could get him out of this alive, but it is not short and it is not easy.

And I’ll have to walk with him every step of the way.

Lowell is preparing to leave just as I’m starting another round of calls and making more arrangements.

“Banner, I’ll be in touch about how we go forward,” he says, measuring out just the right dose of compassion in the glance he offers Zo.

“Of course,” I murmur, disconnecting the call before it goes through. “I’ll walk you out.”

As soon as we’re outside the office and down the hall a few feet, I lay my cards on his table.

“Don’t you think for one second about cutting him from the team,” I say without preamble.

“Banner,” he starts, shaking his head and looking at me like I’m the bane of his existence, which I have no problem being if necessary. “I have to act in the team’s best interest. You know that. The league has excellent medical benefits, so he’ll be taken care of, but I can’t guarantee his spot will still be there in the end. Who knows what kind of shape he’ll be in or if he’ll even live through it?”

“Let me tell you something, Lowell,” I say through clenched teeth. “He needs a goal. He needs something at the end of this to make him fight and keep going, and that is ball.”

“I cannot guarantee that.”