Long Shot (Hoops 1)

“I know, Bo. I wish …” Her voice peters out, and I can feel some of the enmity we’ve flung at each other over the last few minutes draining away. “I wish you had gotten away from them, too. I hope they didn’t influence you more than you realized.”

“That’s an awful thing to say.” Hurt cracks my voice.

“I know you would never choose him over Sarai,” Lo rushes to say. “I don’t mean it that way. I meant—”

“I think we should end this,” I interrupt. “This conversation is only getting worse, and we may not be on speaking terms by the end of it. Drop out of school. Move to New York for the atelier or whatever you call it.”

The silence between us is unlike any we’ve shared. It’s a wall of invisible bricks, layered with the mortar of our hurtful words.

“Okay,” Lo finally replies. “Just remember if you need me, if you need anything, hopscotch.”

Tears prick my eyes when she says that word. She could never get hopscotch right for some reason when we were little girls, so I helped her. I’d hop first, and she’d hop behind me, mimicking my steps until she got it herself. Silly as it seemed, it worked, and long after she could fly across the chalked squares by herself, “hopscotch” was our code for when we needed each other.

I’ll never forget the bloodcurdling scream bellowing through the air at our family reunion. It wasn’t my name she called when that man was on top of her. In her panic, she yelled hopscotch, and I ran. Before I saw them, I heard his grunts. And I heard Lo saying one word over and over.

Hopscotch. Hopscotch. Hopscotch.

I swore then, no one would ever hurt Lo again, not if I could help it. MiMi protected her for years living on the bayou, but when she moved to Atlanta for college, I took up the protective mantle personally. We haven’t actually said the word “hopscotch” in a long time, so hearing it from Lo now, when I’m the one hurting her and she’s the one hurting me, I have no idea what to do.

I mumble goodbye and rush off the phone. Knowing that’s what she thinks about me, after all these years, after everything I’ve seen her go through—right now, I can’t say hopscotch. Lo would be the last one I’d call for help.

11

Iris

I faked an orgasm.

Between bed rest, pelvic rest, the mandatory post-baby abstinence, and Caleb’s hectic practice and travel schedule, I haven’t had sex with Caleb in months. And the first time we do, I fake an orgasm.

When I told August I had to try to make my relationship work, I meant it. I had every intention of making this work, but I can’t ignore the signs anymore. I don’t love Caleb. I know it now, and I have to tell him.

It would be so convenient if I did love him. Leaving him will upset the apple cart. Hell, it will toss the apples into the street. Things are simple if I stay with Caleb, if I pretend this is what I want. Sarai and I will keep a multi-million-dollar roof over our heads, I’ll have more money than I know what to do with, and custody remains simple. I’ll have a partner to help raise my child. Though, despite Caleb’s initial obsession with my pregnancy, he has been surprisingly laissez faire about actually parenting. Maybe it’s just all the travel and the demands of his first NBA season. Maybe this summer, when he’s off, he’ll come into his own as a father.

I struggled at first, too. It took therapy and a prescription for me to be all in, but I am now. And the worst thing I could do for my daughter is turn a bad relationship into an awful marriage. I’ve always been determined I wouldn’t settle for all the crap my mother took, and Sarai won’t ever see that in me. I just have to figure out when to tell Caleb and how.

“Damn, that was good, Iris,” Caleb mutters into my neck, still inside of me. “I needed that so bad, baby.”

I just nod, willing him to get up so I don’t have to ask him to. Caleb has never been a gentle lover, and I know it’s been a long time, but he was rough, and I’m sore.

“The stress of this first season has been more than I realized.” He lifts his head and peers down into my face in the dim light from the lamp by our bed. “I may be Rookie of the Year. Do you have any idea how my dad would feel? How proud he’d be if that happened? But with us losing the last few games, I’m so on edge. Fucking commentators speculating and criticizing.”

He pushes the hair out of my eyes, his touch gentle.

“You take the edge off like nothing else, Iris.”

He frowns, and I follow the direction of his stare. There’s already faint bruising on my breast. Probably on my thighs and hips where he gripped them too hard. “Did I hurt you?”

He did. I wasn’t ready for him, but he shoved into me. He never makes sure I’m satisfied. Never makes sure I’m pleased first, just … takes. He always takes and never looks for ways to give me what I need. I’m always the one yielding, compromising, left wanting. When did I start noticing it? Why didn’t I notice it before?

“It’s okay.” I squirm beneath his weight. “You’re a little heavy, though.”

He shifts off my sore body. I’ve heard women say they like it rough, that they like hard fucks, but I don’t see the appeal. I don’t get how these bruises and aches are sexy. But as Lotus was quick to remind me, I’ve only ever been with Caleb. I have no one else to compare him to.

Only I find myself comparing him to August all the time, which is unfair. I haven’t lived with August. If I spent more than a day with him,

maybe he wouldn’t be solicitous, and kind, and gentle, and considerate, and easy to talk to.

And sexy as hell.