Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

“I’ll have your akee and saltfish,” I tell him.

“Dumplings and sweet plantain okay with that?” the server asks.

“Perfect.”

“And you, Mr. Ross?”

It would jar me to have people know who I am when I first meet them and know nothing about them, but Kenan seems used to it, and his expression remains unchanged.

“I’m looking at your omelet.” He glances up from the menu. “Can I get it with egg whites? Eight of them? And with just the veggies, skip the bacon?”

“For sure.” The server nods and scribbles on his pad. “Fries and salad okay?”

“Nah. Let’s skip the fries.” He turns a blinding white smile on me. “Apparently I need to save room for ice cream later, but I’ll take the kale and arugula salad.”

“We’ll get that right out.”

When the server leaves, silence falls on the backyard. We’re the only ones out here now, and intimacy thickens the air. I truly wonder how long I can hold out. A month ago, I would have been crawling across this table to kiss him, dragging him into the bathroom and scratching this itch so hard I’d break the skin.

But that was before I found mysel

f crying in Chase’s shower. That was before I found myself huddled in my closet with a bass drum where my heart should be. I don’t want that with Kenan. I want to sort my shit out. Not just for him. For me. But there’s no denying I want him.

And based on the way his eyes keep probing the edge of my strapless top and sneaking glances at my legs in these itty-bitties I’m wearing, he wants me, too.

“We should talk about what happened at the restaurant,” he says, concern momentarily dousing the lust in his eyes.

I would prefer feeling the pull of him in the balmy air and silently wondering how long I’ll be able to stop myself from humping him, but if we must.

“You mean how your ex-wife wants to deport me so she’ll never have to see me again?”

A shout of laughter crinkles his eyes at the corners and his chest moves subtly with the force of it. When he throws his head back, the strong length of his throat is exposed. I could watch this man laugh all day.

“Bridget’s like this kid who had a toy she got tired of,” he says, looking at me from beneath a thick sweep of lashes. “Unfortunately, I’m the old toy in this scenario, and she found a shiny new one. Now she wants the old one back and doesn’t want anyone else to play with it.”

“I have no interest in playing with you,” I tell him, the words sneaking out before I think better of it.

We watch each other for long moments, the muted sounds of the city and the muffled laughter and clinking glasses from inside a soundtrack for the story our eyes keep building, adding another line, another chapter with every second.

“Well that’s disappointing,” he replies straight-faced.

I laugh and he joins me, not breaking the tension, but bookmarking it until our eyes meet again.

“I’ve been as honest with her as I can be,” he goes on. “I don’t want her. I don’t want a life with her. I wouldn’t even be in the same city if she didn’t have my daughter.”

“So you don’t share custody?”

“We do, but it’s complicated.” He grimaces. “Basketball has an eighty-two-game regular season, one of the longest in sports. It’s September to July from camp to playoffs, if you make them. And during the season, you’re constantly on the road. Away from home. I can’t provide any real stability for Simone with that schedule. Bridget wasn’t wife of the year, but she’s a good mother. She and Simone are close. There wasn’t even a question of Simone staying with me in San Diego when Bridget decided to move to New York. Maybe for the summer, but there’s this dance program here that Simone’s excited about.”

There’s an openness to his features when he talks about his daughter. Usually so guarded, he doesn’t try to hide his love for her.

“She’s dealt with a lot of crap because of us the last couple of years,” Kenan continues. “Leaving Houston when I requested a trade to San Diego. Now moving from there to New York. She hasn’t been into anything like she’s into dance for a while. I couldn’t deny her this chance by demanding she live with me in Cali over the summer.”

“You could have denied her,” I correct. “But you’re a good father and chose to put her first.”

“Of course.” He frowns like that’s a given.

It’s not a given. I know what it’s like for it not to be given. To be withheld. I envy Simone, having two parents who love her this way.