Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

“Sounds like everything is lining up,” August says, hesitating before going on. “So does that mean you and Lotus . . .”

“Soon.” I smile, even though it hurts to even hear her name. “I think really soon.”

“That’s what I like to hear. You guys deserve it.” August daps me up and turns to go. “Okay. I promised Iris I’d be home right after practice, so I’mma roll out. See you on the plane.”

Tomorrow’s game is the first of a pretty brutal road trip. Four games before we return to San Diego. That means a week away from home. I’ll have some quality time with Simone, though, when I drive her up to this dance camp in Laguna Beach today. At least she’ll be gone for a good part of my time away and will feel the impact less.

I’m clicking “the tank” unlocked when a guy with a mic approaches me. I haven’t had to worry about tabloids for a while, but I know a reporter when I see one.

“Glad, hey!” he yells, his phone thrust toward me to record. “You excited the Baller Bae season is ending?”

“I don’t discuss my personal life,” I auto reply. “You got a question about basketball, get a media credential and show up at a press conference after the game. Otherwise, no comment.”

I climb into the car and start the engine.

“And what about Lotus?” he yells right as my foot hovers over the accelerator. “That girl you were dating this summer?”

I grit my teeth and try to talk myself out of engaging, but it’s a battle lost. I roll down my window and try to ignore the satisfaction in the creep’s eyes.

“What about her?”

“Well, rumor is that she’s dating that photographer again,” he says in a rush. “Bridget claimed she was cheating on you with him. What do you have to—”

I roll up my window and pull off.

Son of a bitch. That’s what I get for giving him the time of day.

My finger twitches over the button on my steering wheel that would dial her. We’ve talked some. It wouldn’t be completely out of the norm for me to call. We’ve kept each other abreast of our lives.

“Fuck it.”

I hit the button.

“Kenan?”

Her voice in my car makes me want to blow off my road trip and go get her. Fly to New York and bring her home with me.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Obviously, it’s you, dumbass. “Uh, how you doing?”

“Good.” She pauses, clears her throat. “I got your card yesterday. So you a poet now?”

My own laughter almost catches me off guard. This summer, I forgot how much time I spend alone. How little I actually talk to people most of the time because I laughed, I talked, I felt more freely myself with Lotus than I ever have with anyone else.

“Not a poet exactly,” I say when our laughter trails off. “A little something I had on my mind.”

“I liked it,” she says, her voice husky.

There’s so much I want to say to her. So much she’s missed, even though we’ve talked occasionally. But mostly I just want to know . . . “Um, so this reporter approached me after practice.”

“Okay.”

“He mentioned something about the girl I was seeing this summer dating that photographer again.” I leave the unspoken question suspended over the thousands of miles separating us.

“Oh.” She’s quiet for a moment. “I have no idea where he got that.”

I need to focus and make sure I’m clear on what she’s saying. I pull over to the parking lot of a gas station and lean back in my seat, waiting for her to elaborate. She doesn’t.

“Yeah, I don’t know either,” I finally say. “Because you know we said . . .”