“Good game, Rook. Nice shot for the win.”
Kenan “Gladiator” Ross’ compliment comes with his favorite jab. I catch his over-the-shoulder smirk in the Knicks’ guest locker room.
“I got too many seasons under my belt,” I tell him, buttoning my shirt. “For you to still be calling me Rook.”
“Nah.” Fresh from the shower, he towels residual water from his head and neck. “Breath still smelling like Similac.”
The few guys left in the locker room snicker, and I shake my head, chuckling and packing my bag.
“At least I’m not a veteran scared to talk to a girl I’m crushing on,” I say.
“Ohhhhh,” Denny, the center we picked up over the summer says, putting a fist to his mouth and laughing. “You got a crush, Glad? Who?”
Kenan narrows his eyes at me, but a good-natured grin lifts one corner of his mouth.
“He’s lying,” Kenan says, pulling a sweater over his head. “I’m a grown ass man. I don’t have crushes.”
“Oh, then you don’t care that your not-crush is coming to Deck’s Christmas party tonight?” I ask.
Since the game finished so late, MacKenzie Decker, our president of basketball operations, invited those of us staying in New York to a party at a hotel nearby.
I pull my phone from my pocket. “I’ll just call Iris and tell her not to bring—”
Kenan snatches my phone and laughs. “Fuck you, August.”
“That’s what you get for calling me Rook.” I grab my phone, grin and turn to close my locker.
Kenan steps closer and leans one huge shoulder against the neighboring locker.
“So is she coming to the party for real?” he asks, voice lowered. “Or you just being a dick?”
“Sorry.” I turn fake-innocent eyes his way. “Who we talking about?”
Not the most affable man under the best of circumstances, Kenan looks like I’m thinning his patience. His whole face seems to tighten, which perversely makes me want to jerk his chain even more.
“Alright, alright.” I hold up my hands as if warding off a blow. “Don’t hit your boy. Yeah, Lotus is coming. Least, last I heard from Iris, she was.”
“Cool.” Kenan nods, and his typically impassive expression gives way to what looks like anticipation.
“If you like her, why not just talk to her, man?” I ask, adjusting my gym bag on my shoulder.
“She’s very good at letting me know she wouldn’t be into it, into me,” Kenan says wryly. “Without even saying a word.”
He shakes his head and offers a bemused shrug. “There’s just something about her. I don’t know. The last thing I should be thinking about is some chick, considering the shit the last one is putting me through.”
“Bridget still tripping?”
“Tripping?” Kenan scoffs. “Man, not only is she holding up our divorce, but she’s moving my daughter here to New York.”
“Damn. You talked to Deck? You know his ex pulled a stunt like that. Moved his daughter from the East coast to LA.” A dry laugh rattles my chest as we make our way out of the locker room and down the tunnel leading to the private parking lot. “Lucky for us. He probably wouldn’t have come to the West Coast if she hadn’t.”
“I haven’t talked to much of anyone except my lawyers.” Kenan
grimaces. “My drama’s been talked about, dragged through the press enough already.”
I wince because TMZ couldn’t get enough of Bridget’s affair with Kenan’s former teammate. For someone as private and reserved as Kenan, the inescapable salacious coverage was his worst nightmare.
“Hey, I know that was a shit show,” I say. “But it’s died down. Old news.”