Long Shot (Hoops 1)

“I’ll take care of her and the baby.” Caleb glances at me. “We’ll get your things moved into my place right away.”

A sense of helplessness washes over me. I clench the hospital gown in my fists. I hate feeling out of control in my own life, like an actor on someone else’s stage, my every move directed.

“It’s not just bed rest, but pelvic rest, too.” She gives Caleb a stern look. “That means low activity and no sex.”

Caleb’s face falls, but for me it’s a little bit of a silver lining. I haven’t wanted to have sex for weeks. I chalked it up to hormones, but maybe it’s Caleb’s high-handedness that’s been turning me off. At least this baby and this damn bed rest give me a good excuse to abstain.

I hate to think this way, but when I glance at my phone and remember Jared’s voicemail about Chicago, no sex feels like the only good thing coming out of this. MiMi’s talisman ring winks at me from my lap. I don’t know if it’s working or not. For now, the baby is protected, but my plans for the future are in definite jeopardy.

8

August

Make the best of a bad situation.

That’s not completely fair or accurate. I’m living in San Diego, a city with near-perfect weather year-round. I signed a thirty-million-dollar NBA contract. You’ll find countless dead hoop dreams in every high school gym and on any neighborhood playground. I’m one lucky son of a bitch.

I get it.

But beginning on a team that probably won’t have a winning season for years sucks. I’m already thinking ahead to the end of my rookie contract and how I’ll get out of San Diego. Coach Kirby’s voice in my head calls me spoiled, ungrateful, and a pussy. He would never tolerate this kind of defeatist attitude. And there are some plusses here.

For one thing, I’m playing with a veteran who knows how to win at this level. Kenan Ross is a beast. I’ve admired his game for years. I watch him during our first team meeting and have to admit it’s a great opportunity to play with him, even if I’m not sure he wants to be here either. He left a contending team, who won a championship just a few years ago, to come here and start from scratch.

“In my nose or in my teeth?” he asks under his breath while our head coach reiterates the privilege we have of building a team from the bottom.

“Huh?” I shoot him a perplexed look. “What’re you talking about?”

“You checking me out like a chick,” he says with a crooked grin, his teeth startlingly white against his dark skin. “So either you wanna ask me out …” He gives me a quick side-eye. “And the answer is hell no, by the way.”

I snort-snicker, glancing up to make sure Coach hasn’t noticed us not paying attention.

“Or there’s a booger in my nose, something in my teeth.”

“Uh … neither,” I assure him. “Nose and teeth all clear, and rest assured, you’re a little hairier than my usual.”

“Bigger, too, I assume,” he says with an easy grin.

Dude is huge. At six foot seven inches, he’s one of the best power forwards in the game. And swole with it. He’s as hard as marble, and at thirty years old, in the best shape of his life. He picked up the nickname “Glad” in college, short for gladiator. He throws bows down low, and he’s known for his aggressiveness in the paint. He battles for every possession, goes after every rebound. He’s an excellent two-way player, defense and offense, and as someone who has been accused of needing work in the defense department, I have much to learn from him.

Iris busted my balls about defense.

Fuck. I promised myself I wouldn’t think about her. She’s pregnant with another man’s baby. A jerk’s baby.

“Now you all pouty,” Kenan says from the side of his mouth. “Okay. I?

?ll go out with you. Damn.”

I chuckle and shake my head.

“Keep your pity date, man.” My smile disappears. “Though I was thinking about this chick I promised myself I wouldn’t think about anymore.”

“Yeah.” Kenan’s smile fades as fast as mine did. “I can relate.”

I’m an idiot. Kenan requested a trade when his wife cheated with one of his teammates on his last team. “Shit, Glad,” I say, inwardly kicking myself. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s aight.” His smile is manufactured, nothing like the natural one of a few minutes ago. “She’s not worth discussing. Neither is he.”

“But she was worth leaving a championship team to come here?” I ask.