Block Shot (Hoops 2)

“Then you will lie.”

“What?” His startled look transforms to disdain. “Even you can’t force me to make that promise, especially one I’m not sure I can keep.”

“I don’t particularly care about your team or your season right now.” I rest my fists at my hips and lift my chin. “Try to cut him and you’ll have a PR shit storm so thick you won’t be able to see a foot in front of you. You’ll be the team who kicked the league’s patron saint ambassador

when he was down, after all he’s done for so many. After all he’s done for you. By the time I’m done, not one sponsor will touch anything to do with your team or your arena.”

I aim a hard look up at him.

“Test me.”

His brows lower. Mine lift. In the hall we silently push and pull, but this is a tug-of-war I have no intention of losing. He knows I mean business and shakes his head as he walks toward the elevators. I stand outside Dr. Clintmore’s office for just a second and let the full, dire weight of the situation fall on my shoulders. It’s heavier than anything I’ve carried before, but I breathe through the knee-buckling pressure and adjust to the unaccustomed weight. Ignoring the tears that long to pour out of me and promising them they can have their way later when I’m alone, I re-enter the office. Zo sits by himself on a couch by the window, shoulders slightly slumped and head in his hands. I walk forward, not sure what to prepare for. More of his biting anger, resentment, bitterness. Fear?

He looks up as I approach, and the tears standing in his eyes are almost my undoing. My steps falter as I’m faced with Zo’s mortality, with his own belief that he will die. I steel myself against that. I cannot afford doubt, even from the one I’m believing for.

“Okay, so the team at Stanford is checking their open trials,” I say, my tone businesslike, brisk, bordering indifferent, though anyone who checked my pulse would know that to be a lie. “If they come back with a no, I’ll find a way. In the meantime, you’ll begin the chemo protocol there.”

“Banner.”

“My realtor friend found us a townhouse in Palo Alto, not far from the hospital,” I continue, afraid to let him speak. Afraid of what he’ll say and how he’ll try to make me stop. “We can stay the full three months while you’re getting chemo. Longer if needed.”

“Us? We?” His head jerks up and his eyes search mine. “You’re coming with me? To Stanford?”

“Of course I am.” I dig around in my bag as if searching for something. “This will be harrowing. You can’t do it alone.”

“No, I can’t,” he agrees softly. He grabs my hand, gently tugging me away from my purse until I’m standing in front of him. “Bannini, tengo miedo.”

I’m scared.

His softly spoken admission cracks my façade like no angry words ever could, and for the first time since we heard the word amyloidosis, hot tears trickle down my cheeks. The riot of emotions I’ve been able to keep at bay roar to the surface and overtake me. They pull me under like a riptide, unexpected, unpredictable, unnavigable. I’m violently taken by a current beyond my control, and so is Zo. He pulls me down to the couch with him, beside him and wraps his arms around me.

And we weep. We wet each other’s clothes with our tears and clutch each other hard enough to bruise. I’ll give myself this moment of weakness, but it will pass, and I will get up, and we will fight. I wipe the last of my tears and move to stand, but Zo catches my wrist to stop me. His hand tangles in my hair and before I know his intentions, he’s kissing me. Desperately like the cure to the thing killing him lies just beyond my lips. I push at his chest, gently, firmly enough to put space between us.

“Zo, no.” I pull away. “We can’t.”

“Why not?” he asks, bitterness creeping back into his voice. “Because of him?”

I freeze, shame shackling me to the seat.

“I can’t do this right now, Zo,” I say, and the tears I thought were done burn my throat again. “I have to focus on the next three months, on you getting better.”

I look up at him and offer a watery smile.

“On you living,” I say. “So just let me help you.”

He tilts his head back and a slight smile plays over his full lips.

“I will let you help me on one condition,” he finally says.

Whatever he wants I’ll give him and he knows it.

“What?” I ask hesitantly, cautiously.

“Put it on hold, whatever you have with him. Don’t take it any further.”

I stare at him in shock long enough for him to go on without giving me a chance to respond.

“I know you, Banner,” he says, squeezing my hands in his. “In ten years, you’ve never let me down. You’re the most loyal person I know. And today, how you’ve stepped in, taken over, are sacrificing so much for me . . . I know this is what I want. You are what I want. What I need. Forever. I want to fight for you, but it seems I will be occupied for the foreseeable future fighting for my life. I cannot do both.”