Block Shot (Hoops 2)

“Just go before the cops get here.” I press my forehead to the door. “And we can forget this night ever happened.”

“You want to forget tonight?” Jared asks softly.

Forget the best sex of my life? Forget intimacy, closeness I didn’t think was possible? Set aside what I thought was true friendship between Jared and me? Dismiss the possibility of what this could have been had it been real?

“Yes.” My tone is final, cutting him out for good. “Leave my coat and my clients’ laundry. Mr. Harden, those are my things. Don’t let him take them.”

“Really, Banner?” Jared asks, doing an Oscar-worthy job of sounding not only angry but hurt.

“Really, Jared.”

“You can’t just erase a whole semester. At least not our friendship. You can’t just spit on it.”

“Why not? You did.” The words slide out, coating my tongue with bitterness.

“So that’s it?” he asks after a brief pause. “You’re just gonna let Prescott win?”

“Prescott won’t win.” I seize any vestiges of pride I have left. “I will.”

6

Banner

I’m not from a small town by any means. I grew up in San Diego, where my mother moved from Mexico when she was a child. The city sprawls and covers a lot of ground, but it can’t be bothered to bustle. The small college town in Maryland where Kerrington is situated doesn’t bustle either. New York bustles. It hustles. It truly never sleeps and is ever-grinding. It took a while to get used to the noise and the pace and the smell of urgency in the air.

Okay. I’m still not used to it, but I love it. There’s an obstinacy to this place. A grit and determination that hovers over the city like dense fog. I may not have ever lived in a city this large, but I’ve always been obstinate, always been driven. There’s no doubt in my mind I’m in the right place.

“Daydreaming?”

I glance up from my laptop to find Mitch Sanderson, a fellow intern, standing at my desk.

“Uh, no.” I close my laptop because he’s always in my business and looking over my shoulder. “Just pulling together some analysis for Cal.”

Cal Bagley is Bagley & Associates’ founding partner. He’s also the best friend of Prescott’s father. Or maybe he’s in that Pride thing Jared was joining.

Ugh. I promised myself I wouldn’t think about Jared Foster, but that doesn’t always work. When I’m awake, I can tame my thoughts. When I’m sleep? A different matter entirely. My brain and my heart believe he’s disgusting and cruel and a phony. My body, though? Ain’t buying it. More than once I’ve awakened from dreams of that night, of how he made me feel. Not just the incredible sex, but the closeness. And not just of that night, but that entire semester. We were genuinely friends or so I thought.

“You can’t tell me you aren’t daydreaming,” Mitch says, “and then zone out in the middle of our conversation.”

“Sorry.” I laugh and open my laptop. “I should get back to work.”

“What’re you working on?”

“Not as much working as catching up on this Quinn Barrow story.”

“The runner who lost her leg?” Mitch rubs his chin, his mark of concentration I’ve come to learn. “It was a freak thing, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing the emotion that scalds my throat every time I read her story. “She dislocated her knee and it cut an artery. No blood to the leg for hours and they had to amputate.”

I glance at the side-by-side pictures accompanying the article. In the first photo Quinn is running, chest pushed forward, smile blazing white, auburn

hair whipping behind her like a fiery pennant as she crashes through the finish line. The second photo is of a ghost with no smile, lines of beginning bitterness settling around her mouth. A solemn figure staring vacantly into the camera from a hospital bed.

“You do know we’re in the business of signing performing athletes, right?” Mitch asks. “Not has-beens.”

I should be surprised by his harshness, but I’m not. Not anymore. Most agents see these athletes as commodities. So do the teams they play for. And I get it. Sports is a business, and if I’ve chosen this as my career, I gotta play the game.

In the two months I’ve been here, I’ve learned a few things. Darwin wasn’t all wrong, and neither was my advisor. This industry is survival of the fittest. It’s a fast machine with nonstop gears that can grind your soul to dust. It’s not for the faint of heart. I’ve seen ruthlessness at its finest here. The competition for talent is fierce and requires constant vigilance in scouting, recruiting, pursuing, signing. Elite athletes have earning potential most people can’t even wrap their minds around. When you find extraordinary talent, convincing them you will represent them best is crucial. Every other agent thinks the same thing, so distinguishing yourself often and early is the name of the game.