Block Shot (Hoops 2)

“Um, because his entire family was just killed in a car accident last month?”

I swear these guys have their feelings surgically removed before they enter this field.

“Ahhh, yeah.” Mitch nods, scrunching his face into what he probably thinks passes for sympathy. “Real men move on. He knows he’s gotta strike while the iron is hot. With the draft coming up, he needs to get his shit settled. Sign with an agent who can start scoping endorsements and talking to executives, getting him workouts with teams. The whole nine.”

“We need to scope a good grief counselor,” I mumble, looking under my desk for the Tupperware containing my lunch. I’m so hungry it’s hard to focus on what Mitch is saying.

As if that struggle wasn’t real enough already.

I’ve been doing much better without the demands of a heavy college course load. Eating more regularly and paying attention to what I eat, down five pounds. I’m still tuning out the drone of Mitch’s voice and looking for string cheese in the oversized bag under my desk when Cal’s booming voice startles me.

I jerk up, banging my head on the desk above. I slide out, rubbing the sore spot and blinking back tears.

“You okay?” Cal demands, his gaze zeroing in on my tears.

“Yeah. Just, um, hit my head.”

Out of habit, I go to push hair behind my ear, forgetting that it’s up today. I have no idea what to do with my hands right now, so they just hang in the air for a few seconds before I drop them.

I’m such a goober, and by the look Cal is giving me, he knows it.

“Yeah, well, I need you,” he says brusquely and starts walking away. “Conference room. Now, Morales.”

Mitch and I exchange wide-eyed looks.

“What’d you do to piss him off?” Mitch asks, barely suppressed glee brimming from his eyes.

“I have no idea.” I scurry after Cal, mentally running through my latest assignments. I thought I’d thoroughly completed every task.

Cal, wearing an impatient look, stands in front of the closed conference room door.

“You speak a lot of languages, right?” he asks abruptly.

“Uh, not a lot. Just Spanish, Russian, some Italian and Mandarin Chinese.” A nervous laugh trips and falls from my mouth. “Oh, and English. I speak English.”

“I need your Spanish.” He looks over his shoulder at the closed conference room door. “Got Alonzo Vidale in there.”

“Oh.” My stomach turns over at the prospect of helping with such a huge potential client.

r /> “Apparently he doesn’t speak much English.”

“Really?” I pinch my brows together. “From what I recall, his family was from Argentina’s middle class. It would be somewhat unusual for him not to speak any English.”

“No idea,” Cal says with a shrug. “But he says he needs someone to translate for him.”

“Of course.” I tug at the neckline of my dress. I wish I’d worn something nicer today.

The first thing I think when I see Alonzo Vidale is that photos don’t do him justice. His dark hair is scooped back from his face in a tight ponytail at the base of his neck, but a few silky strands escape and fall over dark, soulful eyes.

The second thing I notice is an ill-disguised sorrow that he wears like ashes on his head. There’s a droop to his broad shoulders and the wide, full lips look like they’ve never known a smile. I think of my family—Mama, Papa, my sister Camilla and her daughter Anna. The devastation I would feel if I lost them all in one day, it’s unimaginable, but that’s what this man endured just a month ago.

He has the long, sensitive fingers of a musician. His hands look more like he plays the piano than basketball, and I scour my memory for details of his background. He hasn’t been playing basketball long by American standards. Most of our ballers started on playgrounds, rose through AAU ranks, played in college, at least the obligatory year, and then, after pouring years of their lives into the sport, only a fraction make it to the NBA. From what I recall, Alonzo discovered his talent much later. He came on America’s radar when he played for Argentina’s team in the last Olympics. As one of the few possible stars emerging from Argentina, everyone has been calling him the next Manu Ginóbili.

He glances up from the conference room table, looking from Cal to me, eyes narrowed. I’m surprised he is alone, no handlers or anyone accompanying him, but usually at this stage before an agent is selected, an athlete only has family. The magnitude of his loss weighs on me again, and even though I know when he stands he’ll be six-six, he looks incredibly vulnerable seated at the huge conference room table alone.

“Uh, this is Banner Morales,” Cal says, pulling out a chair at the table for me to sit. “She will be . . .”

He flounders, uncustomary for Cal, and looks to me for help.