Block Shot (Hoops 2)

He recounts all the amazing things that have been done since I visited the orphanage in San Nicolas with him last summer. Zo does more than simply write checks. He’s hands-on as much as he can be, especially during the summer and in his home country.

“You sound tired,” I say, scribbling on an old draft of a shoe contract.

“I am.” His weary sigh makes me frown. He’s legendary for his boundless energy and rarely admits to fatigue.

“Come home,” I urge him, tossing the pen on my desk and leaning back in my seat. “Rest.”

“Tomorrow.” I know him so well I can envision how the smile in his voice looks on his face.

My heart thuds heavily. I want him to come home and rest, but that means I have to deal with the situation . . . that he doesn’t even realize is a situation yet.

“Tomorrow?” I ask weakly.

“Yes. A quick trip. Only a day in LA and then I fly to Vancouver for some standard team stuff,” he replies. “But I miss you too much. I have to see you, even if it’s only for a day.”

“Oh.” I smile and inject enthusiasm into my voice. I do want to see him. I’ve missed him, too, but the conversation I didn’t want to have will happen sooner than I thought. “Can’t wait.”

“You have no idea, baby.” His voice is husky, eager. “Be naked when I get there.”

It hurts to swallow. It’s hard to breathe. It feels wrong to even converse intimately with him when I’ve come on Jared’s fingers. When last night I dreamed about Jared making love to me with the lights on. We haven’t spoken since yesterday morning, when he carted a chagrined and hungover Hakeem to his hotel. With Hakeem watching, we kept things professional, but the look Jared gave me on his way out burned through my clothes.

“It’ll be good to have you home, if only for a day,” I deflect, making no promises of nudity, and hope Zo doesn’t notice.

No such luck. The silence on the other end swells for a few seconds.

“You’re okay?” I hate the uncertainty in his voice. “You sound . . . I don’t know. Off somehow.”

The trouble with dating your best friend . . .

“No, just a lot of work,” I lie. Only I can’t lie to Zo, thus the conversation we need to have tomorrow. “That’s not entirely, true. We need to talk when you get home.”

“You can tell me anything, Bannini. You know this, yes?”

Tears burn my eyes and my chest aches with the pain I’m going to cause him, with the knowledge that things won’t be the same between us after we talk. I don’t know exactly what that means or how we’ll look, but it will be different. And the “same,” the constancy, is what we’ve always needed and gotten from each other. But maybe that’s the problem. Too much of the same.

“Banner?” Zo asks when I don’t answer. “I said you know this, right?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Yeah, I know. There’s so much going on with free agency and work and . . . we just need to talk.”

There’s a small break, a silence in which the man who knows me so well tries to figure out what the hell is going on.

“Whatever this is,” he says. “I love you.”

A runaway tear skates over my cheek, and I swipe at it impatiently. No time for tears or weakness.

“I know, Zo. I—”

Movement at my office door momentarily distracts me. I press my lips into a stiff smile of welcome to Cal Bagley.

“Zo, Cal’s here,” I say in English for my boss’ sake. “I need to go.”

“Of course. We’ll talk tomorrow when I get home.”

I place my phone on the desk and gesture for Cal to take the seat across from me. My spine stiffens at the calculating gleam in his eye and the plastic smile on his face.

“Good old Zo,” Cal says to start the conversation.

“Not that old,” I return with a small smile.