HOOK SHOT: A HOOPS Novel Page 2

  “What about Chase?” Yari says of our boss’s favorite photographer and my latest fuckboi. “He won’t be happy about your little sex break.”

  “Already told him, and you’re right. He wasn’t happy.” I snort. “What can I say? I got a golden pussy. It’s a curse.”

  They laugh as I knew they would, distracted by the sass I use to cover my confusion. It was that last time having sex with Chase that pushed me to this decision.

  “But Chase knows he’s got about as much say over my body as he has over the price of tea in Chinatown,” I continue. “He’ll be fine.”

  We climb the iron stairwell to the top floor housing our offices and the conference room. I take my spot at the long table, a slab of repurposed slate unearthed from an old quarry. In every meeting, I sit immediately to the right of Jean Pierre Louis, founding designer of JPL Maison.

  Two paths couldn’t have been more unlikely to cross than mine and my boss’s. I stepped in to style a shoot for a friend at the last minute in Atlanta. I wasn’t even officially working in fashion. It was a side hustle to help get me through college. My major at Spelman was business, but I often considered opening my own store or doing something in fashion later.

  JP and I hit it off right away. I was the only one who understood his tirade of French when he saw the “blasphemy” of his creation being so poorly styled. I stepped in, fixed the hot mess the stylist had made, and soothed the savage beast with the Louisiana French MiMi taught me. Apparently, it was good enough, because by the end of the day he was telling me dirty jokes in French and offering me a job.

  We’ve only gotten closer over the last two years. He recommended that I enroll at FIT, which is not far from the studio. It kicked my ass, getting my associates degree in fashion design while working full-time and often overtime at the atelier, but it was worth it. I’ve been at JP’s right in every meeting for a long time now.

  “Wearable wonder,” JP says without preamble, his French accent thick. “That is our theme for this season.”

  He gestures for everyone at the table to gather ’round him and his sketch pad. He could design digitally and share it so we all looked on our iPads, but JP is surprisingly old school. His fingers are often smudged with charcoal from his pencils, and the notepad perennially tucked under his arm is always full.

  “Feast your eyes,” he says with a dramatic flourish, “on spring.”

  Sketch after sketch comes alive with the vivid colors he’s used to articulate the clothes on paper. There are easily a hundred sketches, but only a portion of them will actually make it to the runway for Fashion Week in September.

  “All of you know what a purist I am,” JP says. “But, like we always say, fashion is first art, then commerce. And commerce is where Paul comes in.”

  Our collective attention turns to Paul, JPL CEO and Billie’s boss/adulterous love interest.

  Yari elbows me and we silently mouth bastard to each other.

  “Yes, well,” Paul says, adjusting the glasses Billie finds so sexy. “The possibilities with a theme like wearable wonder are endless. Our marketing team has been working tirelessly, and I think we’ve hit pay dirt partnering with Bodee, a sportswear company with a smaller share of the market than Nike, Reebok, or Adidas, but looking to make big moves.”

  “Of course, you’ve all heard of wearable tech,” Paul continues. “Fitbit, the Apple Watch etcetera . . . We see a potential marketing intersection between our theme, wearable wonder, and wearable technology.”

  “Watches,” JP says triumphantly. “Bodee has asked me to design a line of watches.”

  “They’ll still be JPL designs,” Paul says. “Some of our models will even wear them in the September show.”

  “And I have the perfect spokesperson,” JP chimes in with what can only reasonably be described as heart eyes. “Chase actually brought him to my attention.”

  Oh, this should be great. Chase does have a good eye, obviously.

  “He’s a professional athlete,” JP says, his voice going higher with his eagerness. “A basketball player. His body is . . .”

  JP clears his throat and visibly tries to calm himself down. I should offer him a wind machine, à la Queen Bey, to cool off.

  “As I was saying . . .” JP’s voice is only slightly more subdued. “He’s a basketball player.”

  “I thought I had a picture here somewhere.” Paul flips through his stack of papers. “But it’s Kenan Ross.”

  I don’t need a picture. I have perfect recall for six feet and seven inches of dark bronze skin, flexing muscle, regal bone structure, and a smile more stunning because it’s so rare. I last saw him when Chase accompanied me to a San Diego Waves Christmas party. Kenan plays basketball with my cousin Iris’s husband.

  I keep my face serene and vaguely interested, but inside I’m doing a face palm and cussing in two languages. Just as I decide I’m giving up men while I figure out what the hell is broken in me, the sexiest man I’ve ever met dribbles into my life? Hard to avoid him if he’s our new spokesperson. And I have managed to avoid him in the past. The few encounters we’ve had were charged with an intensity that made one thing clear: the rules I set for other men—casual, easy, simple—do not apply with Kenan Ross.

  No, thank you.

  “We’ve been in talks with his agent, but he still hasn’t agreed,” JP says. “I thought it’d be nice to meet him in a more relaxed environment. Something not work-related. He’s here for the summer and would probably enjoy meeting some people. I’ve invited him to Vale’s party tonight.”

  Vale, JP’s assistant, and her husband, an influential fashion magazine editor, throw legendary parties. I’ve been looking forward to their yacht party for weeks. They don’t own a yacht, but have generous friends in high nautical places.

  “Aw, man,” I say, making sure to look appropriately disappointed. “I don’t think I can make it tonight. I’ve got this other thing.”

  “What happened?” Yari frowns. “This morning you said you were, and I quote, ‘here for this.’ What thing do you have now?”

  “It’s a new thing,” I tell her through a teeth-clenched smile.

  “Don’t be a party poo. It’ll be fun.” JP breaks out his grown-man pout, bottom lip pushed to capacity. “Please, Lo. We’re all going.”

  “You must come,” Vale says from the end of the table in her lilting Swedish accent. “Keir asked the caterer to add those olive hors d’oeuvres to the menu specifically for you.”

  “Oooooh,” I moan. “Not the crostini?”

  “Yes,” she replies with the reverence those appetizers are due. “The crostini.”

  “And what, pray tell,” Yari says, “would you be doing that’s better than sailing down the Hudson with New York’s flyest?”

  “All our friends will be there,” Billie urges. “And one of Anna Wintour’s minions has been invited.”

  “Second or third minion?” I demand sharply.

  “Second,” Vale confirms with the aplomb of a woman assured of victory.

  Dammit. I’ve been wanting to meet that second minion.

  “Think of the fabulous people,” JP says.

  “The delicious food,” Vale adds.

  “Don’t forget the entertainment,” Billie pipes in.

  Their food is only matched by their fun. They have a penchant for games we all play with rolling eyes and exasperation, but enjoy by the end.

  It’s not any of their arguments that ultimately persuade me, though. Kenan Ross is one man. Since when did I allow any man to deprive me of something I want? Much less the mere threat of being attracted to him? I’m stronger than that.

  “Okay,” I finally yield with a smile to everyone watching and waiting for me to cave. “I’ll come.”

  “Well,” Paul drawls as my friends squeal their excitement. “With that settled, let’s get down to business.”

  “You’re right, Paul. Down to business,” JP says, clasping his hands under his chin. “So what are you all wearing?
”

  I laugh with everyone, except Paul, and get caught up plotting my Instagram-ready outfit for the party. How could I have considered skipping it? Sure, Kenan is devastatingly handsome. And, yes, this virile man comes at a time when I’ve sworn off men altogether, but so what? I’ve never met a guy I couldn’t resist.

  How different could Kenan Ross be?

  2

  Kenan

  “Did you say arm porn?”

  I hope I heard my agent, Banner Morales, wrong.

  “Uh, yeah,” she replies, and even over the phone I hear her amusement, though she tries to disguise it. “It means—”

  “Stop.” I grab my wallet and keys from the dresser and head for the door. “I don’t want to know.”

  “Okay, but you are going to the party tonight, right?”

  “What party?” I ask, grinning and locking up. “I just got to New York. I kinda want to chill tonight, and you know I hate parties.”

  All true.

  “Kenan, come on. It’ll be fun. A great way to meet new people in a new city. And a great chance to network.”

  “Network?” I ask disparagingly. “It’s like you don’t even know me, B.”

  “I know if left to your own devices, you’ll be holed up in that apartment all summer working out in your home gym and listening to jazz.”

  Damn. She does know me.

  I wait for the elevator to come, grimacing because I don’t want to have this discussion. “I’m leaving for the party now.”

  “Oh good.” Banner sounds relieved. “There should be a car downstairs waiting. And heads up, some of the Bodee folks will be there, too.”

  “Just a small gathering of friends, huh?” I ask dryly.

  “Work is play, and play is work. You know many a deal begins over dinner and a drink.”

  “I know, I know.” I step onto the elevator and chuckle. “And I may be going to this party, but I haven’t made up my mind about this arm porn thing.”

  “Okay, seriously. He just likes your . . . arms, and thinks you’d be great for this new line of watches he’s designing with Bodee, that activewear company.”

  “But I don’t do shit like this. Body armor, tennis shoes, sports drinks—I’m down. But fashion? Me?”

  “He’s a fashion designer, but don’t think of it as fashion, per se,” Banner says, using that cajoling tone I’ve heard a thousand times in all the years she’s represented me. “Bodee is on the come-up in sportswear. They’re making moves to increase their market share and compete with the big boys. This partnership with Jean Pierre, who’s a pretty big deal in the fashion industry, by the way, demonstrates they understand the power of cross-marketing.”

  “Are you done with your little pitch?”

  “My little pitch is something you should pay attention to. You’re in the home stretch of your NBA career, Kenan.”

  “You think I’m not financially prepared for retirement?” I ask, a little offended because that’s far from the truth. “You know better than anyone how well diversified I am. The businesses I own, the investments I’ve made.”

  “I want you to be relevant for years to come,” Banner says. “Thirty-six is almost the end of your NBA career, but so young for everything else. You have a lot of life ahead of you after retirement. Decades, and while business interests and investments are great, these are most ballers’ highest earning years by far. Off-court opportunities will help us stockpile.”

  I’m poised to tell her I don’t give a damn about being relevant and will welcome the return of my privacy with open arms when she pounces and plays the card she knows always works.

  “Think of your daughter.”

  I’ve done nothing but think of Simone. She’s the whole reason I’m in this city. I don’t even like New York that much. I prefer the pace of the West Coast. This is the city that never sleeps. I like sleep. I sleep eight hours every night and have for as long as I can remember.

  “What about her?” I take Banner’s bait, as she knew I would.

  “You’ve amassed a fortune playing basketball, and that’s great, but the more opportunities we consider and create, the better for your future and for hers.”

  I’m silent, processing her words. The elevator doors open and I stand there for a few seconds. My professional life is pretty incredible, but my personal life has been a war zone for the last few years. My ex-wife, Bridget, made sure of that, and I’m afraid our only daughter, Simone, is the biggest casualty. She’s my weak spot—the jugular Banner goes for whenever she really wants me to do something.

  And it works every damn time.

  “I’ll think about it.” I catch the closing door with my arm and walk into the lobby of my new apartment building.

  “Just go to the party,” Banner says. “Hang out with Jean Pierre. Have fun. You’re rich as hell. An eligible bachelor. It’s New York. Live a little. And don’t be all growly for the next three months.”

  I am growly. She’s right. I present a controlled front to the world, but it feels like I’ve been angry for the last three years. And the control it requires for me to not show the world that anger, that frustration, is exhausting.

  “I’m sorry, B.” I make eye contact with a man parked outside my apartment building leaning against a black SUV.

  “Mr. Ross?” he asks.

  I nod and climb in the back seat when he opens the door.

  “Chelsea Piers?” he asks, voice quiet and polite, no doubt because I’m on the phone. I nod again and raise the partition separating us. Last thing I need is some driver selling stories about my private life.

  “Kenan, you still there?” Banner asks.

  “Yeah. The driver just picked me up and we’re on our way to the party. Satisfied?”

  “I’ll be really satisfied if you loosen up and enjoy your summer in New York.”

  “I shouldn’t be here. Simone shouldn’t be here. I don’t give a fuck where Bridget wants to live, but she didn’t have to drag my daughter with her across the country so she can do some reality show about being a baller’s wife when, thank God, she’s not even my wife anymore.”

  Banner is abruptly silent in the face of my mini-tirade.

  “Okayyyyy,” she says with a little laugh. She’s one of the few people who has seen me truly lose my temper. She knows how to give me space to recover it.

  “I’m sorry.” I release a weary breath and run a hand over my face. “I’m so tired of Bridget’s games, and this is the most immature, selfish one yet. Not just inconveniencing me, but uprooting Simone, and I’m pissed about it. So enjoying New York is not really a priority.”

  “I get that,” Banner replies. “Bridget has made life hell for you.”

  For years, I add silently.

  “But at least you got your divorce and didn’t lose half your money.”

  “Thanks to you.” Banner can’t see my grateful smile, but I want her to know how much I appreciate all she’s done for my career while protecting me financially.

  “Hey. I’m just glad you hadn’t married her before you signed with me,” Banner says. “There’s a lot of ballers’ college sweethearts walking around with half the paper.”

  We’d just graduated from college when I was drafted to the NBA. Bridget was pregnant and moving with me to Houston, my first team. When I signed with Banner as my agent, she insisted on a pre-nup and personally oversaw many of the details to ensure there were no loopholes.

  “Most men would not have been as generous as you were, Kenan,” Banner says. “You gave her more than you had to in the divorce.”

  “She’s the mother of my child. Even if we aren’t married, even though she cheated on me, even though she held up our divorce forever demanding more money, that still means something.”

  “It wasn’t just about the money, though was it?”

  “No, she claims to want me back, but that’s some shit. She’s the one who threw the marriage away.”

  “Maybe she regrets it,” Banner says softly, a he
sitant note in her voice. “I don’t excuse cheating, by any means, but people do make mistakes.”

  “Yeah, well she made a big one. I never cheated on Bridge, not even before we were married. I can’t ever trust her again, so she can forget this reconciliation she’s fantasizing about.”

  “Maybe focus less on Bridget’s drama and more on yourself. Have a summer fling.”

  “I don’t fling.”

  “Then have a summer fuck.”

  Banner’s tough as nails and crude as hell when she needs to be. Representing some of the alpha-est males in the NBA, she often has to be to hold her own.

  “Now that I might consider.” I won’t tell her how long it’s been. We do have some boundaries.

  “Who knows?” Banner continues. “You might meet someone you really like.”

  An image, one I’ve suppressed for months, breaks the surface. Petite, slim, curvy. Platinum blonde hair. Cinnamon skin. Dark, defiant, sultry eyes that can look right through a man and show him nothing at all. Lotus DuPree. I know she lives here in New York, but each time we’ve seen each other in the past, she’s made it clear she wasn’t interested. Her, I would summer fuck. Her, I might even summer fling, but she was with another guy when I saw her at the team Christmas party. Maybe she’s taken. As interested as I am in her, I’m not sure she reciprocates, and I doubt I’ll get the chance to find out.

  “Uh, yeah. Maybe, but I’m not gonna hold my breath.” I take in the glimmering lights against the city backdrop.

  “Well, be open. And remember no growling or scowling at this party tonight.”

  “But those are two of my favorite things.”

  “And don’t agree to anything,” Banner adds sharply. “If Jean Pierre presses you, tell him your agent will be in touch with an answer.”

  “Which will probably be a hell no.”

  “Glad, come on,” she says, abbreviating my on-court moniker “Gladiator.”

  The irony is I’m so tired of fighting. Not on court, but after all the drama with Bridget, definitely tired of fighting off the court.

  “Okay. No growling. No scowling. No committing to anything. Got it.” I drop my head back against the leather headrest. “Can I go now?”