HOOK SHOT: A HOOPS Novel Read online

“You joke about it,” Kenya says, her voice losing some of its humor, “but my paycheck says people believe that shit.”

  “I know, Ken. I wish I could do more.”

  “Keep speaking out. You and the other leaders in the Player’s Association doing that is huge. People need to know it’s not just us demanding more money, but that you guys believe we deserve it, too.”

  “It’ll take time,” I say, pulling up the app to turn on my ice tub. “We’ll keep moving forward, but we got a long way to go.”

  “When our number-one draft pick makes fifty thousand a year and your number one makes six million,” Kenya says, with a justifiable sharpness in her voice. “Yeah, we have a long way to go. I know we don’t bring in the same revenue, but we’re not even compensated equably for what we do generate.”

  I walk to the rear of my spacious, if temporary, bathroom, and consider the ice tub with familiar dread.

  “Damn, this never gets easier,” I mutter, lowering myself into the icy water.

  “You icing?” Kenya asks, a wince in her words.

  “Yeah, we had an ice tub installed in the New York apartment since I’ll be here all summer.”

  The benefits of cryotherapy—decreased fatigue, quicker muscle recovery, less anxiety, improved performance and a dozen others—far outweigh how much it sucks to submerge your body in arctic water.

  “What are you eating?” Kenya asks. “I know you didn’t drag that chef with you to the East Coast.”

  “He refused to leave Cali,” I say with a laugh, breathing easier as my body adjusts to the cold. “But he did recommend someone out here who delivers my meals to keep me on point this summer. I can’t show up at training camp with a gut.”

  “A gut.” Kenya’s hearty laugh makes me laugh, too. “You never had a gut a day in your life.”

  “And I don’t plan to.”

  “Man, with the way you live, you could play till you’re fifty.”

  “God, please, no.”

  “You’re not ready to throw in the towel yet, are you?” Surprise colors her voice because with my conditioning, most expect me to play for another four years or so. I’m not so sure.

  “It’s not my body that’s tired. Maybe it’s my mind. I don’t know, Ken. I been at this for a long time. I want to do some other things, including spend more time with Simone.”

  “How is my niece? Still spoiled rotten?”

  “She’s not spoiled.”

  Kenya lets her silence speak for her.

  “Okay,” I concede with a chuckle. “She may be a little spoiled, but she’s a good kid.”

  “Still no interest in ball?” There’s despair in Kenya’s tone. Even in college I still thought I would be a lawyer one day, but my sister has always known she would be a baller. She has high hopes for Simone, too.

  “She’s sticking with ballet.”

  “Hey, ballerinas are athletes, too,” Kenya says. “I’ll take it.”

  I sink lower into the icy water, letting it reach all the places that will ache from my strenuous workout if I don’t. “Her new school has a great program, and she seems committed.”

  “And how is her mother?” Kenya asks with careful coolness.

  “She’s . . .” I sigh, thinking of the scene with the camera crew at our family counseling session. “She’s Bridget.”

  “And that tells me all I need to know.”

  “Yeah, pretty much. I’m fighting to keep Simone clear of this reality show. I don’t want her enamored with fame, or what she thinks it is. It’s not just getting a bunch of Instagram followers. It’s having the worst day of your life broadcast for the whole world to see.”

  “I think she gets that,” Kenya says reassuringly. “She saw what you guys went through.”

  “That’s the problem, Ken. She saw it all. She knows how dark this can get. That is her life at this age. I hate that our foolishness has even touched her.”

  “You mean Bridget’s foolishness,” Kenya returns harshly. “I still wish you’d let me key her car.”

  “Well since I paid for the car and the repairs would come out of the alimony I give her each month,” I reply wryly, “feels like a no-win.”

  “She still trying to get back in your pants?” Kenya teases.

  “She should know by now that won’t ever happen, but she keeps pushing it, yeah. Unfortunately, Simone has it in her head that we might reconcile.”

  “No way,” Kenya says, sounding as disbelieving as I am. “Even knowing her mom cheated?”

  “Her therapist says it’s a natural response for a kid, even in circumstances where there is known infidelity. Simone sees our marriage, our relationship through a self-centered lens at this stage of her life. Not what makes sense or what’s best for us, but what seems best for her. And she believes that’s for us to be together.”

  “As long as you don’t actually go soft and give Bridget another chance.”

  “The fuck?” My scowl and gritting teeth have nothing to do with the icy water I’m submerged in. “You know better.”

  “Long as you’re sure, because I’d never trust that bitch again.”

  “I’m sure,” I say firmly.

  “Yeah, but sometimes men think with their dicks. Most times, actually.”

  “I’m not attracted to Bridget even a little bit anymore.” I take a long draw from a nearby water bottle. “I saw the ugliness under all the blonde and boobs.”

  “You gotta fuck somebody, though, right?”

  I nearly choke on the water sliding down my throat. I’m surrounded by women worried about my sex life. “We’re not going there, Ken.”

  “I could find you somebody.”

  Fate already brought a beautiful, fiery woman into my summer.

  “I’m doing fine on my own,” I drawl, hauling myself out of the ice tub so I can shower and get ready for my day. “Thanks, though.”

  “That so?” Kenya asks. “Who?”

  “No one you know.” I don’t bother trying to hide it from my sister. Even if I didn’t tell her, she’d find her way to the truth.

  “Is she fine?”

  “As hell,” I say, chuckling unabashedly.

  “A sister?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” I grimace, irritated by the question I’ve fielded in some form or fashion many times since I started dating and ultimately married Bridget. “You never objected to Bridget because she was white.”

  “No, I objected to Bridget because she was a whore who cheated on my brother.”

  I can’t argue, and yet I find myself doing just that. “Hey, ease up. She’s still Simone’s mom, and I never want my daughter to hear me or any of her family talking like that about her mother.”

  “Okay, I won’t say it. Long as you know I’m thinking it.”

  “Duly noted.” I turn on the shower. “And what about you? You seeing anybody?”

  “I might have some news, someone for you to meet.”

  I pause, a grin spreading on my face. I want my sister’s happiness more than I want my own. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. You coming to New York anytime soon?”

  “We have a game there in a few weeks. We’ll see how things work out,” Kenya replies cagily. “Oh, almost forgot. You talked to Mama?”

  Guilt stabs me. I haven’t talked to her as much as I should have since my father died.

  “I’ll call her,” I say, releasing a heavy sigh. “She didn’t sound too good last time we spoke.”

  “Same,” Kenya replies, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. “They were married forty years. Most of her life was with Dad, and they had one of those epic, forever kind of loves.”

  “Yeah, if I hadn’t seen their marriage with my own eyes, I wouldn’t think it was possible.”

  “Let’s both call this week.”

  “I may do one better,” I say. “I need to go to Philly and check on Faded, that barber shop I invested in. I’ll swing through to see Mama.”

  “Take Simone with
you. She hasn’t seen her grandmother in a while, and Mama would love to see her.”

  “As long as she doesn’t start in on Simone’s hair again,” I groan.

  “Well, Simone does need to do something with that head, and Bridget has no idea how to help.”

  “Give Simone a break. She’s figuring it out.”

  “I offered to help her,” Kenya says defensively. “She wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “Yeah, but you just buy hair,” I say, laughing because my sister wears extensions year-round.

  “And you know this,” Kenya says, laughing back. “Hair is trouble, man, especially during the season. I could get Simone’s own hair tight if she’d let me. Is Lucius still managing Faded?”

  “Yeah. I’m thinking of asking if he’d be interested in opening another shop here in New York? Maybe Brooklyn?”

  “I don’t have to ask what you’ll be doing when you finally retire. You already have more businesses than I can keep up with.”

  “More than I can keep up with, too. That’s why I pay someone to help me.”

  “Well thank you for cutting your little sis in on some of that action since obviously I won’t become a millionaire playing for the WNBA.”

  “Don’t even think twice about it. Just introduce me to this potential love interest soon.”

  “Hey, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  The thought of Lotus being mine, of her in my life, in my bed, makes my dick hard.

  I head back to the ice bath.

  7

  Lotus

  There’s something calming about sewing. The hum of the machine. The rhythm. Watching a creation take life and shape under your hands in real time. It’s always soothed me in ways few other things do. I was a wild, angry, damaged twelve-year-old when I landed in MiMi’s care. She wasn’t sure how to occupy my time, how to direct the violent storm churning inside of me, so she tried everything. Some things stuck, and some didn’t. But from the first time she sat me down at her Singer, sewing made sense.

  “You almost done with that?” Yari asks from the doorway leading back to the atelier’s workroom.

  I like to sew alone. It gives me time to think. Out there on the floor, there’s a dozen languages the seamstresses speak, flying around and distracting. And the gossip is non-stop. I like to see where my thoughts take me. Sewing is meditative and not for the chaos of the workroom.

  “Yeah.” I hold up the dress for Yari’s inspection. “I had to tear the whole seam out and start all over.”

  “Looks good.” She takes the dress, folding it over her arm. “I’ll get this to the seamstress so she can start on the buttons. Meanwhile, JP wants you in his office.”

  “Did he say for what?” I stand and stretch out the muscles locked tight while I concentrated at the sewing machine.

  “Nope.”

  We leave the backroom together, she headed for the workroom, me up the steps to JP’s office. His door is open, so I knock on the doorframe. He glances up from his position on the floor, kneeling in front of a woman easily six feet tall.

  “Oh good,” he says around a mouthful of pins. “You’re here.”

  I walk over and hold out my hand. He drops the pins from his lips into my palm.

  “I meant to ask you something yesterday.” Still on his knees, he shifts on the floor from her front to her side, adjusting the fuchsia material he’s draping into the shape of a dress for the September show. I rotate with him, handing him a pin without him having to ask. We work well together, read each other well.

  “Yesterday?” I frown because JP is notoriously last-minute. “What do you need?”

  “Your eye. Your sense of style. Your essence.” He bats his lashes through all the BS flattery. “For you to come with me on a shoot today.”

  “Sure.” I nod and hand him another pin. “I didn’t know we had one scheduled.”

  “It’s kind of last minute.”

  Shocker. “Oh?”

  “Yeah, Kenan’s going out of town next week, so I asked Chase if he could shoot today instead.”

  I accidentally prick my finger with a pin at the mention of Kenan’s name.

  “You know,” I say, sucking the sore finger, “maybe I should stay here. We’re expecting that shipment of silks today, and I wanted to be here to receive them. It’ll throw off our whole production schedule if anything happens to that delivery.”

  “Anybody can sign for a package,” he says dismissively. “You are the only one Kenan wants to see.”

  I freeze, glaring at my boss, the matchmaking devil. “Did he ask me to come or something?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “In how many words?”

  “I mean, the man agreed to do the whole campaign for a chance to kiss you,” JP says, sparing me a glance away from the material he’s draping and pinning over the model’s hip. “I’d be a fool not to keep you close.”

  “You mean use me?”

  “Don’t think of it that way, Lo.” He turns teasingly calculating eyes up to me from the floor. “Or do. Either way, you’re coming.”

  He adjusts one last fold on the dress, and pats the model’s bottom. “Go on, cherie, and ask Yari to take a picture before you disrobe.”

  The model turns on bare feet and glides gracefully through the office door.

  “And watch my pins,” JP yells after her. “Be careful taking that dress off. It’s worth your weight in gold.”

  He grabs his man pouch and turns to me. “Ready?”

  “Now?” I glance down at my cut off denim shorts, Spelman tank top and low-rise Nike Air Force 1s. My hair is in two braids. I have on no make-up. Ordinarily I’d be fine going to a shoot like this. Shoots are hard work, and my appearance is usually the last thing I’m concerned with, but he’ll be there.

  “Maintenant,” JP confirms, already walking out the door and headed down the stairs. “Lotus, where are you? You’re supposed to be the wind at my back. My back feels cold and lonely.”

  I roll my eyes and mutter, “Suck my dick.”

  “What was that, ma petite?” he calls back, his tone knowing and indulgent.

  “I said let me grab my bag, right quick,” I reply louder.

  On the drive to the Chelsea loft where they’re shooting, I half-listen to JP talk in the back seat about the watch and the prototypes. Mostly, I’m wrestling with my emotions in silence. I’m nervous, yeah, but it’s more than that.

  Circle of truth and trust.

  Members: One.

  Member: Me.

  I’m excited to see Kenan. It’s been more than a week since the party. If he’d wanted to get in touch with me, he could have. Through the office or even JP himself. Hell, through Iris, if he’d wanted to, but he hasn’t. The prospect of seeing him again has my fingers toying with the frayed denim dripping around my thighs. Maybe he lost interest in a sexless, simple friendship for the summer. Maybe he’s decided he needs sex, and this getting to know me thing won’t satisfy him. For someone who claimed to want him to leave me alone, my disappointment is ironic. And telling.

  “Chaos!” JP declares when we step on set. “See what happens when we aren’t here, Lotus?”

  It’s actually relatively calm, but JP hates tranquility. He once told me he couldn’t concentrate in the quiet. I’m sure there’s a medication for that, but those aren’t the pills JP pops.

  Chase looks up from the camera he’s setting, and walks over to us. He accepts JP’s continental air kisses, and then pulls me close by my hips.

  “I miss you,” he whispers in my ear. “Come to my place tonight and I’ll eat your pussy for you.”

  I press my hands to his chest and create space between us. “I already told you no,” I say for his ears only. “Friends or nothing, and the next time you grab me, I’m snapping that hand off.”

  “Don’t be a bitch,” Chase says with a pleasant smile. “You don’t want to cross me.”

  That dark thing I’ve learned to tame as I’ve matured
rises and rears inside me. I once asked MiMi if voodoo was bad, if we were bad. She said we weren’t bad. We’re just.

  “You don’t even understand the power you’ve been given,” she’d say. “Don’t abuse it in anger. Gentleness is power under control.”

  “No, Chase,” I answer after a beat to compose myself, to check my lowest impulses. “I’m the one you don’t want to cross.”

  “You gonna put a hex on me, Lo?” he asks snidely.

  Once at my apartment, Chase stumbled upon some of the herbs and potions MiMi sent with me when I left for college. I don’t practice voodoo like MiMi did. She devoted her life to the people who needed her help. No, I don’t practice, but I’ve never forgotten the things MiMi taught me about magic, about life. That may not be my path, but I descend from a long line of women who walked that path well. I know my own strength. My own power, and it takes all my restraint not to unleash it on Chase when he’s being a jackass.

  “You’d do well not to joke about things you don’t understand, Chase,” I reply, a warning, quiet but clear, in my voice.

  Fear crosses Chase’s handsome face.

  Good.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a deep swallow. “You weren’t just an easy fuck to me.”

  “Whatever we were,” I say, gentling my tone a little, hoping to get us back on even ground, “we’re just friends now.”

  He tightens his man bun, his usual cocky grin a little shaky, but still there. “You must admit, the sex was incredible.”

  He’s feeling himself a little too much because I’ve had better, but things have been tense enough between us.

  “It was good,” I concede with an easy smile. “But our friendship is even better, so let’s stay friends.”

  “If you change your mind . . .” He cups my face and traces my cheek with his thumb.

  “I won’t.” I step away from his touch. “Let’s go make sure JP doesn’t ruin your shoot.”

  Chase watches me for a few extra seconds before yielding a fond smile, the smile of the laid-back boy I met when I first started at JPL, before sex made things complicated. He comes from wealth, from a family who indulged his every whim. That he actually applied himself long enough to become an excellent photographer is a miracle in itself. He’s not a bad guy. Just spoiled. And entitled.