Block Shot (Hoops #2)(102)

The note I hear in his voice now prompts me to grab the bottle of massage oil I keep by my bed. I walk swiftly to his room to see if I’m right. He smiles, eyeing the bottle in my hand, when I make it to his bedside.

“Crees qué me conoces tan bien,” he says, his dark eyes large and pain-dulled in the gauntness of his face.

You think you know me so well.

I uncap the bottle and begin working the soothing oil into his size fifteen feet.

“Sí lo se,” I reply with a small smile.

I do.

We can go days without speaking or hearing English. Unless he has a chemo session at Stanford, he doesn’t like to go out for various reasons. He hates being the face of something, a poster child. We are inundated with requests for interviews, special appearances, fundraisers. We accept the few he feels well enough to do and strongly enough about. Otherwise, we live quietly here on the periphery of the campus and hospital.

The media is grossly fascinated with his illness. As an agent, I understand fame. I know there’s an exchange you make—your privacy for notoriety and success—but there are lines no one should cross, and we live in a time and in a culture that has erased those lines. We’ve become so conditioned to “following” and “tracking with” that a man who wants to walk this hard road without spectators, without a TV special, without a podcast or a YouTube documentary, only piques their curiosity more.

Why can’t we know everything?

“Are you hungry?” I ask in the companionable silence while I massage his hands and arms. One of the side effects of his treatment is tingling and pain. I’m not sure how much my massages help, but he likes being touched. The massages are painful for me because touching him, I can’t deny how frail he has become. At six foot six, Zo has always been a tower of strength. His weight loss had already begun before, but we didn’t realize the cause and it wasn’t as dramatic as it’s become with the chemo. Over the last six weeks, the well-conditioned giant with the sculpted muscles has vaporized. His limbs have, in even such a short time, become almost spindly. They look too frail to support his tall frame. He’s like a tree trunk walking on branches.

I finish the massage and cap the bottle. One glance tells me he is already drifting off. The fatigue is like a rain cloud dumping bouts of sleep on him throughout the day. I work while he sleeps, though there is almost as much to do for him as for my job. Between managing insurance and keeping notes organized from his doctors, I’m less and less involved in the day-to-day with the LA office.

God, it hurt to tell Cal he should find someone else to manage the office. I worked hard to earn that opportunity, but I couldn’t do it well and give Zo my best here. Fortunately, I’ve been able to keep up with my client load. A nurse comes in a few times a week, which helps me keep my life afloat, but most of it falls to me. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Zo would do it for me. I’d do it for Mama, Camilla, Anna, or anyone I loved.

I’d do it for Jared, but I rein in my thoughts about him as much as possible. They always tell you to count the cost before you undertake a challenge. I can’t allow myself to calculate what I may be losing with Jared by choosing to be here with Zo. Managing this, being here for Zo, requires complete focus. I don’t have time for self-pity or second-guessing. Not when time is not on Zo’s side.

As I figured he would, Zo falls asleep pretty quickly. He had chemo yesterday and is wiped. I’ll take advantage of this time to look over a few contracts for Hakeem. But first, I check the app on my phone I use to manage Zo’s myriad medications. Amyloids, the abnormal proteins produced in Zo’s bone marrow, get deposited in multiple organs. Thank God they haven’t reached his heart, but his kidneys, liver, digestive tract, and even his central nervous system are all affected. Further down the line, he may require organ transplants and most certainly dialysis. For now, we’re relying on a multidisciplinary team of specialists to manage all the various organs and affected areas. Since the proteins travel in the blood to latch onto the organs, his hematologist runs point and coordinates with the gastroenterologist, nephrologist, and the neurologist who are also working with us. There are medicines for each organ, prescribed by each doctor. It’s overwhelming. Thus the app.

I’m double-checking the new doses Zo’s clinical trial implemented, when I get a text.

Quinn: Hey, stranger!

Me: Hey, chica. How’s the road treating you?

We made it official with AesThetics a few weeks ago, and they immediately put the Titanium Sweetheart to work as their new spokesperson. She’s been going to conventions and doing trade shows and presentations all over the country. She heads to Europe next week.

Quinn: Not too bad. I’m exhausted but can’t complain. I’m headed into a meeting, but I’ll call tonight so you can complain. Sound good?

I smile because she knows I won’t complain. She’s visited a few times but has been so busy herself it’s hard to get up here.

Me: Sure. Whatever you say. How’s the book coming?

Quinn: Ugh. You just don’t let up EVER, huh?

Me: LOL! This is not a new development. Answer the question.

Quinn: What book? I’m not a writer.

Me: No, you’re a LIVE-er. You’re a how-to manual on surviving hell. People will be inspired by your story. Write it so I can sell it. I have a short list of literary agents I think we should meet with.