Block Shot (Hoops #2)(108)

“God, Banner.”

Jared’s voice. It pours over me like hot oil, singeing my skin, leaving me slick.

“Banner.”

“Oh mi Dios sí,” I mumble.

Oh my God, yes.

“Banner.”

Something’s off in his voice. It’s the wrong kind of desperate. The worst kind of urgent. I claw my way through layers of consciousness until I break the surface of my sleep, groggy and disoriented with a pillow between my legs. I really hope I wasn’t humping a pillow. That would be a new low.

“Banner.”

It’s faint, so faint, but Zo’s voice drifts down the hall. The tone is distinct, but I can’t place it, for once can’t figure out what he needs and have never heard this in his voice. I throw off the covers and the last of my dream and rush down the hall in bare feet and the clothes I fell asleep in.

When I reach Zo’s room, I leave my heart at the door, but my body rushes forward, and I think for just a moment I’ve lost my mind. He’s on the floor, motionless.

I’m still asleep. I’m still asleep. I’m still asleep.

I repeat it in my head, like that will make this a horrible dream, but it’s too real. The deathly pallor of his face. The pulse at his neck so faint it’s crafted from butterfly wings. His breath so shallow it’s barely there.

“Zo,” I yell and shake him. “Wake up.”

Unresponsive.

He’s fainted before, extremely low blood pressure is a complication of this disease, but never like this.

“Zo, please wake up.” Hearing the fright in my voice shatters my calm, and I’m screaming and shaking and trembling from head to toe. Hot tears, liquid sorrow scalds my cheeks and pools at my neck.

“Levántate,” I beg. “Por favor. Despierta.”

Get up! Please, wake up.

I look all around the room as if someone will suddenly appear to help me, but the room is empty. On his bedside table, I catch sight of the rosary my mother sent. The one that healed Aunt Valentina. And beside the rosary is Zo’s cell phone.

I race to the bed and grab the phone, dialing on auto pilot.

“Nine-one-one,” the operator answers.

“Ayuda!” I beg for help, my mind scrambled with panic and relief. “Por favor ayúdame.”

“Ma’am, no habla espa?ol,” the operators replies, her tone flat and calm. “Is there someone who speaks English?”

“I . . . I do. I’m sorry. I do. My friend. He’s unconscious.”

I try to answer all of her questions as calmly, as accurately as I can. Within minutes, the welcome wail of the siren approaches. Zo actually stirs the littlest bit, long eyelashes fluttering against his raw-boned cheeks.

“Banner?” His voice is more a breath than a whisper. He blindly extends his hand even though he doesn’t see me, can’t know I’m there.

But he does know I’m there, and that I always will be.





“Banner, I’m fine.” Zo’s face clearly shows his exasperation. “You’re hovering.”

“I’m not hovering,” I say, standing by the bed . . . hovering. “I just . . .”

I look around for something to do and settle on fluffing the pillows propped behind his back and head. What is even the point of fluffing these? I have no idea, but it gives me an excuse to stay in the room with him.

It’s been three days since I found him unresponsive here in his bedroom. Between the attack on his kidneys and the constant diarrhea, he can easily become dehydrated. Beyond normal dehydration. He blacks out because his blood pressure drops so low. If not caught in time, it could kill him. I think my heart is still at the threshold of this bedroom where I left it when I ran to him. I fluctuate between paralyzing fear and numbness.

All the what ifs torture me. What if I hadn’t heard him? What if we hadn’t gotten him to the hospital in time? What if it happens again? The nurse was able to double her time here the last few days, but I still slept in here on top of the covers beside him, so afraid I wouldn’t hear him calling me.

“At least try to drink a little more of the smoothie.” I turn to grab the cup from the bedside table and catch him staring at my ass. “Really, Zo?”

The stern note I try to inject in my voice barely disguises the laughter. It feels like such a typical guy thing to do, and our life has been anything but typical the last two months.

“You’re beautiful, Banner,” Zo says, running his eyes over me in yoga pants and a tank top. “A man can look, yes?”

“Sure. Whatever.” I roll my eyes and proffer the smoothie. “Drink some. You need to hydrate and haven’t been eating enough.”

“I would eat if I could. Believe me, and my taste buds are shot. Even the things I usually like taste like shit.”

He sips some of the smoothie I hold for him. As I’m pulling it back, he surprises me by the move he makes and the strength behind it. With a finger tucked in the waistband of my pants, he pulls me toward him, throwing me off balance. I fall on the bed and he leans in to kiss me. Not a gentle kiss. A who-needs-to-breathe kind of kiss. It tastes of vanilla and pineapple. Most of all it tastes like Zo. For a moment I want to just lie back and let it happen, only because it feels familiar. It feels like our old life, the life we had before this disease razed our world, laid everything to waste. And before I broke his heart and betrayed his trust. But that time has passed, and this time isn’t simple. It’s hard, and even though this would be easy, I won’t lie to him anymore.