Block Shot (Hoops #2)(25)

“You guys are great together,” Quinn reassures.

“We’ll see this summer, won’t we?” I take a deep breath. “He’s staying with me once the season is over. With the Titans being in Vancouver, we so rarely get real time together.”

Zo has a few business interests here in LA, but I know this will be a test drive for us seeing how it feels to be in the same place longer than a night or two every few weeks. I’ve been trying to ignore the unease that creeps in every time I think of us living together. Our friendship has always been so right. The thought of things going wrong with Zo because we’re dating scares me a little.

“You guys will be fine. Just focus on what’s real. All this,” Quinn says, waving her hand at the crowded arena packed with television cameras and fans, “goes away when the game is over. You have a real relationship with a real man. Not the image you help create.”

Image.

I actually hate how much I have to think about it, especially now that I live in LA. It was one thing living in New York, but the image consciousness goes up another level out here. I’m a double-digit chick in a single-digit town. I’ve accepted that. I’ve shopped with Quinn in exclusive boutiques where the salesperson immediately offered to show me their shoes or jewelry, assuming that was all that would fit. I’m over it. I’ve stopped trying to keep up and have just determined I’ll be the best Banner I can be. That doesn’t mean I’m immune to other people talking about my image.

Hey, Hollywood, a highly successful blog, seems to have taken a special interest in my relationship with Zo. The commentary has been some of the most vicious.

“You know Hannah from Hey, Hollywood called me Sponge Banner Square Pants last week?”

Quinn spits a little of her beer out.

“Oh my God, what?” Her eyes widen first with humor, then shock, then morph to narrow angry slits.

“Yeah, and I quote. ‘Is it just me? Or does Zo Vidale’s agent/girlfriend have a squarer than normal ass? Let’s call her Sponge Banner Square Pants.’ End quote.”

“That little bitch,” Quinn says hotly. “Criticizing every detail of other people’s appearance. Meanwhile we’ve never seen what that little twat looks like. And you can betcha bottom dollar it’s nothing like the avatar she hides behind.”

“Whatever.” I shrug, pretending the barb doesn’t still burn where it landed.

“Not whatever.” Quinn grabs my hand and forces me to look her in the eyes the same way I’ve done over the years. “You’re beautiful, Banner. And your body is beautiful. You’ve worked hard. You’re disciplined and healthy, and heredity and squats have given you a great ass that is not abnormally square.”

“Hey, what more can a girl ask for than a ‘within normal range’ square ass?” I quip sarcastically.

“Maybe Hannah’s just pissed because she doesn’t have a fine, rich boyfriend.” Quinn’s eyes crinkle at the corners and a saucy smile spills over her mouth. “Ohhh, but boyfriend or not, you gotta appreciate premium manflesh. Incoming. Check out fine and rich, if that Tom Ford suit is anything to go by, at two o’clock.”

“Where?” I turn my head slightly to the right.

“Don’t look,” she says hastily. “He’ll know we’re interested.”

“We aren’t interested. You are, so I’m looking. Also that wasn’t two o’clock. That was ten o’clock. Did you fail driver’s ed or what?”

“Driver’s ed?” Consternation crinkles Quinn’s smooth expression.

“Ten and two?” I demonstrate the hand positions on an imaginary steering wheel.

“Good grief.” Quinn laughs and gives an exasperated shake of her head. “Just look. But guard your ovaries. He’s got a kid. He was fine in the first place. Add his adorable little girl and no ovaries are safe.”

I glance over my shoulder and everything inside of me jerks. There was a time I deliberately avoided news of Jared Foster. Over the years, I haven’t had to avoid news. There just wasn’t much of it. Not personally anyway. I know he started his own agency a couple of years ago, Elevation, formerly based in San Diego—now headquartered mere blocks from the LA office of Bagley & Associates I’m managing.

The same way he was the golden boy of Kerrington College, he has become the golden boy of sports management. Not even thirty-five years old and owns one of the fastest growing agencies in the business. Cal hates him. I suspect Cal was so determined to set up shop on the West Coast because Jared was out here. And I suspect Jared set up an office in LA because Cal did. I don’t want to be caught in the middle of their turf war, but if it happens, I won’t back down. I’ve cultivated the killer as much as the heart and know which to deploy in any given situation. Jared Foster would definitely qualify as a “situation.”

I don’t think of him or that night . . . if I can help it. Humiliation. Hurt. Confusion. Anger. That’s all I remember.

Oh. And the best sex of my life. Jared Foster remains the best thing that ever happened to my vagina, despite how horrendously left that night went. So yeah, I didn’t want to hear any personal details about him. I couldn’t have missed that he had gotten married, but I guess I did miss that he has a daughter.

I swallow around some strange hot lump in my throat as I watch her dark head touching the silky fair strands I threaded my fingers through for one night. He’s carrying her like she’s the most precious thing in the world. They’re laughing and her skinny arms loop around his neck. A petite dark-haired woman walks up behind them carrying hot dogs and beer. Her face is a replica of the little angel in Jared’s arms.