Block Shot (Hoops #2)(32)

“So in college it was hate fucking?” Quinn whispers hopefully. “’Cause that shit is intense.”

If there was a chair in here, she’d pull one right up.

“No, in college we were . . .” All the nights we laughed and studied and challenged each other in that laundromat invade my memory: Jared helping fold my clients’ clothes and teasing me about my bad knock-knock jokes. “We were friends.”

“Maybe you can be friends again,” Quinn says. “He seemed pretty cool last night.”

“I think it’s best to just leave it alone.” I grab a yoga mat for poses to end the workout. “We’re at rival firms, and if there’s one thing I know has not changed about Jared, he’s still ruthless. More now than ever.”

“And I had to go and give him guest passes.” Quinn adjusts my body in Kapotasana pose.

“Yeah, thanks for that.” I laugh at her chagrined expression. “It’s okay. Hopefully we can avoid each other.”

“And how was it last night after not seeing Zo for so long?” Her knowing look seeks to know more. “You guys fuck like savages?”

Never.

I chastise myself for the thought. We’ve been together six months, and I keep hoping for wild chandelier sex, but that hasn’t happened. It sounds crazy, but sex has never been as important to me as all the other things that make a relationship work, that make it rich.

“It was really good to be with him again for sure,” I say, neatly side-stepping her question.

The timer on her watch goes off, indicating that our session is over.

“When is he moving in?” she asks.

“The Titans will make the playoffs.” I grab my water bottle and bag from the corner of the studio. “I don’t anticipate them going too far, though. Not this year. He’ll come here after his last playoff game and plans to stay until he has to report for pre-season workouts.”

“Wow. That sounds serious.” Quinn smiles warmly. “He’s a good man.”

“The best.” I deftly shift topics. “I’m loving the Girl, You Better app, by the way.”

We chat about the app and how it might be improved until we reach the front desk. As soon as employees spot her, Quinn is pulled in several different directions.

“I gotta go.” She kisses my cheek. “Make sure to log your points.”

“Alright, Sarge,” I joke. “I will.”

I’m leaving, focused on logging my workout into my phone when I bump into someone entering the building as I exit. We somehow end up trapped together in a partition of the revolving door.

“I’m so sorry! I . . .”

Him.

“Imagine seeing you here,” Jared drawls, standing still so I can’t move forward either. His closely cropped hair glints golden in the bright morning sun.

“It is my gym,” I answer caustically.

“Your gym,” Jared says, arms folded across his chest. “Your city. I don’t remember you being this possessive.”

“I’m surprised you remember me at all.”

One dark blond brow ascends and that wide mouth tips at one corner.

“Pretty Pastel,” he murmurs, his deep voice and his damn seductive scent suffusing the tight glass-encased space, making it a hothouse.

“What?” My mind blanks because he couldn’t be saying . . .

“You still use the same dryer sheets.” He leans forward and sniffs my shoulder.

“Stop that.” I bat him away, conscious of the fact I didn’t take the shower I had planned.

“Are they or are they not called Pretty Pastel?” he asks.

His self-satisfied look darkens and intensifies the longer we stand transfixed in this glass box of boiling air.

“You don’t want to know all the things I remember, Ban,” he says, his laugh husky. “Or maybe you do.”

“I do not.” Our words, our breath, whatever is condensating in this partition between us, is literally fogging the glass. “Let me out.”

A woman enters on the other side, bewildered that the revolving door isn’t revolving, that we aren’t moving. Jared flashes her one of those smiles, and she blushes and bats her damn eyelashes. We can only get out of this if he steps forward and I step back. Even for just the few seconds it takes to free us, it feels like he’s advancing on me.

“I’ll be seeing you, Banner,” he calls from inside as I walk to the parking lot.

“Not if I see you first,” I mutter.

I click my car open and climb in, slamming the door with unnecessary roughness. I don’t even make it to the interstate before the phone rings in my car, my mother’s name displaying on the screen.

“Hola, Mama.”

“Hola, Bannini.”

When Mama’s family first moved here from Mexico, she spoke no English. One teacher in the overcrowded San Diego public school took extra time and care to make sure Mama learned English and helped her adjust to her new circumstances, her new country. That teacher was Ms. Banner Johnson. My namesake, but my family calls me Bannini. How that started, no one remembers, but it stuck.

“How are you?” I continue in Spanish. “How’s Papa?”

“Ehh. We are fine. Always fine.”