Block Shot (Hoops #2)(37)

All day I’ve walked around with this . . . emotion I can’t quite name agitating my insides, seething under my skin. Of all the things Banner said in her session today, the least impactful thing has impacted me the most. The one I can’t stop rehearsing.

My boyfriend is a good man.

Zo Vidale digs wells in Africa, feeds hungry kids in India, and probably helps old ladies cross the street. Every Good Samaritan and Citizen Award there is, he has won. He is a good man, and I, along with the rest of the known world, admire him. I respect him.

So why the hell does it bother me to hear Banner call him a good man?

“So, Foster,” one of the agents—maybe Jimmy, I think is his name—says. “I heard you went to college with Banner Morales. That right?”

Is the world conspiring against my peace of mind?

“Yeah,” I one-word it, prop my elbows on the bar and motion to the bartender. “Jameson, please.”

“I heard her session was packed.”

“Yeah,” I answer automatically.

“You were in there?” Mitch perks up to demand. “I thought it was just for chicks.”

“I needed my sister-in-law,” I lie. “So I poked my head in to find her.”

“What I want to know,” Maybe Jimmy asks, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Did she look that good in college?”

Frumpy sweater. Baggy sweatpants. Hair scraped back. No makeup. Seven freckles.

“Yeah,” I reply, staring into my drink. “She did.”

“Did not,” Mitch counters with a sneer. “I interned with her at Bagley. She didn’t look anything like that, but I guess it didn’t matter to Vidale.”

“What’s that mean?” Maybe Jimmy asks, practically smacking his lips for some juicy gossip.

“I was supposed to meet with Vidale.” Mitch leans forward, glancing around to make sure he’s not being overheard . . . or more likely to make sure he is overheard. “Last minute, Cal grabs Morales for the meeting. She goes into the conference room. Next thing I know, wham, bam! She’s Zo’s agent. Hadn’t even graduated or taken the exam yet. How’s that happen?”

Mitch’s “theory” of how that happened is scrawled all over his face.

“Whoa,” Maybe Jimmy says, eyes stretched. “Are you saying she fucked Vidale to get the job?”

My muscles tighten, straining with the effort not to slam Mitch’s head into the bar. Everyone knows how good Banner is. These assholes don’t commission a third of what she makes. Jealousy is an ugly emotion that makes you do and say petty things. A defense for her burns the tip of my tongue, but I say nothing. I swallow my Jameson, my frustration, and that same nameless emotion clawing at my insides.

“At least now they aren’t trying to hide it anymore,” Mitch says. “I’m surprised Cal hasn’t put a stop to it. If their relationship goes south, Bagley could lose our best baller.”

“What if he knows it won’t go south?” Maybe Jimmy asks. “If this has been going on for years, they might be getting married or something.”

My boyfriend is a good man.

“Even marriage is no guarantee,” I hear myself saying. “And if Banner is stupid enough to fuck her client now, she has to know people will think that’s how she landed him in the first place.”

As soon as I say the harsh words, I want to take them back, but it’s too late. Mitch looks past my shoulder, and his eyes widen. His mouth drops open.

“B-Banner,” he stutters. “Uh . . . We were just . . . Pull up a chair. Have a drink.”

I close my eyes, praying to the whiskey gods that Banner didn’t hear my last comment. When I turn on my barstool, there is no doubt in my mind that she heard every word.

“Let me get this straight,” she says through tight lips, ignoring Mitch’s pitiful cover-up attempt. “I got where I am by fucking Zo. Do I have it right?”

“Banner,” I start.

“Fuck you, Jared.” She doesn’t even look at me when she says it. She glares at Maybe Jimmy. “You haven’t signed a new client in two years, and the few you have left are jumping like you’re the Titanic because you’ve managed their careers into the toilet.”

She points to Mitch. “Cal Bagley would have fired you years ago if your father wasn’t his best friend. I spend half my time cleaning up your shit and the other half taking up your slack.”

Her eyes, when they shift to me, are obsidian. Hard. Dark. Cold. Even when she’s been furious with me in the past, irritated with me, she’s never looked at me this way.

“And how dare you intimate that anyone would assume I’m successful because I fuck my clients?” She hurls the question at me.

“I didn’t say—”

“When you wouldn’t even own your agency,” she cuts over me, “if your brother hadn’t bought it for you. So is your success because of nepotism?”

The hell?

I stand up fast and step so close, I smell her shampoo. After all these years, it’s the same scent. Something fresh and clean and distinctly hers. I step so close her head falls back so she can maintain her glare, but she doesn’t fall back. I’m so close the sight of her in this black dress hugging her curves, with her hair piled high on her head like a crown, swallows up my peripheral vision and Banner is all I see.