Block Shot (Hoops #2)(41)

“What the hell?” Zo asks from behind me, his voice sleepy and confused. “All these alarms and bells and shit. How do you ever sleep in?”

“I don’t.” I toss the covers back and throw my legs over the side, talking myself into standing up, when a muscled arm reaches around my waist and drags me backward. “Zo, I have to get up.”

“No, you don’t.” He presses me back into the pillows and settles between my legs. “Sleep in with me.”

He dots kisses along my neck and squeezes my breast. My nipple lifts involuntarily under the persistence of his thumb. He slips a hand into my pajama bottoms, and I know what he’ll find. Dread twists inside my belly.

“Dios,” Zo says, sliding his mouth down my chest, taking my nipple through the silk pajama top. “Tan mojado.”

So wet.

Guilt clogs my throat. I can’t do this. Not with him after dreaming about damn Jared Foster. I hate this. I’m so disciplined in every waking moment of my life, but I have no control over my unfaithful subconscious and its contrary longings.

“I really need to get up, Zo,” I whisper, biting my lip and training my eyes on the ceiling instead of looking at him.

His large palm cups my bottom, pulling me into his erection, into his eager thrust. My body doesn’t care that I was dreaming about Jared. Doesn’t care how disrespectful it would be to sleep with Zo right now, that it would feel like a betrayal. It just wants to be filled. It just wants to fuck.

And so I do.





I flip through the pages of the preliminary contract, a frown puckering my brows. Sutton Lowell, Vancouver Titans’ President of Basketball Operations, sits across the conference room table, waiting. When I reach the last page, I look around the room, ostensibly searching, and then under the table. I half-stand from my seat and peer out into the reception area just beyond the glass wall separating us from his staff in their cubicles.

“What are you looking for?” he asks.

“Another zero.” I shove the contract across the table to him. “I think you’re missing one.”

“Banner, come on.” He leans forward, looking me directly in the eyes. If he’s searching for softness, I can tell him right now he won’t find it. Not on this.

“You need to max Zo out, and you know it.”

“You really think you have the leverage for a maximum contract? You know his numbers were down.”

“At the end of the season, yes,” I concede. “Not all season and not his entire career.”

“We need that cap space to do some rebuilding with younger players.”

“I’m well aware.” I slide my iPad into its leather sleeve. “But I fail to see how that affects my client. If he doesn’t get a max contract now, then when?”

“You need to back down on this,” he says, voice quiet but stern like he’s lecturing a recalcitrant child. “The owners—”

“The owners can kiss my ass, Lowell.” I stand and stare him down. “If you don’t appreciate the rare talent that Zo is and has proven to be for a decade, I’ve already heard from several teams who will.”

“You can’t meet with other teams,” he says, eyes widening in outrage.

“Funny.” I touch my chin, fake contemplating. “I negotiated Zo’s contract myself and I don’t remember seeing that stipulation anywhere.”

“I thought it was understood. A gentleman’s agreement.”

“Ohhh. A gentleman’s agreement. So it’s a man thing. About time being a woman worked to my advantage.”

“Banner, you know what I mean. If you even think about talking to other teams—”

“I’m not thinking about it,” I say, brandishing the words like a knife. “I am talking to other teams because I knew you’d pull this shit when his numbers were down at the end of the season. Any excuse not to pay him what he’s worth.”

I press the heel of my hand into the conference room table and lean forward.

“I don’t want your balls, Lowell, but I will take them.”

Frustration settles between his brows and around his mouth, but he doesn’t offer anything else. I head for the door and toss a warning over my shoulder.

“I don’t care where you get it, but you better find my zero.”





What a day. Despite all my bravado in Lowell’s office, I feel less certain about Zo’s contract than I ever have in an off-season. His numbers are down. I don’t know why. It’s the first time in ten years he finished down. I’m thinking about taking care of one client when another calls. I answer with Bluetooth, negotiating the back roads to my house from downtown.

“Kenan, hey,” I answer, smiling. Kenan makes me smile. He’s so big and serious and daunting but has one of the best hearts around underneath all the bluster. He and Zo remind me of each other, and I’ve known Kenan almost as long.

“Hey, Banner.” His deep voice comes quietly and he sounds weary.

“Everything okay?” I ask, on alert.

“Yeah. Just more drama with Bridget.” He clears his throat. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Is she trying to make it harder to see Erin?”

“I got it,” he replies more sharply than I anticipated. Probably more sharply than he meant to. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to be short. It’s just . . . I don’t want to talk about Bridge. I didn’t call to talk about her.”