Block Shot (Hoops #2)(64)

“Maali, could you grab me a salad from that place up the street?”

Instead of answering, she appears in my doorway. Her inky black hair swishes at her chin in a bob, and her dark eyes mirror concern.

“Sure.” She approaches my desk. “It’s almost quitting time. I’ll go grab the food before I go. The usual?”

“Yeah,” I answer distractedly, scanning the first draft of Zo’s new contract. “Dammit. Lowell is not making this easy.”

“Still holding out?” She props one hip against my desk.

“I think he considers this meeting me halfway, but he’s in for a rude awakening.” I close my laptop with a snap. “Max or we walk.”

“And does Zo have other options?” Hesitation shadows her delicate features. “He did seem to drop off there at the end?”

I shoot her a sharp glance, and she rushes to fix it.

“I’m just saying he was doing so well all season and then seemed out of gas at the end.”

“That happens to lots of guys,” I remind her, trying to keep my voice free of defensiveness. “Zo is in season number ten, not two, so maybe it was typical wear and tear. I have every confidence that he’ll be back to his usual level of performance when the new season starts. He’s an elite athlete, one of the best we’ve seen, and he deserves supermax.”

I open my laptop and start an email to politely, but firmly, tell the Titans front office where they can insert their underwhelming offer.

“Of course,” Maali says, not looking as sure as I am. “I’ll be back with your salad.”

She walks out, only to pop her head back in a few seconds later.

“Oh, and Cal’s in the building.” With a glance, she commiserates with me. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“You’re safe,” I say with half a smile before returning my attention to the email. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

Through the years, Cal and I have brokered an understanding. He stays out of my way and doesn’t expect me to behave like the rest of the assholes who work for him, and I bring him clients. Lots of clients. Lots of business. Lots of money. He gave me the LA office to manage because he’s afraid I’ll branch off and start my own agency. One day I will, but that is a massive undertaking I don’t want right now. I’m settling into a new city. I have more clients than any other agent at Bagley, and they’re as loyal to me as I am to them. When I do leave, I know they’ll follow me out the door. Cal knows that, too, and usually bends over backward to keep me happy, but still feels the need to reassert himself as my “boss” every once in a while, remind me whose name is on the letterhead. He’s been in LA for a week making sure things are going well with the new branch, which they are. If he’s in the building that means at some point, he’ll be in my office.

I’m making progress on a marketing plan for Lamont Christopher, the rookie I “blocked” with Jared when my cell rings. I’m so tempted not to answer, but a glance at the screen shows me it’s Zo. He’s in another time zone, and with our busy schedules, it’s been hard to really connect. Guilt knots my stomach and my palms actually start sweating. When he comes back, I have to tell him about what has happened with Jared. We haven’t had sex, but what we have done is unacceptable. I pray he forgives me, but I’m still not sure we need to continue forward as we have been, irrespective of Jared.

“Hola,” I answer, forcing a smile into my voice.

“Hola, Bannini,” he says, using the name reserved for family. “Te echo de menos.”

“I miss you, too,” I reply in Spanish, as we conduct most of our private conversations. “How are things at the orphanage?”

He recounts all the amazing things that have been done since I visited the orphanage in San Nicolas with him last summer. Zo does more than simply write checks. He’s hands-on as much as he can be, especially during the summer and in his home country.

“You sound tired,” I say, scribbling on an old draft of a shoe contract.

“I am.” His weary sigh makes me frown. He’s legendary for his boundless energy and rarely admits to fatigue.

“Come home,” I urge him, tossing the pen on my desk and leaning back in my seat. “Rest.”

“Tomorrow.” I know him so well I can envision how the smile in his voice looks on his face.

My heart thuds heavily. I want him to come home and rest, but that means I have to deal with the situation . . . that he doesn’t even realize is a situation yet.

“Tomorrow?” I ask weakly.

“Yes. A quick trip. Only a day in LA and then I fly to Vancouver for some standard team stuff,” he replies. “But I miss you too much. I have to see you, even if it’s only for a day.”

“Oh.” I smile and inject enthusiasm into my voice. I do want to see him. I’ve missed him, too, but the conversation I didn’t want to have will happen sooner than I thought. “Can’t wait.”

“You have no idea, baby.” His voice is husky, eager. “Be naked when I get there.”

It hurts to swallow. It’s hard to breathe. It feels wrong to even converse intimately with him when I’ve come on Jared’s fingers. When last night I dreamed about Jared making love to me with the lights on. We haven’t spoken since yesterday morning, when he carted a chagrined and hungover Hakeem to his hotel. With Hakeem watching, we kept things professional, but the look Jared gave me on his way out burned through my clothes.