Block Shot (Hoops #2)(92)

“They will be upset. As I’ve thought about it, my family was part of the reason I ignored the little voice that kept telling me not to start with Zo. They’ve wanted us together for years.” I toy with the collar of his T-shirt and squeeze the hand linked with mine on my knee. “I can’t sugarcoat it. They’ll have a million questions, and I need to think about how I’m going to answer them.”

“Honestly,” he says. “Tell them about the doubts you had and the things that convinced you to ignore them. Tell them about us. I mean, you don’t have to go into details about how we practically broke your desk.”

I suppress a grin, not quite prepared to see any humor, but knowing one day I might be able to.

“And me?” he asks, a forced lightness to the question. “What will they think of me? Of us together? I know compared to Zo, I’m not exactly the boy you bring home to Mama.”

I look up from my spot on his shoulder, studying his face for the things he’s not saying. The tightness around his mouth. The concern in the eyes searching mine.

“I didn’t think you would care what they think,” I say and flatten my hand over the hard muscles of his stomach under his T-shirt.

“I don’t. For me, I don’t care. We’re going to be together if the Pope himself doesn’t approve.”

“I don’t think our relationship requires Papal approval.” I laugh and caress his back. My hand freezes under the shirt as the word “relationship” lingers in the air. Even after all he said on the terrace, telling me he wanted more than sex, that he wouldn’t share me and I wouldn’t have to share him . . . it still feels like I’m assuming too much to call what we’re building a relationship.

“Not Papal,” he agrees with an easy smile, obviously not nonplussed by the word. “Is Mamal a word? I think your mother will be the hardest to get on board.”

“True.” I nearly shudder thinking of the tongue lashing in store for me over Zo.

“I know you love your family,” Jared says soberly, reaching down to gently grip my jaw. “I love mine, too, but they have no say in this. No one does except us.”

I search his face for perfidy or any duplicity, but there’s only the same sureness I saw in him last night. Sureness about me and our relationship. I simply nod and lay my head back on his shoulder, content to listen to his heartbeat and the wash of waves a few yards beyond the villa door.

In the distance, a phone rings shattering the comfortable quiet we’ve been lounging in.

“Ugh,” I groan, shifting on his lap. “My phone.”

“Leave it,” he urges, kissing the curve of my neck. “Stay here and fuck. We’ve only had sex once today. Are we losing the magic already?”

I chuckle and kiss his cheek with finality.

“As tempting as that is, it’s Cal’s ringtone.”

I haul myself to stand and rush toward the staircase and up the steps. I only told my boss that I needed a few days away and my team is more than capable of holding down the proverbial fort while I’m away. We’ve got a lot of off-season deals in the works, though. I can’t ghost completely on my clients. This could be something I should handle myself.

Or maybe Zo told him he’s leaving Bagley because I can’t, in his words, keep my legs closed. That would be a much more embarrassing scenario, but I’m prepared for either.

“Hey, Cal,” I reply, winded from racing to catch the call. “What’s up?”

“Where the hell are you?” he demands immediately, discarding social graces.

“I told you I was taking a little time off.” I pick up a pillow from the bed we’ve made love in so many times this week I’ve lost count . The pillow smells of Jared’s clean, addictive scent.

“Yeah, well it’s really bad timing since your biggest client is in the hospital while you’re off smelling the roses or whatever the hell you’re doing.”

I go stock still, the pillow pressed to my face and Jared’s scent still in my nose.

“What’d you say?” The question stumbles over my tongue and out of my mouth. “Which client? Who?”

“Zo. Who else would be your biggest client?”

“Zo?” I can barely breathe deeply enough to push out his name.

Jared appears at the door, leaning one shoulder against the frame with folded arms and a frown.

“Yes, Zo, Banner. Where the hell is your head?”

“What’s . . . what’s wrong? Where is he?”

“Like I said he’s in the hospital,” Cal replies, a touch of impatience evident in his answer. “Has been for three days.”

“Three days? In a hospital?” I shout, confusion, frustration, and anger infighting as I try to get answers. “Zo hates hospitals.”

Ever since he sat in that waiting room while all his family died one by one, he has avoided hospitals at all costs. The thought of him lying in a hospital alone for three days . . .

“What happened?” I demand.

“Apparently, he was up in Vancouver for some standard off-season stuff. They had him doing a stress test when he passed out.”

Zo has never passed out in the ten years I’ve known him, not even from the excruciating pain of his torn ACL.

“The team thought we should know, so they called the office,” Cal says.