Block Shot (Hoops #2)(94)

I meet the curious stares of several doctors crowding around Zo’s hospital bed. Ever since we started working together, Zo and I would retreat to Spanish when we needed to say things we didn’t want others to know. Maybe rude, but we didn’t care. We were a team. Clearly things have changed.

“I don’t care what you tell them,” I reply honestly because I’ll air all our dirty laundry in front of strangers if that’s what it takes. “But you’re contractually obligated to notify your agent of any invasive medical procedures, preferably before they occur and definitely within twenty-four hours.”

“Bullshit.” Zo spits the word out, his eyes bitter slits in the striking face.

“Yes, I thought you might need reminding.” I plop my Botega Veneta Cabat bag at the foot of the bed, extract a copy of his contract and extend the sheaf of papers to him. “Page forty-four.”

He accepts the contract, flipping to the page I marked with a tiny red flag sticky note.

“I don’t care what the contract says.” He tosses the contract back to me and it lands at my purse. “I don’t want you here.”

“Tough.” I plaster my negotiator’s face over the hurt his words cause. “My career is inextricably tied to yours as long as I’m your agent, so anything that happens to that body happens to me.”

“You’re not my agent.”

“According to this contract,” I say, holding it up, “I am, and unless you can produce legal documentation proving that you have formally dissolved our agent-client relationship, not only do I have the right to be here, but it is my responsibility.”

“Get out,” he says harshly.

“No.”

I cling to the calm fa?ade and hide trembling hands in the pockets of my expertly-tailored, wide-legged pants. The silk blouse, stilettos, diamond stud earrings, expensive cologne, upswept hair . . . it’s all professional armor I’ve wrapped myself in for this confrontation. He doesn’t need a supportive girlfriend. He needs a fighter, and the flawless makeup I painstakingly applied is my war paint.

“Who’s in charge here?” I ask, swinging my inquiry around the room.

“Apparently, you are,” answers one white coat-clad man with a receding hairline and glasses.

“I need to be brought up to speed immediately,” I say, ignoring his attempt at humor I don’t have time for. “Doctor . . . what is your name?”

“Dr. Clintmore.” He steps forward and shakes my hand.

“What is the status of my client?” I ask. “What has been done and what is being considered? What do we know?”

Dr. Clintmore glances at Zo, silently requesting permission to share information before he divulges anything. Zo zips a look from the contract at the foot of the bed to my face and scowls but nods to go ahead.

“Mr. Vidale’s blood pressure was dangerously low,” Dr. Clintmore says. “He passed out during the stress test, but that wasn’t his first time. He reported blacking out two other times over the last few weeks.”

“What?” I can’t help it. Concern slips through my mask, and I seek Zo’s evasive eyes. “When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Does it matter now?” Zo blows out a long breath.

“Yes,” I answer, my voice unyielding. “Tell me.”

“Once in the locker room near the end of the season,” he says like the words are being dragged from him. “And a few weeks ago when I was in Argentina at the orphanage.”

“And you didn’t think to share this information?” I don’t know if I want to shake him or hug him, but I’m spitting mad and scared as hell.

“I thought it was nothing.” He hauls in a breath that stretches the muscles of his wide chest. “In the locker room, it was after a game when I played almost the whole time. I assumed I was probably exhausted and didn’t hydrate enough. This summer, I had been working all day in the sun on the orphanage’s new cafeteria.”

Something flickers in his eyes when they meet mine. He’s probably remembering that building the cafeteria was my suggestion the last time I accompanied him to the orphanage.

“So Mr. Vidale assumed those incidents and the weight loss were typical,” Dr. Clintmore inserts.

I asked him about the weight he had lost, but he dismissed it as the intensity of the playing schedule. Why didn’t I persist? How could this have escaped my notice? Guilt spears me right down the middle, but I try to focus on what the doctor is saying.

“Did you say biopsy?” I demand sharply when I tune back in. “He’s had a biopsy?”

“Yes, which has come back normal,” Dr. Clintmore continues. “We’ve run tests on his heart, his lungs. All results have come back within range, except—”

“Except what?” I cut in, gripping the bed rail.

“The albumin levels in his blood are extremely high.” The doctor spreads a cautious look between the other physicians in the room before going further. “There are many things that could be related to, so we won’t speculate, but will wait for the next results.”

“What is albumin?” I ask.

Dr. Clintmore nods to one of the younger doctors to reply, and I realize the other doctors present are medical students.

“It’s a protein your liver produces,” the younger physician answers. “It helps keep fluid in your bloodstream and prevents it from leaking into other tissues.”