Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(128)
So she does know. Even though our relationship is so much better, I walk on eggshells sometimes, scared I’ll break something, so I didn’t tell Simone Kenan and I are celebrating our one-year anniversary. Technically, it’s the one-year anniversary of our first ‘not a date.’ The start of our relationship was such a sore point with Simone, I wasn’t going to mention it.
“Daddy told me,” Simone says matter-of-factly.
“Can you believe he even wanted to celebrate something so silly?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
“It’s not silly.” Simone’s smile is sly, knowing, and curious all at once. “Did you get him a gift?”
“I did, but I’m not telling you what it is, big mouth.” I wag a finger at her. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten his birthday. So much for surprising him, thanks to you.”
Simone’s unrepentant laughter billows out, and she looks young and carefree. Not too long ago, we discovered her lifeless on Kenan’s bed. I saw her at the lowest point of her short life. Watching her now, you’d never know that less than a year ago she was that same troubled girl.
“Talked to your grandmother?” I ask.
I turn everything off and grab the phone, heading out of the kitchen. I pad barefoot through the immaculate living room, the foyer with its soaring ceiling and massive chandelier. I knew Kenan was a wealthy man, of course, but his apartment on the Upper West Side, though luxurious, didn’t prepare me for his sprawling home in La Jolla, one of the most elite parts of San Diego.
“Yeah,” Simone replies, popping a piece of gum into her mouth. “She’s loving the cruise with her ‘girls.’” She makes air quotes and rolls her eyes.
“She deserves some time off, putting up with two bossy people like you and your dad,” I joke and climb the winding staircase.
“We’re bossy? Who basically re-wrote the rules of Taboo when her team was losing?”
“Oh, my God. We beat you guys fair and square.” I shake my head as I enter Kenan’s bedroom. “Bunch of sore losers.”
“You guys had Banner,” Simone scoffs. “She should count as two players.”
“Yeah, well you had her husband. She and Jared are like barracudas.” I shudder. “Can you imagine if they played on the same team?”
“We’d never let that happen,” Simone says with a straight face.
A slim, dark-haired woman comes into view on Simone’s screen, standing in the doorway of her room. “Simone,” she says. “It is time.”
“Yes, Madam Petrov.” Simone flashes her a grin before looking back to the phone. “Gotta go.”
“Okay. Thanks for calling.” I sink onto Kenan’s California king and smile. “And I like the hair, by the way.”
Simone touches the braids streaming over her shoulder. “Keeps it neat for dance.” She gives that same little secretive quirk of her lips. “Enjoy your anniversary.”
Once we’ve disconnected, I note the time on my phone.
“Ugh,” I mutter. “Still need to get dressed.”
I dart off the bed and race over to the closet, pausing to reverently stroke the dress I’m wearing tonight. The full organza skirt bells out from a cinched waist and will stop just above my knees when I put it on. The sheer cap-sleeves will spill over my shoulders and dust the top of my arms. I spent days embroidering lotus flowers on the bodice and hem, making it uniquely mine. And, of course, it’s cotton candy pink.
I’ve waited a long time to wear the dress I made for my FIT final, and I always envisioned showing it off somewhere like a premier or a fashion show—somewhere public. Everyone would ask who I was wearing, and I would proudly say I made it myself. But tonight, I wear the dress for an audience of one.
Kenan’s not supposed to return from the Player’s Association executive board meeting for another hour and a half. Plenty of time to get ready. We could have gone out to celebrate, but we haven’t seen each other in two weeks. Neither of us want public scrutiny and speculation, or to field autograph-seekers all night. There was always some of that in New York, but here in the city where Kenan actually plays ball, it happens constantly.
And I want him all to myself.
After showering, I put on my dress and slip in wireless earbuds so I can listen to Billie Holiday while I put on makeup and tame my hair into a curly updo. Kenan’s taste in music is rubbing off on me. I love Billie’s voice, but wish the lady who sang the blues had found more pink clouds in her life to chase the blues away. This song, “You Go To My Head,” is perfect for a night celebrating the genesis of my relationship with Kenan. The lyrics tease my memories of Hook Shot and our first kiss on the Hudson, to which Lady Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, and a roomful of my closest friends bore witness.
The song tells the story of a woman entranced by her lover. He spins through her thoughts like bubbles in a glass of champagne. He’s a sip of sparkling Burgundy brew. He intoxicates her soul with his eyes. Each of Billie’s slurred metaphors lures me deeper into the past—back to that first night. Kissing Kenan changed everything. It tilted and shook my world like it was a snow globe, redistributing the stars. I hum along, remembering how my throat was still burning from the tequila when my mouth burned from his kisses.
I look into the mirror, poised to apply a matte red lipstick. My eyes collide with Kenan’s in the reflection, and I almost drop the tube. He leans against the doorjamb, his hands pushed into the dark, well-tailored slacks tapered to the length of his powerful legs. The movement strains the crisp white cotton of his tie-less, collared shirt across his broad chest.