Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(5)

How different could Kenan Ross be?





2





Kenan





“Did you say arm porn?”

I hope I heard my agent, Banner Morales, wrong.

“Uh, yeah,” she replies, and even over the phone I hear her amusement, though she tries to disguise it. “It means—”

“Stop.” I grab my wallet and keys from the dresser and head for the door. “I don’t want to know.”

“Okay, but you are going to the party tonight, right?”

“What party?” I ask, grinning and locking up. “I just got to New York. I kinda want to chill tonight, and you know I hate parties.”

All true.

“Kenan, come on. It’ll be fun. A great way to meet new people in a new city. And a great chance to network.”

“Network?” I ask disparagingly. “It’s like you don’t even know me, B.”

“I know if left to your own devices, you’ll be holed up in that apartment all summer working out in your home gym and listening to jazz.”

Damn. She does know me.

I wait for the elevator to come, grimacing because I don’t want to have this discussion. “I’m leaving for the party now.”

“Oh good.” Banner sounds relieved. “There should be a car downstairs waiting. And heads up, some of the Bodee folks will be there, too.”

“Just a small gathering of friends, huh?” I ask dryly.

“Work is play, and play is work. You know many a deal begins over dinner and a drink.”

“I know, I know.” I step onto the elevator and chuckle. “And I may be going to this party, but I haven’t made up my mind about this arm porn thing.”

“Okay, seriously. He just likes your . . . arms, and thinks you’d be great for this new line of watches he’s designing with Bodee, that activewear company.”

“But I don’t do shit like this. Body armor, tennis shoes, sports drinks—I’m down. But fashion? Me?”

“He’s a fashion designer, but don’t think of it as fashion, per se,” Banner says, using that cajoling tone I’ve heard a thousand times in all the years she’s represented me. “Bodee is on the come-up in sportswear. They’re making moves to increase their market share and compete with the big boys. This partnership with Jean Pierre, who’s a pretty big deal in the fashion industry, by the way, demonstrates they understand the power of cross-marketing.”

“Are you done with your little pitch?”

“My little pitch is something you should pay attention to. You’re in the home stretch of your NBA career, Kenan.”

“You think I’m not financially prepared for retirement?” I ask, a little offended because that’s far from the truth. “You know better than anyone how well diversified I am. The businesses I own, the investments I’ve made.”

“I want you to be relevant for years to come,” Banner says. “Thirty-six is almost the end of your NBA career, but so young for everything else. You have a lot of life ahead of you after retirement. Decades, and while business interests and investments are great, these are most ballers’ highest earning years by far. Off-court opportunities will help us stockpile.”

I’m poised to tell her I don’t give a damn about being relevant and will welcome the return of my privacy with open arms when she pounces and plays the card she knows always works.

“Think of your daughter.”

I’ve done nothing but think of Simone. She’s the whole reason I’m in this city. I don’t even like New York that much. I prefer the pace of the West Coast. This is the city that never sleeps. I like sleep. I sleep eight hours every night and have for as long as I can remember.

“What about her?” I take Banner’s bait, as she knew I would.

“You’ve amassed a fortune playing basketball, and that’s great, but the more opportunities we consider and create, the better for your future and for hers.”

I’m silent, processing her words. The elevator doors open and I stand there for a few seconds. My professional life is pretty incredible, but my personal life has been a war zone for the last few years. My ex-wife, Bridget, made sure of that, and I’m afraid our only daughter, Simone, is the biggest casualty. She’s my weak spot—the jugular Banner goes for whenever she really wants me to do something.

And it works every damn time.

“I’ll think about it.” I catch the closing door with my arm and walk into the lobby of my new apartment building.

“Just go to the party,” Banner says. “Hang out with Jean Pierre. Have fun. You’re rich as hell. An eligible bachelor. It’s New York. Live a little. And don’t be all growly for the next three months.”

I am growly. She’s right. I present a controlled front to the world, but it feels like I’ve been angry for the last three years. And the control it requires for me to not show the world that anger, that frustration, is exhausting.

“I’m sorry, B.” I make eye contact with a man parked outside my apartment building leaning against a black SUV.

“Mr. Ross?” he asks.

I nod and climb in the back seat when he opens the door.

“Chelsea Piers?” he asks, voice quiet and polite, no doubt because I’m on the phone. I nod again and raise the partition separating us. Last thing I need is some driver selling stories about my private life.