Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(7)

God, I miss him. Thinking about the wisdom he always shared with me, sometimes welcome, sometimes not, sears me even a year after his death.

“Son, fuck her, but don’t keep her. The two of you are oil and water, and will make each other miserable.”

He said that when he met Bridget.

“You weren’t wrong,” I mutter to no one but myself. That was probably why, even after more than a decade of trying, Bridget and I didn’t work out. She craves the limelight. I shun it. I believe in fidelity. She had an affair with one of my teammates, a supposed close friend. Just minor philosophical differences.

Now she has the audacity to join this new reality show Baller Bae . . . I need to stop thinking about this, or I’ll be walking into that party growling and scowling, in direct opposition to Banner’s orders.

We drive through the city, which hums with some force I’ve never experienced anywhere else. I can’t quite place it, but it feels like potential energy—like you could toss a ball from any spot here and it would travel around the world. No wonder people come here to dream.

The partition rolls down. “We’re here, Mr. Ross,” the driver says.

I peel off several bills and offer them through the opening.

“Oh, it’s taken care of,” he says, even though he’s eyeing the cash.

“I take care of myself.”

I give him the money, flash the briefest of smiles, and climb out. While I walk toward the massive boat moored to the pier, I rehearse social cues like smiling, nodding, and feigning interest. A tall dark-haired man and a woman with a snowy-white bob stand at a velvet rope greeting party guests approaching the boat.

“Mr. Ross,” she says with an accent I can’t quite place. “I’m Vale, Jean Pierre’s assistant. We spoke on the phone.”

“Oh, hi.” I accept her hand with a smile. “Thanks for sending the car.”

“No problem,” she says warmly. “And this is my husband, Keir.”

“How do you do?” he asks.

“Fine. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Mr. Ross!” a man says from a few feet away.

He claps his hands once, and his eyes roam from my shoes to my head. I have no idea if this short man with dark hair, an open smile and the beginnings of a paunch is Jean Pierre or not, but he’s wearing an ascot and has a French accent, so there’s a good chance he could be.

“Or should I call you Gladiator?” he all but purrs.

“Don’t do that.” Judging by the look on his face, that came out wrong. “What I mean is my teammates call me that, but not many other people do. Kenan is fine, and you’re Jean Pierre?”

“Yes, well my”—he does air quotes and winks—“’teammates’ call me JP, and you’re welcome to as well.”

“Okay. JP then.”

A pretty blond woman walks up beside JP, her blue eyes assessing.

“Well hello there,” she says. “I’m a huge fan of the game, and you in particular. We’re so glad you could make it.”

JP frowns at her, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because she keeps staring and batting fake lashes at me. Nothing against fake lashes. I just don’t like it when the woman blinking them is fake, too. I’ve had one of those already.

“Kenan, this is Amanda,” JP says. “One of my favorite stylists.”

“One of your favorites?” She affects an affronted look. Or maybe it’s real. I can’t tell.

“Don’t be a greedy little so and so,” JP says, diffusing the chastisement with a smile.

“You’re the last guest to arrive,” Keir says smoothly, unclamping the rope and gesturing for us to walk the short board to the floating boat.

The yacht is huge, and everyone seems to be spread over two decks. A DJ plays everything from house music to hip-hop, to 80s and 90s pop. Servers bearing trays laden with food glide between clusters of guests. We’re moving so slowly on the water I barely feel it, but the pier has drifted farther away every time I glance back. The skyline, dotted with glittering buildings against the velvety night, keeps distracting me from the conversation.

“You hungry?” Amanda asks. She’d take a bite of me if I was down, which I’m not. I’ve had enough experience with man-eaters to last a lifetime. She’ll find someone else to devour. I’m sure any reasonably attractive millionaire will do.

“Uh, nah. I’ve eaten.” I shake my head and tap my leg with twitching fingers. My workout regimen has been thrown off the last few days transitioning into my new place and moving. I can tell I have a lot of pent-up energy. They probably don’t have anything I can eat anyway. The key to me playing as long as I want to and going out on my terms is playing smarter, not harder. Smarter means living like a monk year-round, if you’re a monk who works out twice a day, soaks in ice baths, and can still have sex.

That could be why I’m twitching. Bridget and I may have been on opposite sides of every issue, but we slept in the same bed, and shame on me, I fucked her long after I stopped loving her. But my vows were sacred, at least to me, and she was my only option. No sex was not an option.

And yet . . . here I stand with twitching fingers and pent-up energy. I could definitely use the summer fuck Banner suggested.

“Drink?” JP asks.