Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(96)
Iris grits her teeth and sits up to push as Dr. Matthews walks in with a team to prep for the C-section.
“What’s going . . .” She checks between Iris’s legs and peeks back up, beaming. “That’s what I like to see. Not sure what you did, Mrs. West, but you’re at eight centimeters.”
“I am?” Iris asks, a smile breaking across her pretty face like sunshine. “How? I didn’t do anything.”
“I guess your body just needed a few more minutes to recover and move things along,” she says with a wink. “You had a power surge. Now let’s push.”
Iris is on her second hard push, and the scream is bloodcurdling. I’m not sure how much more I can take. For as long as I can remember, her pain has been my pain, and my pain has been hers. Tears prick my eyes, but I never release her hand, even when my fingers go numb from the pressure. She unleashes another screech when August barrels through the door.
“I’m here, baby,” he says, rushing to her side.
I start to move so August can take my place, but Iris won’t let go. She shakes her head that I’m not to leave.
“Hopscotch,” she whispers tearfully. “Don’t leave me, cuz.”
We’ve always been there for each other, done what the other needed, and that word has been our touchstone through the hardest, darkest things life had in store for us. Emotion scalds my throat, but I manage to nod, determined to withstand the bone-crushing grip for as long as it takes, for as long as she needs. She’ll do this for me one day.
Our eyes hold and our gris-gris rings lock together like our lives, our destinies, have remained entwined. It could be my imagination, but as she bears down and squeezes my hand for one final agonizing push, I feel that power surge the doctor mentioned. The power in our veins passed between two little girls in the Lower Ninth. We held it in a field of rotting cane, even when we were torn apart. It flows between us now through years and heartache and unconditional love. The power of an unbroken line.
We are the magic.
35
Kenan
Is it really only the pre-season?
I sink into the ice tub I keep at the Waves arena. Even though it was only an exhibition game, I gave it my all.
There are definitely times when we have to ease up and play conservatively. Tonight wasn’t one of those. Cliff, my one-time friend and teammate, bounced around the NBA like a rubber ball kicked all over the playground after I left Houston. This is probably his last year, and despite winning one ring with us, he hasn’t prepared for retirement as well as I have. He hasn’t had the career I had or the success. He doesn’t have the money.
But he had my wife right under my nose for weeks, and we played his team tonight. No way I was taking an L from that motherfucker. It’s not even about Bridget. It hasn’t been for a long time.
The first time I faced Cliff after everything came out, people thought I might fight him on court, or erupt in violence. I did the opposite. I froze him out. I froze them all out, encasing myself and my game in a wall of ice. Many in my position would have taken the fine for not being available to the press that night. Not me. Every time a reporter asked a question about Cliff, about Bridget, their affair, I just stared at them in wintry silence until they sat down and the next question came.
Now reporters know better than to ask questions about my personal life. They haven’t for the last two years. Depending on how much of our dirty laundry Bridget decides to air on her reality show, that could change.
The door opens, and I glance over my shoulder to see our president of basketball operations, MacKenzie Decker, stroll in. He recently turned forty. An injury forced him into retirement a few years ago, earlier than he would have liked, but I doubt he misses those last seasons he could have had. He’ll be first ballot Hall of Fame, and after just a few years out of the league, he’s already a front office exec poised for partial ownership of the Waves. Not bad.
“’Sup, Deck?” I ask, sinking deeper into the icy water.
“I was coming to ask you that,” he says, taking a seat near the tub. His year-round California tan, bourbon-colored eyes, and thick dirty-blond hair make him a treat for the ladies. He’s devoted to only one woman, though, his girlfriend, Avery Hughes, a sports anchor based in New York.
“How’s your girl?” I lean over to adjust the setting on the ice tub.
“Still mine,” he answers with a swashbuckler’s grin.
“You gonna make an honest woman of her soon?”
“Oh, she’s already honest,” Deck returns. “But if you mean am I going to marry her . . .” He leaves the words hanging in the air, making me wonder as much as the media has about their relationship. Deck and Avery have been pretty private about it until recently.
“Then between you and me,” he says, the humor fading from his eyes and something more sober taking its place, “very soon. I can’t keep doing this. I need her with me.”
Avery is one of the most popular anchors on SportsCo, a large sports channel, second only to ESPN.
“Her contract is up for renegotiation this year,” Deck confides, leaning back in the chair. “She’s requesting the show record in LA instead of New York.”
“Bruh, that would be fantastic.”
“Yeah. This long-distance shit gets old quick.”