LONG SHOT: (A HOOPS Novel)

by Ryan, Kennedy

I nod, my stomach muscles clenching while we wait. What if the baby isn’t okay? What if the baby is okay? The two possibilities send my life spiraling in radically different directions, and my fear spirals with them. To distract myself, I tap the unknown number alert and see a voicemail. I open the voicemail and put it on speaker.

  “Iris, hi,” a vaguely familiar, deep male voice says from my phone. “It’s Jared Foster.”

  My eyes go wide.

  “The internship,” I whisper-hiss at Lotus, who stretches her eyes wide back at me.

  “I hope you’re feeling better since the last time we saw each other.” Jared’s voice holds a touch of humor. “I know you felt bad about what happened. Don’t. My dry cleaning was tax-deductible.”

  Even though I’m not in the same room with Jared, embarrassment burns my cheeks. Vomit. Seriously?

  “I’ll just get right to it,” Jared continues. “Richter is offering you one of the internship spots. We’d expect you in Chicago in the next month, and we’d need you ready to travel pretty much right away. There’s several deals we’re about to close, and you’d have to jump right in.”

  His low chuckle interrupts the list of expectations. “You said you were ready to work, to do whatever it took,” he says. “I hope you meant it. Give me a call so we can talk details. Congratulations.”

  My fingers tremble over the phone, and I immediately want to replay the message. I’ve been anxious, biting my lips all day, but now they stretch into a wide grin. In the midst of so many things going wrong, something is going so right.

  “Oh, my gosh.” Lotus squeals, her eyes lit with as much joy as she’d have for her own good fortune. “This is amazing, Bo.”

  “I know,” I squeal back. “He told me it would take a couple months to decide, but I had almost given up—”

  The door swings open in the middle of my sentence. The doctor walks in, followed by Caleb, who lowers the phone from his ear and slides it into his pocket, obviously just finishing a call.

  It all comes crashing back. I’m in the hospital, three months pregnant, and bleeding heavily. What felt like the greatest moment of my life now feels like a cruel joke—a carrot dangled in front of me and snatched away. Lotus grips my hand again, lining our rings up and giving my fingers a reassuring squeeze.

  “We’ve looked at everything, Iris.” Dr. Rimmel’s eyes are kind, and her expression is serious. “You have a rather large subchorionic hematoma.”

  “English, Doc,” Lotus says with a wry look. “No speak medical-ese.”

  Dr. Rimmel’s lips twitch, and I’m so glad Lotus is here, or I’d be going crazy. Caleb comes to sit on the bed beside me, his concern and frustration all over his face.

  “Yeah, what’s that actually mean?” he demands. “We’ve been waiting forever.”

  Where Lotus’s comment lightened the atmosphere, Caleb’s injects so much weight, Dr. Rimmel’s slight smile disappears, and her shoulders square.

  “To put it simply,” Dr. Rimmel says, giving Caleb a pointed look, “the placenta detaches from the uterus, which causes clots and the bleeding we’re seeing.”

  “The baby?” I force myself to ask, not sure what I want to hear her say. “Is the baby okay?’

  “Yes, the baby’s fine, but we need to put you on bed rest to make sure everything stays fine.”

  “Bed rest?” I croak. “I … like full-on stuck in the bed? For how long?”

  “As long as it takes, Iris,” Caleb interjects sternly. “We’ll follow instructions to the letter.”

  We don’t have to lie in bed for God knows how long. I do. Of course, I’ll do whatever the doctor recommends, but Caleb has no right to be cavalier about my life, my time, my body.

  I bite my tongue because this isn’t the time to assert myself. I need to understand what is required and set Caleb straight later.

  “For how long?” I ask again.

  “We’ll start with full home bed rest,” Dr. Rimmel says. “And assess in a few weeks.”

  The word home hits me hard. I have to be out of my on-campus apartment. The university has extended as much grace as possible, and I’ve got a few prospects, but nothing in stone.

  Full home bed rest?

  I don’t have a home, much less a bed to rest in.

  “I’ll take care of her and the baby.” Caleb glances at me. “We’ll get your things moved into my place right away.”

  A sense of helplessness washes over me. I clench the hospital gown in my fists. I hate feeling out of control in my own life, like an actor on someone else’s stage, my every move directed.

  “It’s not just bed rest, but pelvic rest, too.” She gives Caleb a stern look. “That means low activity and no sex.”

  Caleb’s face falls, but for me it’s a little bit of a silver lining. I haven’t wanted to have sex for weeks. I chalked it up to hormones, but maybe it’s Caleb’s high-handedness that’s been turning me off. At least this baby and this damn bed rest give me a good excuse to abstain.

  I hate to think this way, but when I glance at my phone and remember Jared’s voicemail about Chicago, no sex feels like the only good thing coming out of this. MiMi’s talisman ring winks at me from my lap. I don’t know if it’s working or not. For now, the baby is protected, but my plans for the future are in definite jeopardy.

  8

  August

  Make the best of a bad situation.

  That’s not completely fair or accurate. I’m living in San Diego, a city with near-perfect weather year-round. I signed a thirty-million-dollar NBA contract. You’ll find countless dead hoop dreams in every high school gym and on any neighborhood playground. I’m one lucky son of a bitch.

  I get it.

  But beginning on a team that probably won’t have a winning season for years sucks. I’m already thinking ahead to the end of my rookie contract and how I’ll get out of San Diego. Coach Kirby’s voice in my head calls me spoiled, ungrateful, and a pussy. He would never tolerate this kind of defeatist attitude. And there are some plusses here.

  For one thing, I’m playing with a veteran who knows how to win at this level. Kenan Ross is a beast. I’ve admired his game for years. I watch him during our first team meeting and have to admit it’s a great opportunity to play with him, even if I’m not sure he wants to be here either. He left a contending team, who won a championship just a few years ago, to come here and start from scratch.

  “In my nose or in my teeth?” he asks under his breath while our head coach reiterates the privilege we have of building a team from the bottom.

  “Huh?” I shoot him a perplexed look. “What’re you talking about?”

  “You checking me out like a chick,” he says with a crooked grin, his teeth startlingly white against his dark skin. “So either you wanna ask me out …” He gives me a quick side-eye. “And the answer is hell no, by the way.”

  I snort-snicker, glancing up to make sure Coach hasn’t noticed us not paying attention.

  “Or there’s a booger in my nose, something in my teeth.”

  “Uh … neither,” I assure him. “Nose and teeth all clear, and rest assured, you’re a little hairier than my usual.”

  “Bigger, too, I assume,” he says with an easy grin.

  Dude is huge. At six foot seven inches, he’s one of the best power forwards in the game. And swole with it. He’s as hard as marble, and at thirty years old, in the best shape of his life. He picked up the nickname “Glad” in college, short for gladiator. He throws bows down low, and he’s known for his aggressiveness in the paint. He battles for every possession, goes after every rebound. He’s an excellent two-way player, defense and offense, and as someone who has been accused of needing work in the defense department, I have much to learn from him.

  Iris busted my balls about defense.

  Fuck. I promised myself I wouldn’t think about her. She’s pregnant with another man’s baby. A jerk’s baby.

  “Now you all pouty,” Kenan says from the side of his mouth. “Okay. I�
�ll go out with you. Damn.”

  I chuckle and shake my head.

  “Keep your pity date, man.” My smile disappears. “Though I was thinking about this chick I promised myself I wouldn’t think about anymore.”

  “Yeah.” Kenan’s smile fades as fast as mine did. “I can relate.”

  I’m an idiot. Kenan requested a trade when his wife cheated with one of his teammates on his last team. “Shit, Glad,” I say, inwardly kicking myself. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s aight.” His smile is manufactured, nothing like the natural one of a few minutes ago. “She’s not worth discussing. Neither is he.”

  “But she was worth leaving a championship team to come here?” I ask.

  “What’s wrong with here?” Kenan asks, his brows lifted. “I’m making the same money.”

  “Yeah, well some of us don’t have rings yet,” I say, hoping I keep the bitterness out of my voice. “So money’s not everything.”

  “What you thinking about rings for already?” He blows out a puff of disgusted air. “It’s only October. Season one. You just got here, Rook. You got a lot to learn and earn. You think because you were the man on your campus, you’ll come in here taking names and leaving your mark and shit?”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “It is that.” Kenan’s eyes go hard. “I’ve played with entitled pricks before. Don’t be one.”

  I bite back my defensive response and leave space for him to say more if he wants. He’s right. I have been acting like an entitled prick.

  “How many guys from your high school are playing pro ball?” he demands.

  “Just me,” I reply quietly.

  “And from your college team? Any of them in the NBA?”

  “Nah,” I admit with a shake of my head, remembering all the great players who just weren’t great enough to be here. “None.”

  “Right, so quit thinking about what you don’t have and be grateful for what you do. You gotta pay some dues.” He stands when the coach dismisses us and tells us to report to the gym. “Starting now.” He points to the gym bag at his feet.

  “That’s you,” he says.

  “Uh … excuse me?” I point to my bag a few feet way. “No, that’s my bag over there.”

  “I know that, Rook.” His grin is back, and this one is not only natural, but at my expense. “Since you’ve been here all of a day, but already think you should be winning rings, let’s see you carry bags for someone who actually has a ring.”

  “Oh. You want me to …” My voice trails off as he walks away, leaving his bag for me to haul.

  Another veteran player heads over and hands me his bag.

  “Glad said you got this, Rook.” He smirks and drops the bag at my feet.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “This you?” another vet asks, dropping his bag and walking toward the gym.

  “Um … no, I was just trying to tell Glad that—”

  “Thanks, Rook,” he says and walks away.

  By the time I make it into the gym, I’m struggling with seven bags, none of them mine. I drop them unceremoniously by the benches and jerk the sweatshirt over my head to join my teammates for practice.

  “I wondered what was taking you so long,” Kenan says, bouncing the ball in a dribbling drill.

  “So are you, like, hazing me or something?” I try to keep my voice light, but maybe I do resent that stunt a little.

  Kenan stops dribbling to look me in the eye. “Everybody knows what you can do, Rook. We may be vets, but Deck is building this team around you. You’re young, but you’re the franchise player. We get that,” he says quietly. “But when you’re in the trenches with somebody, you don’t just need to know what they can do. You need to know who they are. I wanna know more about your character than I do about your game right now.”

  His penetrating stare assesses me. “So yeah, you’ll carry bags for vets from time to time. Nothing wrong with staying humble before all the rings start rolling in.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” I grudgingly concede, offering the smallest grin.

  “Count yourself lucky.” He takes a shot that’s nothing but net. “They made me clean jock straps.”

  “Shit.” I twist my face in disgust. “Ball sweat?”

  “Ball sweat.”

  Give me bags any day.

  9

  August

  Life doesn’t always deliver on its promises, and some dreams taste sweetest before they come true.

  Such is my NBA career so far. It’s February, halfway through my rookie season, and we have the sub-five hundred year you’d expect from an expansion team. No way we’ll win half our games at the rate we’re going. Kenan keeps reminding me we’re just starting out and to be patient.

  Another thing that’s overrated? The all-you-can-fuck pussy buffet. I admit I’ve taken advantage of it. Had a threesome or six. Hell, I was with four girls at once a few weeks ago. I think one chick just sucked my thumb because the other three had all the vital bases covered. It’s a rite of passage for most professional athletes, the overindulged dick. Wilt Chamberlain claimed he slept with twenty thousand women. I just have to wonder did it get old this quickly? Did he lie in bed some nights, a woman on each side, and feel utterly alone? Did he think about one particular girl while he was fucking all the others?

  ’Cause that’s my present dilemma.

  Caleb and I have only met on court once this season. It was my best individual performance so far because our mutual dislike brings out my best play. It’s a team sport, though, and his team, my hometown Stingers, had a better night and are the better team. We lost in overtime by two points.

  Caleb and I barely spoke that night. I forced myself to shake his hand before leaving the court because Coach Kirby would ream my ass for bad sportsmanship if I didn’t, but I couldn’t look him in the eye. I would have lost my shit if I’d seen his smug satisfaction. He’s on the team I wanted to play for in my hometown. He’s got the girl I can’t get out of my head. News travels fast on the NBA circuit, and a few months ago, the golden boy having a baby was all anyone wanted to talk about.

  Every time I think of them having a kid, building a life together, I want to punch a hole through the wall.

  Or through Caleb’s face. Whatever’s closer.

  It’s All-Star Weekend, and by some miracle, I was voted into Sunday’s All-Star game, albeit third string, but I hadn’t expected even that as a rookie. Of course, Caleb was voted in, too. I just can’t escape that guy. The media is carrying the “rivalry” on from high school and college, perpetuating it every chance they get. They’ve created this narrative of us being in a two-man race for Rookie of the Year. I don’t even want my name in the same sentence as his, and people can’t seem to talk about me without talking about him. At least he’s not in tonight’s three-point contest.

  I have a couple hours before I need to show up for my next All-Star commitment, an appearance at a local homeless shelter. The league is big on players giving back. I love the city of San Diego and will definitely do some charitable work there, but I’ve already spoken with the league’s charity coordinators about doing a few things in the community where I grew up. Baltimore may be Caleb’s team, but it’s my town. My childhood was there. My family is there, my history, and my friends. That core group of people nurtured me to help me get where I am, and I want to contribute there and to the city that drafted me.

  Right now, in the madness of All-Star Weekend, I just need a minute to myself. There will be cameras at the homeless shelter this afternoon. I’ve been signing autographs and taking pictures with fans all day. There will be interviews on court and off tonight at the three-point contest. Everywhere I go, I have to be on, and for just a minute, I don’t want to be. I rush down a back hall of the arena where the festivities are being held.

  Glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one sees me, I try a few doors, all of which are locked. The knob on the last door turns easily, and the door swings ope
n into a dim room, a lamp in the corner providing soft light.

  Perfect. Maybe I can even grab a few winks. I sink gratefully into an overstuffed recliner, pushing the button to elevate my feet.

  A soft sigh from a chair in the corner startles me. I squint, visually picking through the shadows and find the last person I expected to see.

  “Iris?” I ask disbelievingly.

  “Shhhh!” She raises an index finger to her lips.

  God, her lips.

  I’d forgotten how full they are, how wide and luscious. I’d forgotten that her eyes hold a dozen colors hostage and that her hair is a pitch-dark fall of silk. Maybe I didn’t forget as much as didn’t allow myself to remember—I blocked the memory of how this woman is exactly what I would wish for. My imagination, my memory, did her no justice.

  She gestures to a blanket-covered lump at her chest.

  “Sorry,” she whispers. “Didn’t mean to shush you. She just fell asleep, and I didn’t want to wake her.”

  Her.

  For the last few months, I’ve thought of the baby as Caleb’s spawn. Now that I’m in the same room with Iris feeding her baby, I can only think of the baby as … hers.

  Feeding.

  “Oh, shit,” I mutter, lowering the footrest. “I’m sorry. You’re …” I gesture to the baby on her chest. “And I’m just sitting here like—”

  “It’s okay,” she interrupts, smiling. “I’m decent. She’s finally sleeping, and I could use a few minutes of adult company.” She licks her lips and then bites the corner of her mouth. “Stay.”

  Even though she asks, I know I should leave. Not to preserve her modesty. She’s right. The blanket completely covers her chest and the sleeping baby. I should leave because I want to stay too badly. Because after more than a year of not seeing her, I have a million things to ask her and a million things I want to share. We’re different people than we were when we first met. I’ve signed a huge contract. I’m on a box of cereal out there somewhere and have been animated in a video game. My life is completely new. And Iris has a baby now, for God’s sake. There’s a part of me, though, that will always think of her as the gorgeous girl swearing at the television in a sports dive, sipping flat beer and pulling for her Lakers. We’re different, but I wonder if the quick, deep intimacy we shared that night is still there. If it’s still the same.