Long Shot: A Forbidden Basketball Standalone Romance (HOOPS Book 1)

There have been days I’ve wanted to hurt myself. Maybe even hurt my baby. I’m an awful person, but an honest one. All I can do is hope these feelings aren’t who I really am. I hope this isn’t the mother I will be forever, but this is who I am today.

I read the lines I wrote weeks ago. My counselor recommended I write my unfiltered thoughts down in a journal. That advice came with a prescription that had me feeling better about life in general relatively quickly.

All-Star Weekend was a turning point in so many ways. I was feeling low that day in the room designated for nursing mothers. My conversation with August, his suggestion about post-partum depression, opened me to the possibility that maybe there was more to what I was feeling than just my own selfishness. Than just resenting my circumstances. It prompted the conversation with my doctor that has led me out of that dark, desolate place.

I close the journal and lock it in the nightstand on my side of the bed. I’m not that woman anymore. It has only been a few weeks, but Sarai, my princess, has shifted to her rightful place—the center of my world.

“You’re mommy’s princess, aren’t you?” I coo down to her, going through the motions of changing her diaper. I nuzzle the soft pads of her tiny feet, eliciting a little snicker from the gorgeous baby on my bed. Maybe I’m a biased mama, but I think she’s the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.

But August thought so, too.

When August walked in, I was shocked but also so pleased to see him. So pleased I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind. Those charged moments when the blanket fell from my breast and I gaped at him like a hussy instead of immediately covering myself. I was frozen with shock, and if I’m honest . . . God, I hate admitting this even to myself. The way he looked at me, so hungry and reverent, I just wanted more of it.

When I saw August, I was still carrying fifteen pounds of baby weight. My hair hadn’t had a good condition and trim in weeks. The bare minimum makeup I’d forced myself to apply was long gone, but he’d looked at me like I was a goddess. Like he’d eat me whole if he got close enough.

And I’d wanted him close enough. So much closer. My nipples stiffen under my T-shirt, recalling the heat simmering between us for those electric seconds.

This is not good.

I have to get these thoughts under control.

I’ve deliberately avoided the sports sites I usually stalk and have tuned out the basketball world as much as I can. I don’t want to know about August—don’t want to hear about who he’s dating or how well he’s playing or how his life is just perfect.

Because mine isn’t.

Besides my daughter, whom I don’t think I could love any more than I do now, my life is in shambles. I’m living in a city with no friends or family, completely dependent on my baby’s daddy, whom I’m not sure I love.

There. I said it. At least in my head I’ve said it.

I don’t think I love Caleb.

How could I feel what I did with August in that room—how could I think about him so often—and love Caleb? I mean really be in love with Caleb? I refused to believe my heart is that fickle.

I’m not sure Caleb loves me either. I’m pretty sure he’s cheating on me, but I can’t make myself care, much less ask. Even though my new OBGYN found a birth control that works with my body, I didn’t tell Caleb. If he’s out there cheating on me, he’ll wear condoms. Further evidence that I cannot be in love with him.

A snippet of gossip penetrated my social media boycott the other day. Apparently, August has been seen with tennis star Pippa Kim on more than one occasion, and everyone’s speculating that they’re dating. It’s unreasonable, but I resent that. It makes me . . . angry is the wrong word. I don’t have a right to anger, but I don’t like it. Whatever this feeling is, it burns in the bottom of my belly all day like a smoldering coal.

I should be jealous of the numbers I find scrawled on slips of paper in the pockets of Caleb’s pants, but I’m not.

My phone rings, interrupting the plans that have cycled through my head constantly lately.

I glance at the screen. Lo is the only person I really talk to anymore, besides my mother from time to time.

“Hey, Lo,” I say, propping Sarai on my hip and crossing the heated floors barefoot. I certainly won’t have heated floors and a mansion with a parking garage full of cars if I leave Caleb, but I’d have my life back and some semblance of control over my existence.

“Hey, Bo. What the hell is up?” Lo’s voice is half-amused, half-irritated. “You forget your girl or what?”

“Course not.” I place Sarai in her high chair and pull ingredients out to prepare her lunch in the food processor. “Just busy being a mom, I guess.”

“I get that, and you know how much I love my princess, but I’m feeling a little neglected.”

“I’m pretty sure of the two of us, you have the more demanding life. Every time I call, you’re in some fashion show or at a shoot.”

“True that,” Lo says with an unabashedly satisfied chuckle. “This life is fly.”

I roll my eyes, a smile tweaking my lips.

“You need to figure your shit out, too,” Lo says sharply. “You can’t stay in this rut forever.”

I was excited about bouncing my plans off her like we always have, but her comment stifles my enthusiasm.

“Rut?” I ask. “You call having a baby and devoting myself to her a rut?”

“Don’t go getting all sensitive,” she says teasingly, though I’m not in the mood to be teased. “You never leave that big ol’ house. You haven’t made any friends there. You aren’t getting your career back on track.”

“I will,” I say with more confidence than I feel.

“Don’t let Caleb run all over you,” Lo plows on. “There is only one thing I take lying down, and that’s the good dick. Even then I’ll probably end up on top.”

Her audacious chuckle from the other end has me chuckling, too. God, I miss her. I miss this.

“I’ve met Caleb,” Lo says. “I doubt very seriously you’re getting the good dick.”

“Oh my God. You did not just say that.”

“Oh, yes I did, honey. I gets the good dick no matter what is going on. That’s a priority. And I’m not talking about that rich-man dick.”

“Ex . . . cuse me?” Laughter defies my good intentions and barges out of my mouth.

“I’m just saying I haven’t met a rich man who can really fuck, ya know?”

“Um, no, I don’t know.”

“Well, Caleb is the only man you’ve ever slept with, so you’ve only had rich dick. You don’t have anything to compare it to. Gimme some of that broke dick. That unemployed, still-living-with-his-mama, sleeping-on-her-couch dick.”

I’m laughing uncontrollably now, and it only spurs her on more.

“That phone-just-got-turned-off dick,” Lo continues, warming to her subject. “Gimme a man who grew up on food stamps and never knew where the next meal was coming from. The rich ones fuck like they’re entitled to your pussy. Fuck me like I’m survival. Like your life depends on my shit. That’s some grateful dick, right there.”

“And yet I’ve never known you to date anyone like what you’re describing,” I remind her.

“Date?” Lo asks, her voice indignant. “Who said anything about dating? I’m talking about fucking. I only deal with those dudes between the sheets and for as long as it takes to give him a ride to the check-cashing store the next morning. You don’t fall for broke dick. Honey, you just get it while you can and ride it while it’s good.”

“God, you never change, do you?” I ask, feeling more lighthearted than I have since the last time we spoke.

“I do change.” Some of the humor leaves Lo’s voice. “Actually, a lot is changing. That’s why I’m calling.”

“Oh, yeah?” I ask absently, dumping steamed sweet potatoes and green beans into the food processor. “What’s up?”

“I have the opportunity of a lifetime!” The excitement Lo has been holding back bursts across the line, giving me pause.

“What kind of opportunity?”

“You know I hustle, right?” Lo cackles. “Like, take side jobs to make ends meet? Well, I was on this shoot for a friend who was paying me in pizza, and Jean Pierre Louis, that new designer everyone is raving about? You know him?”

I glance around my gilded cage, the walls of Caleb’s house that basically define my existence. My T-shirt is stained from the peaches and peas Sarai had for breakfast. My hair hasn’t been washed in days, and I smell strongly of spoiled milk.

“I haven’t exactly been keeping up with the latest in fashion,” I reply dryly.

“Oh.” Lo sounds deflated for approximately a quarter of a second before bouncing back to full-force enthusiasm. “Well he’s the bomb, and I didn’t realize it was his shoot. I threw some of MiMi’s French on him, followed instructions like a good little minion, and kept him cracking up the whole time. At the end, he offered me a job in his New York atelier. Can you believe that?”

The information zooms through my mind at warp speed, bits of it clinging to the sides of my brain while some of it doesn’t stick at all.

“But . . .” I flounder a little. “But you have one more semester left at Spelman. Is this a summer job?”

“No, it starts right away. I can finish school anytime.” Lo’s energy crackles even over the phone. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“It’s a bit of a risk, isn’t it?” I ask tentatively, not wanting to upset her but feeling like I need to offer a level-headed perspective. “I mean, you spend one afternoon with this guy and you uproot your whole life, all your plans, for him?”

“You mean the way you uprooted your whole life and all your plans to follow Caleb?” Her voice comes sharp and pricks me. It’s quiet for a few moments as I find my way in this foreign land where Lo and I may be at odds.

“It’s not the same,” I say quietly. “Our situations are not the same, and you know it.”

“No, they’re not,” Lo fires back. “Because unlike you, I won’t hand my life over to some man. I’m taking this opportunity by the horns and following my dreams. I would never allow myself to end up trapped in somebody else’s plans for me.”

“Trapped?” I cannon back. “What are you saying? I should have had an abortion?”

“You know I love Sarai.” She pauses. “But I would’ve been more careful about what was going in my lady business and made sure he was wrapped up tight.”

“I’m not the first woman this has happened to, Lo. You know condoms aren’t a hundred percent.”

“I know, but . . .” The quiet on the other end swells with her hesitation.

“But what?”

“I don’t trust Caleb.”

I abandon the vegetables altogether, my hands dropping and falling limply at my side. “Did someone say something to you? You heard something about him?” I ask, dread gathering in my stomach.

“No, nothing like that,” she says quickly. “I saw a shadow.”

My head tilts as I try to discern what the hell this means. “A shadow? I don’t understand.”

“On his . . . soul,” she says, her voice lowered to a whisper. “I think I saw a shadow on his soul.”

“What do you-you . . .” I can’t even stutter right. This is so ridiculous. “What the hell does that even mean? A shadow on his soul? He’s the father of my child, Lo. This is serious. It’s not time for some voodoo shit you caught from MiMi.”

“Maybe if you’d taken the time to learn some of that voodoo shit,” Lotus says, her voice crackling with disapproval, “you wouldn’t be with him right now.”

“Look, you keep that superstitious crap to yourself. I love MiMi just like you do, but—”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Lo scoffs. “You barely know her. Your comments prove that.”

My hurt swells and builds until it makes my eyes wet and my jaw clench. “Just because I didn’t live with her like you did doesn’t mean I don’t love her.”

“Whatever.” A door slams shut between us. We rarely talk about the circumstances which led to Lo leaving New Orleans and living with MiMi. I know it’s a sensitive issue. How could it not be? But all of a sudden, it feels like we should have talked about this more. It feels like something our family swept under the rug for years is about to break us.

“Lo, wait. This whole conversation has gotten out of control. Let’s . . .” I don’t know what.

“Let’s what, Bo? Start over?” Bitterness cracks Lotus’s voice. “Some things don’t get do-overs. Not some forty-year-old man taking your virginity before you even have your first period. Not your own mother choosing him over you and shipping you off to the bayou to live with your great-grandmother.”

That incident will probably haunt us both for the rest of our lives. It was the thing that took Lo away from New Orleans. She’d fight to her last breath for me, and I’d do the same for her, but I can’t form words to soothe her deep wounds. I don’t know what I can say to get us where we were before this awful conversation happened.

“But the joke’s on Mama,” Lo continues with a harsh laugh, “because getting away from her was the best thing that ever happened to me. I learned a lot that I never would have if I’d stayed in the Lower Ninth. Now, I can see when a man has a shadow on his soul, and I’m telling you that I saw a shadow. Do with that whatever you please.”

“It just doesn’t make sense to me, Lo,” I say, pleading for her to understand.

“Something’s off. I don’t know what it is, but it is, and I, for one, am not gonna sit by and watch you barter yourself the way our mamas did.”

I swallow the hot knot of hurt that almost chokes me. “Wow. Is that what you think I’m doing?” I ask, my voice pitched so low I barely hear myself. “What our mothers did? You think I’m like them now?”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” Lo sighs heavily. “I do think you could have done things a little differently, but I get it. It’s hard to think of doing things on your own.”

“That’s not why I’m here, Lo.” My voice assumes a hard edge. “Caleb is Sarai’s father.”

“Yeah, but not yours,” Lo snaps. “So why have you allowed him to dictate everything? To manipulate you into this situation?”

“Manipulate?” An outraged breath puffs from my chest. “I haven’t let him manipulate me. You were there. You know I was on bed rest. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t even leave the house. I had nowhere to go.”

“You don’t see it.” Her words ring bitter. “Just like your mother never saw it. Just like mine never did either.”

“How dare you compare me to them?” Every word lands somewhere it shouldn’t. On my heart. Through my soul.

“How are you different? Living off a man’s wealth to keep a roof over your head and clothes on your back. Fucking some rich man so he’ll provide for you.”

“Everything I’ve done . . . or not done . . . has been for Sarai, and you know it. I had so few choices. I’m doing the best I can.”

“I know, Bo. I wish . . .” Her voice peters out, and I can feel some of the enmity we’ve flung at each other over the last few minutes draining away. “I wish you had gotten away from them, too. I hope they didn’t influence you more than you realized.”

“That’s an awful thing to say.” Hurt cracks my voice.

“I know you would never choose him over Sarai,” Lo rushes to say. “I don’t mean it that way. I meant—”

“I think we should end this,” I interrupt. “This conversation is only getting worse, and we may not be on speaking terms by the end of it. Drop out of school. Move to New York for the atelier or whatever you call it.”

The silence between us is unlike any we’ve shared. It’s a wall of invisible bricks, layered with the mortar of our hurtful words.

“Okay,” Lo finally replies. “Just remember if you need me, if you need anything, hopscotch.”

Tears prick my eyes when she says that word. She could never get hopscotch right for some reason when we were little girls, so I helped her. I’d hop first, and she’d hop behind me, mimicking my steps until she got it herself. Silly as it seemed, it worked, and long after she could fly across the chalked squares by herself, “hopscotch” was our code for when we needed each other.

I’ll never forget the bloodcurdling scream bellowing through the air at our family reunion. It wasn’t my name she called when that man was on top of her. In her panic, she yelled hopscotch, and I ran. Before I saw them, I heard his grunts. And I heard Lo saying one word over and over.

Hopscotch. Hopscotch. Hopscotch.

I swore then, no one would ever hurt Lo again, not if I could help it. MiMi protected her for years living on the bayou, but when she moved to Atlanta for college, I took up the protective mantle personally. We haven’t actually said the word “hopscotch” in a long time, so hearing it from Lo now, when I’m the one hurting her and she’s the one hurting me, I have no idea what to do.

I mumble goodbye and rush off the phone. Knowing that’s what she thinks about me, after all these years, after everything I’ve seen her go through—right now, I can’t say hopscotch. Lo would be the last one I’d call for help.