“Who’s in charge here?” I ask, swinging my inquiry around the room.
“Apparently, you are,” answers one white coat-clad man with a receding hairline and glasses.
“I need to be brought up to speed immediately,” I say, ignoring his attempt at humor I don’t have time for. “Doctor . . . what is your name?”
“Dr. Clintmore.” He steps forward and shakes my hand.
“What is the status of my client?” I ask. “What has been done and what is being considered? What do we know?”
Dr. Clintmore glances at Zo, silently requesting permission to share information before he divulges anything. Zo zips a look from the contract at the foot of the bed to my face and scowls but nods to go ahead.
“Mr. Vidale’s blood pressure was dangerously low,” Dr. Clintmore says. “He passed out during the stress test, but that wasn’t his first time. He reported blacking out two other times over the last few weeks.”
“What?” I can’t help it. Concern slips through my mask, and I seek Zo’s evasive eyes. “When? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Does it matter now?” Zo blows out a long breath.
“Yes,” I answer, my voice unyielding. “Tell me.”
“Once in the locker room near the end of the season,” he says like the words are being dragged from him. “And a few weeks ago when I was in Argentina at the orphanage.”
“And you didn’t think to share this information?” I don’t know if I want to shake him or hug him, but I’m spitting mad and scared as hell.
“I thought it was nothing.” He hauls in a breath that stretches the muscles of his wide chest. “In the locker room, it was after a game when I played almost the whole time. I assumed I was probably exhausted and didn’t hydrate enough. This summer, I had been working all day in the sun on the orphanage’s new cafeteria.”
Something flickers in his eyes when they meet mine. He’s probably remembering that building the cafeteria was my suggestion the last time I accompanied him to the orphanage.
“So Mr. Vidale assumed those incidents and the weight loss were typical,” Dr. Clintmore inserts.
I asked him about the weight he had lost, but he dismissed it as the intensity of the playing schedule. Why didn’t I persist? How could this have escaped my notice? Guilt spears me right down the middle, but I try to focus on what the doctor is saying.
“Did you say biopsy?” I demand sharply when I tune back in. “He’s had a biopsy?”
“Yes, which has come back normal,” Dr. Clintmore continues. “We’ve run tests on his heart, his lungs. All results have come back within range, except—”
“Except what?” I cut in, gripping the bed rail.
“The albumin levels in his blood are extremely high.” The doctor spreads a cautious look between the other physicians in the room before going further. “There are many things that could be related to, so we won’t speculate, but will wait for the next results.”
“What is albumin?” I ask.
Dr. Clintmore nods to one of the younger doctors to reply, and I realize the other doctors present are medical students.
“It’s a protein your liver produces,” the younger physician answers. “It helps keep fluid in your bloodstream and prevents it from leaking into other tissues.”
“And what do high levels of it in the blood usually indicate?” I ask, tensing while I wait for his answer. He flicks an uncertain glance at Dr. Clintmore, who nods that he should continue.
“Alone, it’s not conclusive enough for a formal diagnosis,” he says. “When we biopsy his kidney—”
“Biopsy his kidney?” Surprise unhinges my jaw. “What does that involve exactly?”
“We’ll drill a small hole in his back,” Dr. Clintmore says, his eyes drifting between Zo’s face and mine. “And extract a sample of his kidney to examine.”
I gulp but keep my features straight and absorb everything I’ve learned since walking through the door.
“How long before we’ll get those results?” Zo asks, the tiny tick in his jaw the only tell of his concern. Otherwise he looks like we’re discussing what he’ll have for dinner.
“Just a few days.”
“And can I go home in the meantime?” His shoulders tense while he waits for the doctor’s reply. I know better than anyone how much he hates hospitals. He’s probably been coming out of his skin the last three days.
“Of course,” Dr. Clintmore says. “Wait here for the release paperwork. Take it easy. We’ll call you to discuss results as soon as we have them.”
“Sounds good.” Zo flips long legs over the side of the bed and climbs out, straightening to his full six foot six. His dark hair has grown over the summer and waves past his ears. He walks to the closet, impervious of the audience viewing the taut muscles of his bare ass and back in the hospital gown. He spends half his life naked in locker rooms with other men, and God knows I’ve seen him naked enough that he shouldn’t be self-conscious with me. The team of doctors clear their throats and head for the door. I quietly ask Dr. Clintmore to contact me directly when the results are in so I’m kept abreast.
I cross over to stare out the window, eyes fixed on the parking lot below but mentally synthesizing the information the doctors shared. A sense of foreboding spreads over my body like an invading army. My bravado, the false calm I armored myself in, the tough act . . . none of it will be enough if there is something really wrong with Zo, and I allow myself to feel helpless and afraid for the span of a few clipped heartbeats before wrapping myself in fake courage like chain mail and facing Zo again. He’s fully dressed, tall and handsome and looking like he hasn’t a care in the world. I know him well enough to spot the lie of his expressionless face.
“Why wasn’t there anyone from the team here?” I ask, more to delay the things he’ll say now that we’re alone than out of real curiosity.
“They were here earlier,” he replies. “They’d left by the time the doctor came with his news. Look, you and I both know this is ridiculous. I haven’t had the chance to tell Cal I was leaving. Your presence here will only make things worse. I want you out of my life. I thought I made that abundantly clear.”
I take the comment like a knife in the ribs but keep pressing forward.
“Call it my swan song.” I grab my bag and look him in the eye like I would any other client, not like the good man I betrayed. I bury my shame so I can do my job as his agent and his friend.
“Well I’m going home,” he says. “I hope you have a hotel and don’t plan to stay with me.”
He pauses, uncharacteristic malice twisting his wide mouth.
“Unless that contract says I have to fuck you, too, until we are no longer contractually obligated?”
I bite my lip and blink back tears. It’s not even that his words hurt. It’s that he means them. That I did this. I made this good-hearted man, who lives to help, want to hurt.
“I have a hotel,” I say softly, grabbing my bag.
“Good,” he says, turning his back to me while he waits for the final paperwork. “Use it.”
“He has what?” Lowell asks with a heavy frown and through tight lips.
The Titans president of basketball operations sits in one of three chairs across from Dr. Clintmore. Zo and I occupy the other two. The fact that I don’t yet understand what Zo has doesn’t make me feel any better because he has something. Something, based on the grave set of Dr. Clintmore’s face, very bad.
“We believe he has amyloidosis,” the doctor repeats.
“It’s a type of cancer?” Zo asks. I look at him, and I know he feels my eyes on him, but he doesn’t look at me.
“Technically, no,” Dr. Clintmore replies with the calm of a man well-used to delivering life-ending news. “We call it a cousin of Multiple Myeloma, which is a cancer of the blood. A cancer of plasma cells. You’ll often see the two conditions coexisting, sometimes one to a lesser degree than the other, but we categorize amyloidosis as a rare disease, not a cancer.”
“You said you believe he has it,” I say, homing in on any sliver of doubt, any chance that there is a mistake or that this is not serious. “So there’s a chance he doesn’t?”
“We would like to biopsy his bone marrow to confirm the diagnosis,” the doctor replies, compassion leaking through is professional mask. “But we are fairly certain given the results we already have.”
“A bone marrow biopsy?” Zo frowns and swallows convulsively. “What are we talking about here? Like, what are my odds? What is the prognosis? When can I play again?”
With each question, Dr. Clintmore’s marbled expression cracks a little more. The last question makes him sigh.
“I think playing is . . .” Dr. Clintmore pauses, obviously weighing his words. “A lesser concern considering the expectancy is generally six months to two years.”
Expectancy?
“Do you mean life expectancy?” The question barrels from my mouth like cannon ball. “You’re saying he has six months to two years to live?”
“This is not my specialty,” Dr. Clintmore says hastily. “There are generalities and many variables that factor into each individual’s prognosis. I wouldn’t want to speak hastily. We need the biopsy results and to start treatment as soon as possible with a team of doctors who know more about this condition than I do. Immediate and aggressive treatment will improve whatever prognosis he has.”
“What kind of treatment?” Lowell asks, rubbing his chin, a speculative look in his eyes. I know exactly what is running through his mind. He’s thinking of his team, which has been built primarily around Zo. He’s thinking of his upcoming season, in which Zo would have featured prominently.
“Even though it is not a cancer,” Dr. Clintmore says. “It follows a similar course of treatment. Aggressive chemotherapy.”