“Chemo?” Zo runs a hand through his lustrous hair. “Like I’ll lose my hair and be sick and can’t play ball?”

That’s it. I’m done with this shit. Lowell is over there silently scheming on how to cut his team’s losses, and Zo is trying to figure out how to salvage the season and when he’ll be back on the court.

“Fuck ball,” I snap. “Did you hear the man, Zo? Six months to two years. The last thing I care about right now is when you’ll get back on the damn court. You are in the literal fight of your life. Do you understand?”

“You think I don’t know that?” he asks harshly, his dark eyes flashing fear and frustration. “That I don’t realize how hard the road ahead is? But I need a goal, Banner. Something to help me at the end of that road. I need . . .”

You.

He doesn’t say it. He wouldn’t, but I know, even if he doesn’t know it yet. Even if he won’t say it. And a stony resolve builds itself brick by brick inside me. Hail Marys, prayers, rosaries, miracles . . . We’ll do all those things, but what this will also require is someone determined that Zo won’t die and foolish enough to believe it no matter what.

And that someone is me.

Jared flashes through my mind like lighting. Sharp and striking. Bright and dynamic. His sun-warmed body tangled in the luxurious sheets of our Caribbean villa. The golden stubble roughening his kisses first thing in the morning and the deep rumble of his laughter when we’d stay in bed and talk, some mornings for hours, just digging around in each other’s heads and delighting in the treasures we found. I already know what I have to do for Zo, even though it’s gonna be a bitch convincing Zo to let me, and I don’t know how Jared will feel about it.

But I do know that I have no choice.

Over the next hour, we hash out a plan. Based on information Dr. Clintmore gives me, I call the closest hospital with any real record of treating amyloidosis, Cedars-Sinai, but they cannot even see him for six weeks. Fortunately, Stanford has an actual Amyloid Center and clinical trials Zo may qualify for. Every door I knock on swings open to reveal more possibilities. I can see the road forming that could get him out of this alive, but it is not short and it is not easy.

And I’ll have to walk with him every step of the way.

Lowell is preparing to leave just as I’m starting another round of calls and making more arrangements.

“Banner, I’ll be in touch about how we go forward,” he says, measuring out just the right dose of compassion in the glance he offers Zo.

“Of course,” I murmur, disconnecting the call before it goes through. “I’ll walk you out.”

As soon as we’re outside the office and down the hall a few feet, I lay my cards on his table.

“Don’t you think for one second about cutting him from the team,” I say without preamble.

“Banner,” he starts, shaking his head and looking at me like I’m the bane of his existence, which I have no problem being if necessary. “I have to act in the team’s best interest. You know that. The league has excellent medical benefits, so he’ll be taken care of, but I can’t guarantee his spot will still be there in the end. Who knows what kind of shape he’ll be in or if he’ll even live through it?”

“Let me tell you something, Lowell,” I say through clenched teeth. “He needs a goal. He needs something at the end of this to make him fight and keep going, and that is ball.”

“I cannot guarantee that.”

“Then you will lie.”

“What?” His startled look transforms to disdain. “Even you can’t force me to make that promise, especially one I’m not sure I can keep.”

“I don’t particularly care about your team or your season right now.” I rest my fists at my hips and lift my chin. “Try to cut him and you’ll have a PR shit storm so thick you won’t be able to see a foot in front of you. You’ll be the team who kicked the league’s patron saint ambassador when he was down, after all he’s done for so many. After all he’s done for you. By the time I’m done, not one sponsor will touch anything to do with your team or your arena.”

I aim a hard look up at him.

“Test me.”

His brows lower. Mine lift. In the hall we silently push and pull, but this is a tug-of-war I have no intention of losing. He knows I mean business and shakes his head as he walks toward the elevators. I stand outside Dr. Clintmore’s office for just a second and let the full, dire weight of the situation fall on my shoulders. It’s heavier than anything I’ve carried before, but I breathe through the knee-buckling pressure and adjust to the unaccustomed weight. Ignoring the tears that long to pour out of me and promising them they can have their way later when I’m alone, I re-enter the office. Zo sits by himself on a couch by the window, shoulders slightly slumped and head in his hands. I walk forward, not sure what to prepare for. More of his biting anger, resentment, bitterness. Fear?

He looks up as I approach, and the tears standing in his eyes are almost my undoing. My steps falter as I’m faced with Zo’s mortality, with his own belief that he will die. I steel myself against that. I cannot afford doubt, even from the one I’m believing for.

“Okay, so the team at Stanford is checking their open trials,” I say, my tone businesslike, brisk, bordering indifferent, though anyone who checked my pulse would know that to be a lie. “If they come back with a no, I’ll find a way. In the meantime, you’ll begin the chemo protocol there.”

“Banner.”

“My realtor friend found us a townhouse in Palo Alto, not far from the hospital,” I continue, afraid to let him speak. Afraid of what he’ll say and how he’ll try to make me stop. “We can stay the full three months while you’re getting chemo. Longer if needed.”

“Us? We?” His head jerks up and his eyes search mine. “You’re coming with me? To Stanford?”

“Of course I am.” I dig around in my bag as if searching for something. “This will be harrowing. You can’t do it alone.”

“No, I can’t,” he agrees softly. He grabs my hand, gently tugging me away from my purse until I’m standing in front of him. “Bannini, tengo miedo.”

I’m scared.

His softly spoken admission cracks my façade like no angry words ever could, and for the first time since we heard the word amyloidosis, hot tears trickle down my cheeks. The riot of emotions I’ve been able to keep at bay roar to the surface and overtake me. They pull me under like a riptide, unexpected, unpredictable, unnavigable. I’m violently taken by a current beyond my control, and so is Zo. He pulls me down to the couch with him, beside him and wraps his arms around me.

And we weep. We wet each other’s clothes with our tears and clutch each other hard enough to bruise. I’ll give myself this moment of weakness, but it will pass, and I will get up, and we will fight. I wipe the last of my tears and move to stand, but Zo catches my wrist to stop me. His hand tangles in my hair and before I know his intentions, he’s kissing me. Desperately like the cure to the thing killing him lies just beyond my lips. I push at his chest, gently, firmly enough to put space between us.

“Zo, no.” I pull away. “We can’t.”

“Why not?” he asks, bitterness creeping back into his voice. “Because of him?”

I freeze, shame shackling me to the seat.

“I can’t do this right now, Zo,” I say, and the tears I thought were done burn my throat again. “I have to focus on the next three months, on you getting better.”

I look up at him and offer a watery smile.

“On you living,” I say. “So just let me help you.”

He tilts his head back and a slight smile plays over his full lips.

“I will let you help me on one condition,” he finally says.

Whatever he wants I’ll give him and he knows it.

“What?” I ask hesitantly, cautiously.

“Put it on hold, whatever you have with him. Don’t take it any further.”

I stare at him in shock long enough for him to go on without giving me a chance to respond.

“I know you, Banner,” he says, squeezing my hands in his. “In ten years, you’ve never let me down. You’re the most loyal person I know. And today, how you’ve stepped in, taken over, are sacrificing so much for me . . . I know this is what I want. You are what I want. What I need. Forever. I want to fight for you, but it seems I will be occupied for the foreseeable future fighting for my life. I cannot do both.”

“Zo, I don’t . . . I can’t make any promises,” I tell him as honestly as I can without being cruel. “I’m not sure we should ever have . . . Well, do you sometimes think that maybe we should have remained just friends?”

“That is my condition,” he says, hardening his tone and ignoring my question. “I’m not expecting you to be in a relationship with me, or to sleep with me, but you can’t sleep with him either. He and I will both wait until I’m better and the fight is fair and the playing field is even.”

All the air leaves my lungs. I thought he could ask anything of me and it wouldn’t even be hard, but this is hard. I know this isn’t what I want with Zo anymore. What I feel for and what I have with Jared is something already so deep and rich, and we’ve only scratched the surface of it, but what I told Lowell is true. Zo needs something he’s fighting for. Simply fighting to live is not enough. He needs something he’s fighting to live for.

We have something special.

Jared’s last words echo in my head, caressing my thoughts and seducing my imagination. Hurting my heart.

Yes, Zo needs something to live for. He has ball.

And now he has me.

32

Jared

“Iris, can you sit in on the Nike call?”

I glance up from the marketing plan on my iPad for the upcoming campaign and find my sister-in-law gaping at me with wide eyes.