“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.”
“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?