“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 invo
lve 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.