Page 101 of Half-Court Heat

@BucketsAndTea:

Not greedy — REALISTIC. These players deserve a livable wage. Simple as that. #FairPayNow #Respect

@ShamrockSpill:

Pay them? For what? more missed shots and empty seats? #WasteOfMoney #Overhyped

@BriKnowsBest:

Love of the game doesn’t pay the rent or the doctor’s bills. Support the CBA push. #RealityCheck #PlayerRights

@JustHoops:

Season’s doomed. Players greedy, Eva messy, owners laughing. #DisasterIncoming #HotMess

@BALL4EVER:

Nobody is asking for NBA money. They’re asking for FAIR money. Big difference. #KnowTheFacts #FairPay

@HoopsHopeful:

The future of this league depends on treating players like pros, not side hustlers. #PayThePlayers #UnionStrong

I was sittingat some too-dark, too-loud rooftop bar when Rayah slid onto the barstool next to me. She was wearing ripped jeans and an-off the shoulder top, drinking her tequila straight and watching me with that look.

The one I’d been ignoring since Eva had gotten injured.

“You good?” she asked, like she didn’t already know the answer.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure,” she said, leaning in. “Do you always glare at your phone like it insulted your mom?”

I turned the screen over.

The internet hadn’t been kind since meetings about the new collective bargaining agreement had begun. Some fans had been supportive of the players’ union’s demands and others had even championed Eva’s inclusion at the negotiating table. But most of what I’d read was downright ugly. We were asking for too much, too soon, was the general consensus. We should be grateful for the crumbs we received for the amount of ‘work’ we put in. It was altogether depressing.

“I’m just tired,” I dodged.

Rayah tilted her head. “You wanna get out of here?”

She let the question hang in the air like smoke. I should have said no. Immediately. Definitively.

Instead, I downed the rest of my drink and stood up.

The ocean was onlya few blocks away. The humid Miami night wrapped around us as we left the bar’s thumping bass behind. Out on the sand, the air felt cooler, the breeze carrying salt and the faint tang of seaweed.

Rayah had kicked off her sandals, her jeans cuffed at the ankle. She walked just close enough that her arm brushed mine now and then. She smelled like lime and tequila, like temptation in human form.

“Better than the bar, right?” she asked, her grin all teeth in the moonlight.

I shoved my hands into my pockets. The sand crunched differently at night, softer, like it might swallow me if I stayed still for too long.

“It’s quieter,” I said.

“Quieter’s good,” she replied, slowing her pace. Her eyes skimmed the water before returning to me. “Gives us room to talk.”

Rayah had always carried an edge—teammate, friend, almost something else. And I’d been good at ignoring it. Mostly.