Page 111 of Half-Court Heat

“You hurt me anyway by hiding it.”

It would have been easy to retreat into old habits—sarcasm, defensiveness—but I didn’t want to win this fight. Not at the cost of losing her.

I chewed on my lower lip, feeling helpless. “I have to get to the arena soon.”

“I know.”

“Will you be there?” I asked. “At the game?”

“Courtside,” she confirmed with a small sigh. “I’m supposed to sit by the Commissioner to show how the players’ union is working with and not against league leadership to get this CBA done.”

“Cute,” I snorted.

She made a noise of her own. “It’s optics. I know you hate it.”

“I’m sorry.” I quickly shelved my attitude. “I know you’re working hard for the greater good. I never meant to be so selfish and narrow-sighted.”

Eva sighed. “And I’ve got to do better at following my own rules.”

“Which is what?”

She smiled softly. “No more being friends with exes. At least not those who don’t want to stay my ex.”

I felt my resistance, my stubbornness, crumbling.

I took a step toward her. “I love you.Fuck—I love you so much, Eva.”

Her eyes shimmered, fierce and tired all at once.

“Let’s stop messing this up, okay?” she said. “We’re too good together to fumble this bag.”

Chapter

Thirty-Three

The lights felt hotter and the crowd sounded louder. Or maybe it was just me. Maybe it was knowing that everything came down to tonight—the league’s first title, bragging rights, and the $50,000 player bonus waiting on the other side.

It wasn’t life-changing money for everyone, but for most of us, it mattered. It was rent money, stability money, pay-off-debt money.

I bounced the ball between my hands, willing myself to breathe. It wasn’t nerves, not exactly—more like electricity. Championship electricity. It was the kind of energy that made the court feel smaller, the crowd louder, and the rim higher. And still, with everything on the line, I couldn’t stop checking the sideline. I couldn’t stop searching for her.

Eva sat, one ankle crossed over the other, in a white jumpsuit that looked like it belonged on a runway. Her dark, glossy hair gleamed under the lights. She looked calm, elegant, and untouchable—except for the way her gaze kept finding mine. Her sunglasses couldn’t hide that she was watching me.

She wasn’t playing, but she drew as many cameras as the game itself. The league commissioner sat next to her, their heads bent together in conversation, reporters hovering like bees.

Our conversation in her hotel room had been brief, almost stolen. She hadn’t come to Miami for me, not officially. She was here for optics, for the league, to show the world that the Commissioner and the players’ union weren’t at each other’s throats. But when she looked at me, there was nothing polished or professional about it. I only saw raw, familiar love—messy and real.

“Lock in,” Mya’s voice cut through my thoughts. She bumped my shoulder with hers, snapping me back to reality. “One more game.”

I nodded and rolled my shoulders, trying to channel every bit of restless energy into focus.

Our opponents—Briana’s squad—were the faces on billboards, the names etched into record books, the players I’d grown up watching. Olympians. League MVPs. Women with their own signature shoes—shoes I’d once begged my parents to buy me for Christmas. They ran warm-up drills on their side of the court, moving with a kind of economy that came with years of greatness. No wasted steps. No wasted words. They didn’t need to trash talk; their reputations did the talking for them.

Among them, Briana dribbled in place, head down, locked in. She wasn’t a loud player, never had been. She played the game clean, hard, and precise.

Coach Demarios paced in front of us before the tip. “They’re veterans,” he said simply. “They’re not going to hand you anything. So don’t wait for your opportunity. Take it.”

Three-on-three was different from the five-player game. There was no coasting, no hiding. Every possession mattered. You were on offense and then defense in a blink, gasping for breath with no real breaks.