Page 22 of Half-Court Heat

“Probably not,” Eva admitted with a small smile. Her fingers brushed mine. “I missed you.”

I looked at her, surprised by the quiet sincerity in her voice. Something in my chest pinched—not painful, just tender.

“I missed you, too,” I said, stepping closer.

Eva’s expression was unguarded in the dim light. “Your family’s great, by the way. I felt really welcomed.”

“Thanks for that,” I said, my voice catching just a little. “You were so good with them. My mom’s still probably glowing from that compliment about her mashed potatoes.”

“They were genuinely excellent,” she murmured. “Like a dairy-based religious experience.”

I laughed, and her smile widened.

“My dad was impressed you could hold your own in a conversation about pipeline safety. And Paige looked like she was figuring out how to ask for your autograph.”

Eva tilted her head. “I wasn’t trying to impress them.”

“I know,” I said. “That’s why it meant so much.”

“I love seeing where you’re from,” she said. “It helps me understand you better. The stories, the rhythms, the way you talk about things. I see it all now.”

I swallowed. “You didn’t have to come, you know.”

“I wanted to,” she said. “Even if it means separate beds.”

I leaned in and kissed her. Just a soft brush of lips. Slow and warm. No one was watching. It didn’t have to be secret, but it still felt like something meant only for us.

“Goodnight,” I whispered.

“Goodnight, baby,” she whispered back.

I watched her disappear into the basement before turning toward Paige’s room. The corner of my mouth tugged up in a smile I couldn’t quite shake.

My sister was already in bed when I entered her room. I grabbed an old sleeping bag from her closet and rolled it out at the foot of her twin bed. She handed me an extra pillow and flopped down dramatically.

Paige spoke after the lights were out. “Eva’s cool.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly, looking up at the ceiling. “She is.”

The next morning,a fog of cold sunlight drifted over the lawn. It was the kind of weather that made everything look like a filtered photo: soft-focus trees, glittering frost on the grass, our breath visible as we stepped outside.

My mom had given us a task—one she’d been nagging my dad about for months. The garage. It was cluttered with everything from old bikes and rusted lawn chairs to boxes labeledChristmas StuffandBeach Supplies.

“Still think you made the right call coming back early?” I teased as Eva pried open a moldy cardboard box full of odds and ends.

She blew her breath into her hands and huddled deeper into her borrowed hoodie. “Honestly?” she said, glancing at me. “I’m kind of obsessed with the normalcy of this.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. No cameras. No flights. No stylists spraying fake sweat on me every ten minutes. Just you, me, and a box of your childhood basketball trophies.”

I laughed when she held up a cracked old plaque engraved with the wordsBest Defensive Player — 8th Grade. “Hey, I earned that.”

She leaned over and kissed my cheek. She patted the side of my face with a fondness you couldn’t fake. “I know you did.”

We worked in a slow rhythm, the kind that didn’t demand conversation. I swept leaves out from under a folding table while Eva sifted through old holiday decorations. We worked withouturgency. It was the kind of mindless task that made it easy to forget everything else.

Eva held up a ceramic snowman who was missing his carrot nose. “Is this a family heirloom, or can I toss him?”