Page 23 of Half-Court Heat

“He’s lived a good life,” I said solemnly. “But yeah, he can go in the trash.”

Eva hummed a mournful tune that sounded like an off-key version of “Taps” as she dropped the snowman into a black garbage bag. Then her phone chimed—sharp and bright in the stillness of the garage. The sound bounced off the walls and sliced through the calm.

Eva froze. Just for a second. Then she wiped her hands on her leggings and walked over to check the screen.

It was only a single message, but I could see the change in her posture as she read it. Her spine straightened. Her shoulders looked a little tighter. She didn’t say anything; she tapped a quick reply and slid the phone into her hoodie pocket.

“Everything okay?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

“Yeah,” she said, but the warmth had shifted a degree cooler. “Just Veronica. She’s putting together a brand deck for a new sneaker collab.”

“On a Sunday morning?”

She gave a small, apologetic shrug. “Deadlines.”

I nodded, trying to let it go. But something about the interruption stuck to my ribs. It wasn’t just the sound. It was the reminder that this—us, here, now—wasn’t permanent. It was borrowed time.

Eva came back over and nudged me with her shoulder. “Hey. Don’t let it ruin the vibe.”

“I’m not,” I said, but the mood had already shifted. Just a little.

She reached into a box labeledLEX — MISCand held up a faded poster of Mya Brown in her basketball jersey, one corner missing.

“Damn,” she said, chuckling. “You really werethatkid.”

I snatched the poster from her hands. “Still am.”

Her smile returned, but it didn’t settle quite as easily this time. She dusted off a snow globe and held it up to the morning light, watching the fake snow swirl inside.

“Ever think about what needed to happen for us to be here?”

“Like, on this planet?” I questioned.

“No. Like, us. Here. Together.”

“All of the time.”

My stomach dropped when her phone chimed again. She didn’t immediately pull her phone out of her hoodie pocket this time. Instead, she sighed.

“Okay,” she murmured. “Let’s finish this up before your mom comes out here and fires us.”

We went back to work—cleaning, sorting, breaking down boxes—but it wasn’t the same. We were quieter now. Less playful. More aware that the real world hadn’t gone anywhere—it was just waiting for us to come back.

By the time we finished, the frost on the front yard had melted and the filtered sunlight had brightened into something clearer and colder.

Eva reached for her phone again. I tried not to notice how long she looked at it. Or the way she bit her lip while she typed. Or how far away her gaze seemed when she slid it back into her pocket.

She smiled at me as we closed the garage door, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Chapter

Eight

The Chicago skyline glowed soft and golden beyond Eva’s high-rise windows, the city clinging to the last stretch of afternoon light. I sat curled in the corner of the sectional, a book open in my lap that I wasn’t really reading, a blanket draped over my waist more for comfort than warmth.

Eva sat across from me, legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other, with a tablet balanced on her thighs. She still had that sun-warmed glow, traces of theSports Illustratedshoot lingering on her. Her braids were pulled into a loose bun on top of her head, a few wisps escaping around her temples. Her nails were painted a pale, pearly pink that looked too fancy for running drills or lifting weights. The gloss on her lips had faded hours ago, but she still looked like a page out of an advertising campaign.

Like clockwork, her phone vibrated on the armrest beside her—buzz, glance, tap, return. A pattern. One I’d watched all week.