Page 62 of Half-Court Heat

Eva pressed the elevator button again like she couldn’t escape fast enough. She ignored my attempt at levity. “God, I feel so dumb and completely blindsided.”

Her hand raised again to smash the call buttons. I gently trapped her hand in mine, sure she’d do damage to herself or the elevator.

“Hey. It’s okay. It was just one bad meeting.”

Eva loudly exhaled like she was trying to reign in her emotions. “But it wasourfirst meeting. I know you’re already skeptical about all the branding stuff. I really wanted this to go well.”

“There will be other opportunities,” I soothed. “I’ll keep an open mind.”

She stared straight ahead as if willing the elevator’s arrival. I watched her work the muscles in her throat.

Finally, she turned toward me. “Let’s play hooky.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

She shrugged. “Why not? We’re in Miami. It’s beautiful out. And I need to forget this disaster of a meeting.”

The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside. She pulled her sunglasses out of her designer bag and slid them on without breaking eye contact. “Come on, thirst trap. Let’s get hydrated.”

Chapter

Nineteen

The first lie was that our meeting had run long.

Hey, Coach. Our meeting went longer than expected so we’re going to rest up before tomorrow’s game. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Eva typed out the text message in the back of our rideshare. After our downtown meeting, we’d returned briefly to our apartment, just long enough to change clothes.

She hit send and slipped her phone into her bag.

“That’s it?” I asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yep,” she clipped. “We’re officially AWOL.”

My stomach fluttered. I didn’t normally skip out on obligations. But after that disaster of a pitch meeting, it felt like a rebellion we both deserved.

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

We were headed nowhere in particular with the windows rolled down to let in the sticky Miami air. Between air conditioned gyms and meeting rooms, I’d almost forgotten whatit felt like to be touched by the real world—sunlight warming my arms, wind threading through my hair.

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “But wherever we go, there’d better be alcohol and something that makes noise when I win.”

That’s how we ended up at a dive bar tucked between a tattoo parlor and a tourist T-shirt shop. It was the kind of place with neon signs, cheap well drinks, and music that oscillated between classic rock and country. It felt like something I’d find close to campus in Madison. Home turf.

“Pop-a-shot?” I proposed, eyes lighting up as we walked in.

“Hell, no.”

“Why not?” I nearly whined.

“Because I actually want to havefunwith you,” she reasoned, “not have you pouting all night because I beat you at a silly basketball game.”

I puffed my chest, ready for the challenge and mildly offended that she thought it was a foregone conclusion that she’d win.

“Pool,” she decided for us. “We’re going to play pool.”

Eva rackedthe pool balls with precision. She set up to break like we were in some underground billiards championship rather than a dive bar in South Beach. I leaned against the edge of the table and watched her move—deliberate, focused, effortlessly confident.