Page 64 of Half-Court Heat

She made a small, thoughtful noise. “Most of my experience has been collaborative versus a marketing team telling me whatto do or how to think,” she said as she took aim. “Today’s meeting was a very different experience.”

Her cue connected solidly with the white ball. Her target ball banked neatly into the side pocket. “I can play the branding game,” she said, straightening after the shot. “I just don’t want to be a caricature.”

“There’s no chance of that happening,” I denied. “You’re too smart and too good for anyone to box you in. You’ve got your own career and a platform you control.”

“And a girlfriend who keeps undressing me with her eyes during this very serious match,” she quipped, glancing up at me.

“Not gonna apologize,” I said, straight-faced. “You wore those shorts on purpose.”

She smiled. “I did.”

When we’d runout of quarters, we sat on the same side of a cracked booth with two beers and a shared plate of French fries between us. Eva leaned her head against my shoulder, her hand curled around my thigh.

“You know,” she said, glancing up at me from beneath her lashes, “for how terribly today started, it turned out to be a pretty good day.”

I chewed on my lower lip. “Think Coach D is going to be mad we skipped?”

Eva shrugged. “It’s not like we’re going to get benched or fined.”

“Getting cavalier in your old age?” I teased.

“This is the first time I’ve pickedmein a long ass time,” she brushed off. “I don’t think I ever skipped practice or missed a class in high school or college. I was playing scared—like if I messed up, they’d take basketball away from me.”

Every time we opened up to each other about our pasts, I marveled at the similarities. We’d grown up in very different households in very different neighborhoods, and yet we were still very much the same.

We’d both been the responsible ones, the steady ones, the ones who never gave anyone a reason to doubt us. We chased approval like it was oxygen. Coaches, professors, parents, the media—we did what we were supposed to do because we were afraid of what might happen if we didn’t. We’d trained ourselves to make the right choices, say the right things, be dependable, be unshakeable.

And now here we were, curled into each other in a cracked booth in a South Beach dive bar, skipping practice and splitting soggy fries.

But I didn’t feel reckless. I felt good.

Her next words were thoughtful: “Everything feels different this time.”

“Different how?” I asked.

“Like … fun. Like, it’s not the grind,” she said. “We’re still playing at the highest level, still competing our asses off—but it’s Miami. And we’retogether. Not on opposite coasts, not texting between obligations. We’re both here.”

I nodded slowly. “Feels like summer camp.”

“Exactly,” Eva agreed. “It’s like, I get to play ball with my girl, stay in one city, and not have to do airport security every other day.”

She reached for a fry with her other hand, dipped it in ketchup, and popped it into her mouth. I smiled, watching her features light up with joy.

“I think this is the happiest I’ve been all week,” she observed.

I leaned into her, close enough for my nose to nuzzle her temple. “You’re easy to impress.”

She hummed, her hand slipping just a little higher on my thigh. “That’s funny. Most people think I’m impossible to impress.”

“Most people aren’t me.”

That earned me a slow smile—soft, like my words had caught her off guard.

Her eyes flicked to the back of the bar. “C’mon,” she said suddenly, nudging me with her shoulder and rising from the booth. “Before we leave.”

I followed her without asking about the destination. She laced her fingers with mine, tugging me past the pinball machines, the grimy restrooms, and finally toward something in a corner I hadn’t noticed before.

A photo booth.