Page 67 of Half-Court Heat

“No. No, no, no, no.” The words tumbled out of my mouth, automatic and without my permission.

Eva rolled onto her side, grabbing at her right knee like she was trying to hold it together with her bare hands.

Everything else faded away. The fans in the arena. The other players. Even the ball. I was at her side in seconds, skidding onto my knees.

“My knee,” she gasped. “Something popped!It popped!”

Her eyes were wide and wild, her breath coming in fast, shallow gasps.

“I can’t breathe. I can’t … I—” She wasn’t out of breath from gameplay; she was panicking.

“Baby, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” I tried to keep my voice low and soothing despite how my heart was hammering.

“I can’t—. Lex, my knee?—”

“I know.” I touched her cheek, trying to calm her down and not let her spiral out. “Don’t move, okay? Just hold on. I’ve got you.”

I slipped one arm under her back and the other behind her knees. She was taller than me, heavier too, but none of that mattered. I could squat the weight of someone twice my size if I had to—and right now, I had to.

“Hang on,” I told her, gritting my teeth.

As I stood, she latched on. Her arms wrapped tight around my neck. She pressed her face into the crook of my neck, wet with tears and sweat.

The whole court was frozen. Someone shouted for a medic. My legs started churning, and I didn’t look back.

“Call an ambulance,” I said tightly as I carried her off the court. “Now.”

I watched helplesslyas the EMTs loaded Eva into the back of a white ambulance. Her right leg had been stabilized in a bulky brace. She didn’t cry, didn’t scream—her face was a stony statue.

This was bad. This was very bad.

I moved to climb into the back of the emergency vehicle with her, but one of the EMTs stopped me short.

“You can’t ride in here, Miss,” he told me. “You can follow behind and meet us at the hospital.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Briana’s voice cut in.

“I’ll drive. Come on, Lex.”

I stared beyond the EMT to catch Eva’s attention, but she wasn’t looking. She seemed to have withdrawn into her own body, disassociating from the chaos around her.

People barked out orders, sirens shrieked, and gawkers with their phones out were corralled and shooed away.

“I’ll be right behind you,” I vowed.

The ambulance doors shut with no assurances that she ever heard me.

“Areyou going to fucking merge, buddy?! Move! Get out of the fucking way!”

Briana unleashed a litany of expletives and struck her palm solidly against the leather steering wheel. Miami traffic on a Friday night was exactly how you’d think it would be. We crawled along at a glacial pace. The hospital they were taking Eva to was only a few miles away, but at this speed, it would be morning before we reached her.

I was quiet, despite the way my body vibrated with barely contained energy.

“She said she heard a pop.”

“Shit.” Briana breathed out the curse word and maneuvered into another lane that seemed to be going faster. “Do you think it’s her ACL?”

I swallowed down the nauseous feeling churning in my stomach. An ACL injury was the Boogyman of all basketball injuries. Someone could go all of their playing careerwithout a single injury—no nagging sprained ankles, or repeat concussions, or pulled hamstrings—when an ACL injury could occur and derail one’s entire career. You might have never missed a single game before due to injury, but be sidelined for over a year coming back from an ACL injury. Some people never came back at all.