Page 11 of Half-Court Heat (Hoops & Heartstrings #2)

Chapter

Eight

T he 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 the Sports Illustrated shoot 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.

It had started when we were still in Wisconsin.

That first chime in the garage. We’d been sorting through my childhood trophies and holiday decorations.

She kissed my cheek. She joked about my junior high trophies.

And then her phone buzzed, and something in her face changed.

Not dramatically, not all at once—just a shift.

A tightening at the corners of her mouth. A flicker of thought she didn’t share.

I’d watched it happen again and again. Quiet moments punctured by pings and previews and urgent little vibrations that pulled her attention elsewhere. She always apologized, always came back to me with soft eyes and warm hands. But she never stayed for long.

By the time we left my parents’ house, it felt like we were living in different time zones. She was already half back in her world, and I was clinging to the last few hours of mine.

I couldn’t remember the last time we’d just talked. Without a screen between us. Without her PR agent’s voice crackling from speakerphone or some contract needing a signature by EOD.

“You should take a break,” I said, voice quiet. “You’ve been going nonstop.”

“Mm.” Eva hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t look up. “Veronica wants me to sign off on this campaign before the end of the night. It’s some cross-branding thing.”

I nodded even though she didn’t see it. Or maybe she did. Maybe she was just getting used to nodding back on autopilot.

I tried again. “I was thinking maybe we could go out tomorrow. Maybe walk down to the lake? Something easy.”

That got a flicker of attention. Her eyes lifted, warm but distracted. “Yeah? That sounds nice.”

Then her phone buzzed, and her attention slipped away again like sand through fingers.

She reached for my hand, and I let her take it. Her fingers were warm, and I tried not to lean into the comfort too much. Not when I knew she’d pick up the tablet again the moment things quieted down.

“I’m right here,” she said.

And she technically was—inches away from me on the couch, our hands linked. But it still felt like she was somewhere else. Like I’d been chasing her since she’d gotten back from Florida.

I didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry,” she added. “It’s just been a lot since the SI shoot. Veronica keeps saying this is the window, that we’ve got to capitalize on the momentum before it slows.”

I nodded because I’d heard it all before. And I understood it—Eva had spent her entire life earning this. Not just the spotlight, but a seat at the table. She was young, Black, openly queer, and making brands nervous and inspired in equal measure. She deserved every single opportunity.

But I still wanted her to choose me sometimes. Not just squeeze me in when her schedule allowed.

“Next week should be lighter,” she said. “I’ll talk to Veronica.”

“Okay,” I murmured.

She squeezed my hand and let go, reaching for her tablet again. “Just ten more minutes,” she promised.

Outside, the lights had come on in the neighboring buildings. I pulled the blanket higher around my waist and stared out at them, trying to remember the last time we’d watched the city together instead of beside each other.

We were in the same room, on the same couch, and I’d never felt lonelier.

I took a shot from the wing but scowled as the ball hit off the side of the rim.

“You seem off,” Jazz remarked.

We’d borrowed a couple hours of court time at Jazz’s old high school gym. The overhead lights hummed, and the echo of each bounce stretched across the walls like we were in a cavern instead of a gymnasium.

I caught her pass and tried again from the same spot. The ball clanged off the front of the rim for a second time.

“And not just your shooting,” she observed, jogging to collect the rebound. “You feeling alright?”

I let out a sigh, planting my hands on my hips. “I’m just in my head.”

Jazz gave me a look, the kind that said you’re going to have to do better than that.

“I thought being in Chicago would be different,” I admitted.

“Different?” she echoed, tossing the ball back with a spin.

“With Eva.”

I took the ball but didn’t shoot. I cradled it against my hip.

“I get that she’s on another level with all these endorsements and extra obligations, but I thought I’d get more time with her, you know?” I bounce passed the ball back to my friend. “I thought the off-season would slow things down for us, not make her even more unavailable.”

Jazz dribbled a few steps in and hit a clean jumper from the elbow. “Have you told her that?”

“She’s not doing anything wrong,” I said quickly, defensive before I meant to be. “It’s not like she’s choosing these companies over me.”

“But it still feels like she is,” Jazz guessed.

I didn’t say anything. Not right away, at least.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “It’s like ... we’re fine. We live together. We talk all the time, even if she’s in meetings or doing some kind of endorsement obligation. We text. We FaceTime. But the days feel so long lately. It’s like it’s just training and sleeping, and repeat.”

Jazz scooped up the ball and bounced it a few times without shooting. “Sounds like you need to romance your girl.”

“We’re totally fine in that department,” I said quickly. “Totally compatible.”

“I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about romance .”

I frowned and caught the ball when she passed it back. “You mean like flowers and overpriced chocolates?”

“No. I mean like intentional time,” she replied. “Have you guys ever gone on a date? Like dinner and a movie or something? Like regular-ass people would?”

“We were keeping things on the downlow at the start,” I said, shooting again—and finally hitting one. “And then Eva got traded. And now she’s so busy with all her endorsement deals.”

“I’m hearing a lot of excuses,” Jazz clucked, snagging the rebound and lazily dribbling it in a circle around me. “You’ve got to woo her, Lex. You’re dating Eva fucking Montgomery.”

I wiped sweat from my forehead and sighed. I knew she was right. “Okay. Romance.”

“And I don’t mean a night in with takeout and reruns. I mean something that makes her feel chosen. Not just convenient.”

I grimaced. “Ouch.”

“Too real?”

“No, it’s fair.” I sat down on the court and stretched my legs out in front of me, leaning back on my hands. “It’s just … we haven’t really had space to be regular. We went from hating each other to being roommate-teammates to being a couple. I don’t even know what normal looks like for us.”

“Then make it up,” Jazz encouraged. “Pick something. A picnic. A concert. Go do those cheesy paint-and-sip things. Something just for the two of you.”

I looked over at her. “You do paint-and-sip?”

“Hell no,” she said with a smirk. “But you might.”

I made a face. “I can’t paint.”

“Exactly. It’s not about the painting. It’s about being bad at it together.”

She had a point. And the truth was, I wanted to plan something. I wanted Eva to look at her calendar and carve out time for me. Not for appearances, not for content, not for brands. Just us.

I let Jazz pull me to my feet. The gym lights buzzed overhead, and the air was warm and stale, but I felt more clearheaded than I had in days.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll figure something out.”

Jazz tossed the ball lightly between her hands. “That’s the spirit.”

I started toward the bleachers to grab my water bottle but paused halfway.

“Hey,” I said. “Thanks. For real.”

Her smile was small but proud. “Anytime, lover girl.”

The note I’d left on the kitchen island had told her what dress to wear and what time the town car would be by to pick her up. I checked my phone again. The driver had recently sent a message:

She’s on her way in.

I hoped I wasn’t sweating through my clothes. I adjusted my jacket, tugging on the sleeves and lapel of the fitted blazer I’d worn on only one other occasion.

My nerves kicked into overdrive the moment I heard the unmistakable click-clack of heels. The woman of my dreams strolled through the doorway of the rear dining room of the upscale Chicago restaurant.

Eva Montgomery in cobalt blue was a vision. The familiar dress clung to her like a second skin. The low-cut bodice made my throat go dry. Her thick braids were swept to one side, lips tinted a deep plum. And those heels—stilettos that made her legs look miles long.

Her eyes unabashedly swept up my body, causing me to stand a little straighter. “You wore the suit,” she approved with a low purr. “I wondered why you’d requested I wear this dress.”

I handed her one of the champagne flutes I’d prepared. “The outfits we were wearing the night everything changed for us.”

She stepped close to place her hand on my naked sternum. “And your tits still look bonkers.”

I had to rise up on the balls of my feet to reach her painted mouth. She hummed into the gentle kiss. Her hand stayed at my throat, soft and warm and inviting.

When I dropped back down to earth, she clasped my hand in hers. “A private dining room?”

“Paparazzi proof,” I told her with a grin. “And the restaurant staff signed NDAs.”

Eva choked out a laugh. “They did not.”

I shrugged. “Just being careful.”

I led her to the small table the restaurant staff had set up for us in the center of the room.

I pulled out a chair for her, knowing how much she appreciated the chivalrous gesture.

I waited until she sat before taking the seat across from her.

She placed her champagne on the table, eyes flicking once more around the room, taking it all in.

“Are we celebrating something?” she asked.

“Not exactly. I just wanted to do something special for you,” I said honestly. “We’ve been so busy since the season ended. I thought maybe we could slow things down and take some time for each other. No cameras, no calendars. Just us.”

The corner of her generous mouth lifted up. “This is really thoughtful, Lex. I love it. Thank you.”

The waiter arrived soon after, bringing the first course—an amuse-bouche that looked like it belonged on some Food Network finale. Eva took a photo of hers before trying it. Not to post on social media, just for the memory.

By the time we were halfway through the main course—hers a roasted duck breast, mine a seared halibut—Eva had silenced the ringer on her phone. But the screen lit up anyway. A message preview flashed, bright against the dim glow of the candles at the table’s center.

Her gaze flickered toward her phone, just for a second.

I didn’t say anything right away, but I felt my jaw tighten. She hadn’t picked it up, and still, I felt her slipping out of reach.

Eva swept her fingertips across the phone’s screen so everything turned black. “I’m sorry. This new campaign is launching soon and the designers keep blowing up my phone.”

My knee bounced erratically beneath the white linen table cloth.

“I’m not trying to start a fight,” I started. “And I don’t want to come across as needy or ungrateful ...”

“But,” Eva anticipated.

“ But,” I concurred, “everyone wants a piece of you. And I’m worried …” I sucked in a great breath. “There won’t be anything left for me.”

“Oh, Lex.” Eva frowned. “I haven’t been a very good girlfriend.”

“This has nothing to do with being good or bad,” I promised.

“But,” Eva guessed again.

I sheepishly grinned. “ But … you’ve been paying more attention to your phone than me.

You’re so focused on building your brand, so busy looking for the next opportunity, that you’re not enjoying what you’ve already accomplished.

I know you’re all about that grind, all about the hustle,” I observed, “but maybe you could slow down just a little.”

“This is uncharted territory,” she admitted. “No athlete who looks like me has been able to capitalize on their celebrity like this. Not this early in their career.”

“I know.” It was the excuse that both she and I defaulted to. “But when will it be enough?”