Page 15 of Half-Court Heat (Hoops & Heartstrings #2)

Chapter

Ten

T he Miami heat wrapped around me the second the jet door opened. Even in January, the air was thick and damp, curling my hair in ways I knew I’d be fighting all season. The sky was postcard blue, too bright after a morning spent under airplane cabin lights.

We clattered down the metal stairs toward a black SUV idling on the tarmac. The driver loaded our bags in the back while Eva slid in beside me, her thigh pressing warm against mine.

Jazz climbed into the SUV behind us, dropping into her seat with a bounce. The three of us had been the private jet’s only passengers. She looked too alert for someone who’d been on a pre-dawn flight—lip gloss perfect, hair smoothed like we weren’t doomed to Florida’s humidity.

I’d been awake since before sunrise, but it wasn’t the caffeine I’d downed at the airport that had me wired. It was the way the whole thing felt new—different.

One city. Three months. A league built just for us.

Eight weeks of games. Playoffs for the top four teams. Housing provided. And the final paycheck—$250,000, plus equity in the new league. It was nearly more money than I’d earn over my four-year rookie contract in the main league.

Briana had hand-selected players from across the globe for this inaugural season.

It would have looked bad if she’d left me off the list, but there’d been no guarantee.

Neither Mathilde nor Lauren—our two centers in Boston—had gotten an invite.

It wasn’t a snub, though; not many centers had been selected, period.

This kind of fast-paced league demanded smaller, more nimble players.

The weeks leading up to January had gone by quickly.

After the rockiness of Eva going nonstop with endorsements and branding opportunities, the off-season had been like a dream.

We’d spent Thanksgiving at my folks’ place in Wisconsin.

Paige had latched onto Eva the moment we’d arrived.

They’d watched YouTube beauty videos on Eva’s phone while I helped my mom prepare dinner.

Eva had nearly lost it when she saw the mayonnaise-based noodle salad on the table.

Christmas was in Boston with her family. We’d gotten a hotel room rather than stay in her childhood home, however. Her parents were still a little chilly towards me—towards us—so we hadn’t wanted to make it more awkward than it needed to be.

New Years was back in Chicago where we’d spent a quiet evening at her condo, watching the city’s fireworks and sipping champagne. For the first time in my life, I’d had someone to kiss when the clock had struck midnight.

The SUV hummed along Miami’s wide streets, windows down just enough for the heat and a faint salt breeze from Biscayne Bay to leak in.

I watched palm trees whip past, neon signs flashing glimpses of shops and cafés.

Eva’s hand rested lightly on my knee, grounding me through the blur of motion, and Jazz chatted nonstop about the league’s rules and our new potential teammates, her words bouncing off the leather interior.

Our league-provided apartment was on the fourth floor of a newish complex in downtown, not far from where we’d be playing games. Beige stucco, shiny glass, and palm trees dotted the front of the building like movie props.

Inside, we discovered two bedrooms and one bath. Neutral walls. Light wood floors. The furnishings were the kind of furniture that came in pre-matched sets—functional, but nothing you’d pick out yourself.

Eva opened the door that led to the second bedroom. It was somewhat smaller than the primary, but not terrible. “Well,” she decided, “we won’t have any use for that.”

She promptly shut the door as if it had offended her.

“Why would Briana give us a two-bedroom apartment?” she questioned.

I shrugged. “So I don’t have to sleep on the couch if I’m in the dog house?”

Eva gave me a slow, knowing look, the corner of her mouth curling up. “You think you’re going to end up in the dog house?”

“Statistically speaking, yeah.”

“Well, I suppose the extra closet space will be nice,” she conceded.

I leaned against the kitchen island, watching her take in the space. “So? Does it meet your standards?”

“It’s a little basic,” she said. Her gaze flicked to the lone gray sofa in the living room and then back to me. “But it’s not permanent. I suppose I can rough it for a few months.”

“It’s nice that Jazz and everyone is just a few doors down,” I opined. “Like a basketball bubble.”

Eva rapped her knuckles against the wall, testing the plaster. “We’ll see.”

I quirked an eyebrow. “Worried about loud music?”

Her smirk said it wasn’t music she was thinking about. “Loud music. Right.”

A sharp knock drew our attention to the front of the apartment. Jazz opened the door and poked her head inside.

“Yo, lovebirds!” she called. “Bus is leaving for the gym. Time to see our new home court away from home.”

From the outside, it didn’t look like much. But the second we walked through the glass doors, it hit me—this was ours. Not shared with a men’s team. Not a practice slot at some college gym. Ours.

Cool, crisp, and buzzing with energy, the new league’s practice facility felt less like a gym and more like a high-end sports resort.

We passed through the lobby, where a staffer handed us keycards and welcome packets.

“Lex!”

I turned to see my Shamrocks teammate, Dez Young, jogging toward me. “Bri let just anyone join her new league, huh?” She pulled me into a hug that lifted me off my feet.

The tour started with the practice courts. Even from the entrance, the scale of it stole my breath away. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, skylights flooding the space with the bright Miami sun. The newly-waxed hardwood gleamed with the league’s emblem bright at center court.

Jazz let out a low whistle. “This is insane. They didn’t play when they built this.”

Eva stayed close beside me, her fingers brushing mine as we took in the scene together.

Briana smiled, clearly proud. “We wanted a space that felt professional and inspiring—something that raised the bar for women’s basketball. But also, a place where you want to spend time, not just grind.”

We moved next to the weight room, which was anything but the grimy, cramped space I’d become accustomed to.

Instead, the space was flooded with natural light and lined with state-of-the-art machines and free weights arranged with meticulous care.

High-tech screens dotted the walls, ready to track every rep and heart beat.

Dez gave a low whistle. “This is next level.”

“Wait until you see the locker rooms,” Briana said with a smirk as she led us down a sleek hallway.

When the doors swung open, a collective gasp escaped the group.

The locker room looked more like a boutique hotel lobby than a changing area.

Soft leather benches, marble countertops, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors stretched across the space.

Personalized lockers bore each player’s name etched in brushed steel.

The scent of fresh eucalyptus lingered in the air, subtle and calming.

I caught Briana’s eye and nodded toward the luxe space. “Okay, but how are you pulling all this off? This can’t be cheap.”

She shrugged, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Let’s just say the league has some serious financial backing. A lot of folks believe in this project. It’s more than basketball—it’s about setting a new standard.”

Dez snorted from behind me. “Well, whoever’s paying, they better keep it coming.”

The whole group laughed, but beneath the humor was a quiet excitement. This wasn’t just a place to train—it was a statement.

Back in the gym, most of the group hung back, chatting in little clusters, but a few players lingered near the baseline. Someone—of course it was Jazz—snagged a ball from the rack by the scorer’s table.

She bounced the ball a few times, tested the grip, and stepped into a shot from just inside the arc. The ball connected with the backboard and rattled around the rim before dropping in.

“The bank is open!” she called, grinning at her own joke.

That was all it took. The ripple effect was instant.

Dez caught the rebound, dribbled backward to the corner, and sent one up without even setting her feet. Swish.

“No tin, all cotton!”

Eva stood beside me, amused but not moving to join in. “Go ahead,” she murmured. “I know you want to.”

“I’m not dressed for it,” I refused, glancing down at my jeans and sneakers.

Eva arched a brow. “You need a uniform to make a shot?”

That was all the dare I needed. I took the ball from Dez and jogged until I stood behind the three-point line. My release felt awkward in street clothes, but the ball arced high and dropped clean through.

The reaction was pure chaos—mock gasps, hands thrown in the air, a couple of exaggerated oooohs from somewhere behind me.

“Alright, sharpshooter,” Briana said, bumping my shoulder as she passed. “Don’t peak too early.”

More balls were in play now, the court filled with random trick shots, ridiculous layup attempts, and at least one half-court heave from Jazz that clanged hard off the rim.

“Don’t injure yourself, messing around,” Briana warned. She looked and sounded like an overstressed mom trying to keep her kids in line on vacation. “You break it, you buy it.”

The oversized yacht drifted away from the dock just as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Miami’s skyline shrank as we put more distance between ourselves and the shore.

The city’s silhouette faded from view against a sky filled with purple, orange, and pink.

A breeze picked up, brushing against my neck as I stood at the edge of the deck, taking it all in.