Page 19 of Half-Court Heat (Hoops & Heartstrings #2)
Chapter
Twelve
T he moment I sat down in the chair, I could tell this wasn’t going to be my scene.
“I’m not used to this kind of stuff,” I warned the stylist, watching her prep the foundation and brushes. The way she arranged products on the counter reminded me of a surgeon about to perform a delicate operation. It made me nervous.
“That’s why I’m here,” she easily replied.
An army of hairstylists and makeup artists had been waiting for us that morning. It was media day—a break from our regular practice schedule for formal photos, the kind guaranteed to flood social media and get fans hyped for the season ahead.
The whole ordeal felt foreign. Makeup, gloss, blush …
I had never cared for makeup or fashion during college.
Before Eva’s mini intervention, I showed up for Game Day in team sweats and hoodies, not haute couture .
Only Eva had been able to convince me that I needed to elevate my pre-game style as much as I’d upgraded my playing skills.
I’d put up a fight at first, but eventually I’d grown to look forward to that walk from the stadium parking lot to the locker room.
I still didn’t particularly like having my picture taken, but it felt good to look good.
And I couldn’t deny the personal thrill when I selected an outfit that made Eva’s features light up with appreciation.
Jazz occupied the chair next to me. She was practically vibrating with excitement.
She had one of those looks—fiercely feminine, always loud and unapologetic.
When it came to makeup and clothes, Jazz didn’t do anything understated.
She let her stylist work on her hair, coaxing it into that full-bodied, luxe curl.
It was longer than I’d ever seen it, and from the way she beamed, she was in love with every inch.
“Girl, they’re about to make me slay !” she said, practically bouncing in her seat as her stylist completed the finishing touches.
“You already slay, Jazz,” I muttered, my voice dry as I tried to focus on the fact that I was wearing foundation for the first time in God knows how long.
“I know that. But this ?” She waved her hands in front of her face like she was giving the whole room a taste of her magic. “It’s next level.”
A few chairs down, Dez swatted at the hands of the poor stylist assigned to her. “I don’t need all that gunk,” she openly complained. “I don’t care how much Bri is paying us—I’m not getting dolled up.”
Next to her, Rayah chuckled. Out of all of us, she looked the most natural with a full face of makeup. “It’s only for one day,” she soothed. “You know some of these people would run screaming if they saw a real-life stud.”
Jazz leaned forward so she could look down the row of chairs. “Y’all are acting like this is torture. It’s media day. We’re supposed to look good.”
“I always look good,” Dez shot back.
Rayah clucked. “Take it easy, Dez baby. Let your poor stylist keep her job for the day.”
Eva’s voice cut through the banter. “There’s a lot of commotion in here.”
I turned in my chair just as she stepped into the room. Her braids were gone, replaced by a sleek middle part, her hair flowing down her back in perfect waves. I had to admit, the whole look was stunning. But it wasn’t just the hair or the makeup—everything about Eva made me feel some kind of way.
“Middle part, bussin’,” I said under my breath, trying to make light of how stunning she looked.
She shot me a playful grin, brushing some hair out of her eyes. “You think so?”
I nodded. “I do. But I like you with the braids, too. I like you no matter the version.”
“Well, lucky for you, you get every version,” she teased.
“Don’t laugh,” I said, before she could say anything else. “I look like a clown, don’t I?”
“Not even close,” Eva said, stepping in front of me, her eyes scanning my face. “You’re a very pretty girl, Lex.”
Jazz grinned in her seat beside me. “Next thing you know, they’ll have you on billboards.”
From across the room, Dez let out a low laugh. “Billboards? Please. She’s gonna start asking for her own dressing room.”
Jazz snorted. “And bottled water flown in from the Alps.”
A woman with khaki pants and a headset poked her head into the locker room. “Team Embers,” she said, “you’re up next.”
We shuffled out into the main gym, the hardwood polished to a mirror shine, cameras and softbox lights set up in neat rows. Players from a different team were lined up against a massive backdrop with their team logo while the photographer barked out friendly instructions.
“Alright, big smiles. One with arms crossed. Now mean mug. That’s it. Beautiful.”
Briana stood off to the side, directing traffic so we stayed on schedule. She spotted our approach and immediately started pointing. “Arika, you’re on the left side. Lex, middle row. Eva—front and center. Let’s go.”
The team shots went by in a hurry—tall bodies in the back, short ones kneeling in the front, coaches stepping in for a shot or two. A few silly poses snuck in when the photographer wasn’t looking.
Individual headshots came next. One by one, we rotated through the bright lights. Eva tilted her head just so, like she’d been born in front of a camera. Dez gave a smirk that was pure defiance. Rayah pursed her lips and blew a kiss. Arika threw up two fingers in a peace sign.
I’d just finished my solo shots when I heard Briana again. “Hey, before you move on—let’s get a few of Eva and Lex together.”
The request hung in the air for a moment too long. I felt the pressure of curious eyes turning our way.
“This just got interesting,” Dez grunted.
Eva didn’t hesitate. She crossed the floor toward me with a smooth, unhurried stride, the kind that made people step out of her way without realizing it.
“Ready?” she asked, her voice soft enough for just me.
I wasn’t sure if she meant the pictures or the unwanted attention, but I nodded anyway.
The photographer waved us into place. “Alright, shoulder to shoulder. Good. Now face each other just a bit—yeah, perfect. Big smiles. Now serious. There it is.”
Eva’s arm brushed mine, warm even through the fabric of her arm sleeve.
The camera lights flashed. It felt surreal, this moment of standing side by side, our relationship laid out in front of everyone—open and unapologetic.
I could feel the weight of the room. Hear the quiet murmurings from the other players who looked on.
See the subtle glances shared between them.
Somewhere behind us, someone made a kissing noise loud enough to ruin at least one shot.
The photographer laughed and set down her camera. “Alright, that’s a wrap for you two.”
We walked off to the side, but I could still hear the lingering whispers behind us. I could feel the awkwardness creeping in.
When media day photography had wrapped up, we were ushered back to the arena for a meet-and-greet with fans.
We couldn’t let all that hair and makeup go to waste.
The noise hit me like a tidal wave as soon as we stepped into the venue—fans, flashing lights, the hum of excited chatter.
The walls of the gym were lined with tables and booths, all emblazoned with sponsor logos and the banners of our respective teams. It was the kind of event I’d been to dozens of times in college and in my rookie year in the pros, but it felt different that day with Eva by my side, her hand warm in mine, and me hyper-aware of the world around us.
People eyed us from across the room, the buzz of recognition spreading like wildfire. I could hear the murmurs: “There’s Eva Montgomery,” followed by “And that’s Lex, her girlfriend!”
Even though we’d been publicly out for months now, this was our first media event together. There was something difficult to describe about seeing the recognition of our relationship reflected back in the eyes of fans.
I let out a breath, trying to shake off the nerves.
“It’s going to be fine,” Eva assured me. Her fingers squeezed mine, and I glanced at her, finding that usual confidence reflected in her honey light eyes.
“Yeah,” I murmured, swallowing the lump in my throat. “We’ve got this.”
We sat down at a table covered with glossy promotional materials. Pens, posters, and branded merchandise were scattered in front of us. Eva leaned forward in her chair, her elbows resting on the table, eyes scanning the crowd. She was a pro at this, and I knew she could turn it on with a smile.
The first fan stepped forward—a young woman holding a replica of Eva’s Chicago jersey.
I could see the awe in her eyes and the energy in her posture as she handed the memento for Eva to sign.
Eva was warm, gracious, every inch the superstar, as she scrawled her autograph across the fabric.
Even when we hadn’t been each other’s biggest fans, I’d still been impressed at how effortlessly she could switch into this public persona: always kind, always poised.
I followed her lead and smiled at the next person in line—an older woman holding a photo of me from my rookie season.
She slid the glossy photo across the table, her hands trembling just enough that I noticed.
“I’ve been following you since you were drafted,” she said, voice soft but certain. “You’ve come a long way.”
Something in my chest loosened. “Thank you,” I said, uncapping the pen. I signed my name slowly, the way I’d been told to—big enough to read, small enough to fit in a frame.
More fans filtered in, and the rhythm set in: smile, sign, make eye contact, say thank you. Over and over. The heat from the lights overhead made the air feel heavier, and the din of voices seemed to swell every time someone new spotted Eva.
A teenage boy approached next, phone already out, his gaze darting between the two of us. “Can I get a picture of you guys? Together?” he asked.
Eva’s eyes flicked toward me, a silent question. My first instinct was to say no—that protective reflex to keep what was ours from being reduced to a hashtag—but the hope in his face disarmed me.