Page 23 of Half-Court Heat (Hoops & Heartstrings #2)

Chapter

Fourteen

T hey’d spared no expense for the first game of the new league—pulsing lights, smoke machines, and a DJ who looked like he belonged in Ibiza rather than courtside in Miami. Everything felt oversized and hyped, including my nerves.

“Welcome to your opening matchup!” the announcer boomed over the arena speakers. “The Embers versus the Monarchs!”

I bounced on the balls of my feet, adrenaline already humming beneath my skin.

The court was compact—a pared-down version of what we were used to—but the smaller scale only cranked up the intensity.

Fewer players. No room to hide. The three-on-three format meant fast switches and zero time to adjust. You were either on, or you were out.

“Lex,” Eva’s voice was low beside me as we lined up for introductions, “relax your shoulders.”

I hadn’t realized my shoulders were hiked up practically to my ears. I exhaled and dropped them an inch.

“Better,” she murmured.

I was vibrating at a molecular level while she remained cool and focused, not a hair out of place. She looked every bit the cover star she’d been for Sports Illustrated .

“Don’t coach me,” I muttered.

“I’m not,” she said. “I’m looking out for you.”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek. I wanted to say thank you. I wanted to shove her. I did neither. The lights dimmed as the DJ queued up our walkout music.

We jogged through the tunnel of spotlights as our names were announced. We were starting with me at point, Eva on the wing, and Arika in the post. The rest of our team—Dez and Rayah—lined the bench, just off the perimeter.

At the other end of the court, the Monarchs stayed loose and stared at us, stone-faced. Their squad was stacked with players I’d gone toe-to-toe with in the pro league and a few international stars, all of them All-Stars and deserving.

The first few minutes of the game were chaos.

Not messy, unskilled chaos—more like barely-controlled combustion.

Possession flipped back and forth in rapid-fire bursts.

There were no fouls called in the first ninety seconds, even though I was pretty sure someone from the Monarchs had gotten away with a full-on forearm shove to Arika’s ribs.

Eva hit an early three, clean and quick off a step-back that sent her opponent, Sloane Hale, scrambling. I fed a fast inside pass to Arika that she finished with a little English off the glass. We were up 5–2 and the crowd was starting to get loud.

But then Lina Vargas decided to make it personal.

She pressed up on me after a rebound, way closer than necessary, barking something in Spanish that didn’t need translating. I let her angry tone roll off of me. I boxed her out again on the next play and snagged the board, only for her to rake her nails down my arm.

“Watch it,” I snapped.

“Make me,” she sneered.

The next possession, Lina set a hard screen, borderline illegal, causing me to bounce off her shoulder. Eva switched players to cover for me, calling out a heads-up, but I was still reeling.

By the time Coach Demarios subbed us out for a breather, I was seething.

“I swear, she’s trying to bait me,” I said, gulping water on the sideline.

“Then don’t bite,” Eva said simply, eyes locked on the court.

“She shoved me,” I insisted. “Twice.”

“She’s an instigator. That’s her game.”

“Are you even listening to me?” I complained.

Eva turned to face me fully, her expression unreadable. “Yes, Lex. I am. But if you lose your cool, she wins. You want to give her that?”

“I’m not going to blow up,” I insisted.

“You sure?”

Before I could respond, Coach Demarios was calling for Eva and me to sub back in for Arika and Rayah.

I wiped my palms on the front of my shorts and jogged toward half court. The heat from earlier hadn’t left my body; it had just settled deeper, coiled and ready.

“Keep your head,” Eva said as we passed each other; her hand brushed mine for the briefest second.

I didn’t respond.

Back on the floor, the tempo had only intensified.

The Monarchs zipped the ball around the basket’s perimeter, no one holding it longer than a heartbeat.

I stayed low in my defensive position, knees bent and reading the play as Sloane Hale dribbled left and faked the kick-out pass.

Dez stepped into the passing lane and nearly stole it—but the ball ricocheted off of her shin and skittered free.

The ball hit the floor—loose, wild, and mine .

I dove.

My knees stung on impact as I skid across the unforgiving hardwood. My hands took purchase of the ball just as someone else did, too—Lina Vargas from the Monarchs’ crew, all elbows and attitude. She yanked. Hard. Nails scraped my wrist. I growled and yanked back.

The whistle didn’t come. Maybe the ref was letting us play, or maybe he just didn’t want to get in the middle of whatever this was becoming.

“Let go,” Lina grit out.

“Make me,” I shot back.

We were both on our knees now, fighting over the ball like school kids at recess, heads low, shoulders locked, and I could feel it: my pulse spiking, the crowd buzzing, that dangerous flash of white-hot temper licking at the back of my throat.

And then hands—strong, sure, and very much not Lina’s—closed around my waist.

I was off the ground before I could react.

“What the … Eva !” I twisted midair as she literally lifted me off my feet and dragged me back a few steps like I weighed nothing. The soles of my shoes squeaked across the court.

“Are you serious?” I hissed as she set me down, my heart still jackhammering from the scuffle. “You can’t pick me up like a toddler!”

“You were acting like one.”

I whipped around, heat flushing up my neck. “You know social media’s gonna have a field day with that. I can see the memes now—‘Mommy Eva saves her rage-baby girlfriend from a fight.’”

Eva’s expression didn’t shift. She remained calm, cool, and controlled in the way that always got under my skin. “So I was just supposed to let you fight her?”

“I wasn’t going to hit her,” I muttered, even though I couldn’t totally promise that. “I was holding my ground.”

“You were halfway to a technical.”

I clenched my jaw, stepping out of her reach, embarrassment curdling with leftover adrenaline. All around us, the court was still humming—refs trying to restore order, fans shouting, phones definitely recording.

“I can handle myself,” I said tightly.

“I know you can.” She took a slow breath. My attitude was starting to chip away at her careful armor. “But I also know that if I hadn’t stepped in, you’d be in the locker room right now instead of still in this game.”

I turned away, blinking hard. I hated that she was right. I hated that she knew me that well.

“Time out!” Coach Demarios shouted from the sideline.

The players on the court slunk over to their respective bench areas.

Coach Demarios looked us over like a disappointed dad.

“Come on y’all.” He sounded fed up. “I know everyone’s amped for the inaugural game, but you’ve got to keep your cool.” He looked pointedly in my direction, causing me to duck my head a little. “Each team’s bench is already thin. If we go down a player, we lose. Got it?”

Everyone in the huddle murmured their agreement. I moved my lips, but the words caught in my throat.

The ref blew his whistle, signaling the time out was over.

“Bennet!” Coach Demarios caught me before I could jog back onto the court. He shook his index finger. “Nuh uh. You’re sitting next to me.”

“But, Coach—” I tried to protest.

He stabbed his finger toward the padded chairs along the sideline. “Cool your jets.”

I dropped my duffle bag in the front foyer.

The cool blast of our apartment’s air conditioner chilled my skin, but it did nothing to soothe the agitation I still felt.

We’d won our first game against the Monarchs, but I hadn’t seen much playing time after my scuffle with Lina Vargas.

I hadn’t been ejected, but Coach Demarios hadn’t called my name for the rest of the game unless someone else was totally gassed.

I’d gone from Day 1 starter to bench warmer in less than a quarter of basketball.

I kicked off my slides and padded toward the kitchen, the smooth tile cool beneath my feet. My shoulder joints still ached from that dive. But my pride hurt more.

Behind me, the door clicked shut. “We need to get some groceries,” Eva said, setting her keys in the little ceramic dish by the entryway. “I think we’ve got one sad avocado and a half-empty carton of milk left.”

I yanked open the fridge door, stared inside like something edible might materialize, and then shut it with a little more force than necessary.

Eva leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “What’s with the attitude?”

I didn’t look at her. “What do you think?”

“Are you going to be able to handle us being on the same team,” she asked evenly, “or am I going to have to ask Briana for a trade?”

My mouth fell open. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would if it means we can avoid flare ups like today.”

“Would you have grabbed a teammate like that who you weren’t dating?” I challenged.

“To keep them from getting T’d up or ejected from the game? Yes. Every time.”

“It was embarrassing!”

“Don’t drag me into this. You were doing a fine job of being embarrassing all by yourself,” she quipped.

I dropped my head. “I get a little hot-headed sometimes.”

Eva’s full lips twisted into a smirk. “You don’t say.”

“I mean, it’s probably the biggest flaw in my game.

” I ran a hand through my hair, still slightly damp from my postgame shower.

“And I’ve always gotten away with it. Like, I could blow up and still stay on the court.

But last season, coming off the bench? I had to earn every minute.

I think that helped me keep my cool. I knew I couldn’t afford to screw up. ”

“My old college coach used to tell us to chirp at you,” Eva revealed. “Get under your skin so you’d make stupid fouls.”

The news surprised me. “Really?”

She nodded. “I wasn’t much of a trash talker though.”

“No. Your game speaks for itself,” I noted. “That’s annoying enough.”

“Annoying?” she chuckled. “You’ve got the kind of game that you hate playing against but love having on your own team. You’re like a gnat out there on defense. You’re so fundamentally sound. That’s annoying.”

I perked up at the way our conversation had shifted. Our communication skills had turned out to be one of our strengths as a couple, but we’d never really explored why we’d disliked each other so much in college.

“ You’re the one with discipline,” I protested. “You’re so smooth and effortless out there. It’s like nothing ever phases you. You rise above all of that on-court drama.”

“Because the media and all of those internet trolls would crucify me if I got too heated. Just another angry Black woman,” she clucked.

“ You can get away with being a hot-head, and they’ll call it ‘passion for the game.’ If I raise my voice, suddenly I’m hostile , too aggressive , unstable .

They don’t see fire; they see a threat.”

My stomach turned a little. There were different rulebooks, and we both knew it.

One for men, who could scream at refs or punch lockers without it meaning anything more than they were passionate about the game.

One for women, where even tears made us “unstable.” And within that, a sharper blade aimed at Black women.

I got to be “feisty” and “fiery.” Eva? She had to stay palatable. Respectable.

It pissed me off. Not at her, never at her—but at the whole damn system that let me play messy and still be lovable, while she had to be perfect just to be considered enough.

“I’m sorry,” I said, quieter this time. “I’ll stop being a brat. Don’t request a trade, okay?”

“Talk to Coach Demarios,” she urged. “Apologize for being a hot-head and tell him it won’t happen again.” She leveled me with a stern gaze. “Because it’s not going to happen again. I didn’t uproot my life for three months not to get to play with you.”

I wrinkled my nose. Apologize ?

Eva sensed my hesitance. “Fine. You can pick me up and toss me around later, if it makes you feel better.”

I exhaled. “You don’t fight fair.”