Page 27 of Half-Court Heat (Hoops & Heartstrings #2)

Chapter

Eighteen

E va had assured me that she would take no meetings with potential new sponsors while we were in Miami, but her publicist Veronica had been adamant that we—both Eva and myself—sit down with the marketing team for an up-and-coming sports drink.

The professional women’s basketball league was notoriously cutthroat.

One minute you were the darling of the league, and the next you could be waived from your team with little more than a ‘thank you for your service.’ This was the harsh reality that Veronica had reiterated in her voicemail to Eva.

Make hay while the sun shines. Carpe diem.

Strike while the iron’s still hot. I’d never heard so many idioms strung together all at once.

We were supposed to have a light practice later that afternoon, but Eva had convinced Coach Demarios that our meeting with marketing execs wouldn’t run long and that we’d be back in time for afternoon shoot-around. Convincing me, however, was a little harder.

Half an hour, tops, she’d promised me. They were flying down to Miami just to meet with us. Wouldn’t it be fun to shoot a commercial together—be on a billboard together. I’d finally relented, but only after holding firm that there was no way in hell I was dressing up to hear their pitch.

It was a nice touch that they’d sent a car to pick us up, but I practiced my best unimpressed stare on the ride over.

Eva was used to this kind of VIP treatment, but it was new for me.

The local car dealership and the family-owned restaurant that had given me my first NIL checks hadn’t been dishing out similar perks, unless you counted a free trip to the all-you-can-eat buffet.

A middle-aged white man in an expensive-looking suit met us outside of a gleaming skyscraper in downtown Miami.

He introduced himself as Eric and shook our hands with an aggressive hold.

He clasped my hand in both of his and firmly jerked my wrist up and down while he yammered on about this exciting opportunity .

We were quickly ushered out of the Miami heat and toward a bank of elevators inside.

A short ride in the elevator brought us to a mid-level floor where bottled water was procured before we made our way down a long, sterile hallway.

Eric led us to a glass-encased conference room that overlooked a marina.

White luxury boats bobbed in the blue water below.

Imposter syndrome manifested as intrusive thoughts, but I did my best to maintain an aloof air throughout it all. I was a professional athlete, I reminded myself. I was dating one of the hottest women on the planet. I belonged in this room. I belonged at this table.

Eva’s hand rested on my knee under said conference table. She squeezed my thigh, just above my kneecap, and flashed me an encouraging smile.

She looked beautiful, of course, but also polished and professional. Her braids—micro, tight along the scalp—fanned out into loose waves halfway down her back, like someone had started with precision and given up halfway in favor of softness.

Her outfit was as strategic as anything Veronica could have planned.

High-waisted tailored trousers in slate gray, wide-legged and clean-lined, paired with a sleeveless mock-neck top the color of blood oranges.

The top’s rich hue made her skin glow, and the minimalist gold watch on her wrist was more jewelry than timepiece.

I’d opted for wide-legged jeans and a short-sleeved linen top that her stylist Dyaisha would have approved of. Casual, but not sloppy. Eva looked like she had a private jet idling outside.

I made a mental note to tell her as much when the meeting was over.

Two men in navy blue suits and brown loafers with no socks stood at the front of the room.

A massive flatscreen hung on the wall behind them.

Both men looked on the young-ish side in comparison to Eric.

They introduced themselves, and I promptly forgot their names.

Instead, my attention was monopolized by a mock advertisement stretched across the presentation screen.

It was a picture of me, mid-jump shot, my hair flying loose behind me instead of tied back in my signature French braid. My Shamrocks jersey had been photoshopped to remove any signs of trademarked material. I never played with my hair down— what kind of AI monstrosity had come up with that?

“So here’s the concept,” one of the marketing reps began. “ Fuel the Fire. ” He beamed like a proud parent. “It’s bold. It’s electric. It’s intimate, without being explicit.”

I felt Eva go still beside me.

“Lex, you’re on the court, pure focus,” the second rep narrated.

He pointed a remote at the flatscreen and the image changed.

“Eva,” he continued, “you’re on the opposing team.

Cut to a close-up—your eyes meet. Boom. Lex charges the basket.

You’re unstoppable. Then everything fades away—no ball, no refs, just chemistry. It’s playful. It’s fierce.”

Another click of the remote. Now Eva and I were facing off. Jerseys tight across our chests. Dramatic lighting that seemed to over-exaggerate the difference of our skin color. My hand was on her waist. Hers was on my jaw.

“And this is the moment,” the first rep continued where his partner had fallen off. “No dialogue. Just the beat of your hearts, the squeak of sneakers, the sound of desire. You kiss. And then …”

He clapped once, for emphasis. “—cut to the bottle of Electra Sports Drink slamming down on a locker room bench. Condensation dripping. Neon label glowing. Our tagline appears: Fuel the fire. Quench the craving. ”

He paused, as if waiting for applause. Or gratitude. Or whatever reaction he thought that deserved.

Instead, the silence dragged.

Eva leaned forward slightly, her tone surgical. “Is this the actual pitch?”

The second rep looked taken aback. “Yes. Of course. We’re tapping into cultural relevance. The whole ‘thirst trap’ idea? It’s aspirational. Visceral. You’re breaking barriers and looking good doing it.”

“You’re asking us to sexualize our relationship to sell fluorescent Gatorade,” Eva said flatly.

The first marketing rep gave a nervous laugh. “It’s not just about the kiss. It’s about connection. About making people feel something.”

“Yeah, like objectified,” I muttered, unable to hold back.

He held up a hand, as if that would somehow help. “Look, I get it. You don’t want to lean too far into the queer angle?—”

“The queer angle ?” I echoed.

Something that felt a lot like anger began to tingle under my skin.

“Or maybe you’re worried it’s too provocative?” he offered, like he was helping. “I promise, the feedback’s been amazing when we test this kind of authenticity. You two are, frankly, the perfect storm. Women’s sports. Interracial relationship. Queer visibility. It’s exactly what sells right now.”

I stood up so fast my chair nearly toppled over. “We’re not some kind of checklist, dude.”

The second rep glanced nervously between us. “I think you’re misreading the tone?—”

“No,” Eva said, standing too, calm as hell but no less lethal. “We’re reading it just fine. I never would have taken this meeting if I’d known the pitch,” she said. “I thought you wanted athletes.”

The first man scoffed. “Well, of course you’re athletes. But?—”

“Then show that, ” she snapped. “Not some slow-mo, masturbatory fantasy with electrolytes.” Eva was already turning toward the exit. “I’ve seen all I care to. My people will be in touch.”

Eva didn’t stop moving once we were outside of the conference room. Her long legs strode purposefully back in the direction of the elevators. I scrambled to keep up with her pace. She only stopped when we reached the call button for the elevator.

She jabbed her finger against the down button.

“I’m sorry,” she briskly apologized. “I never should have made you take this meeting without properly vetting their ideas first. These things usually go much better.”

I exhaled. “Did he really say ‘quench the craving’ like we’re sex-dehydrated?”

Eva gave me a sharp look. “You can’t say that shit when I’m still mad.”

I smiled despite myself. “I’m sorry, but I think I lost brain cells.”

Eva pressed the elevator button again like she couldn’t escape fast enough. She ignored my attempt at levity. “ God , I feel so dumb and completely blindsided.”

Her hand raised again to smash the call buttons. I gently trapped her hand in mine, sure she’d do damage to herself or the elevator.

“Hey. It’s okay. It was just one bad meeting.”

Eva loudly exhaled like she was trying to reign in her emotions. “But it was our first meeting. I know you’re already skeptical about all the branding stuff. I really wanted this to go well.”

“There will be other opportunities,” I soothed. “I’ll keep an open mind.”

She stared straight ahead as if willing the elevator’s arrival. I watched her work the muscles in her throat.

Finally, she turned toward me. “Let’s play hooky.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

She shrugged. “Why not? We’re in Miami. It’s beautiful out. And I need to forget this disaster of a meeting.”

The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside. She pulled her sunglasses out of her designer bag and slid them on without breaking eye contact. “Come on, thirst trap. Let’s get hydrated.”