Page 31 of Half-Court Heat (Hoops & Heartstrings #2)

Chapter

Twenty-One

A n MRI on Monday morning confirmed what we all feared. Eva had torn her ACL. For anyone else, the injury could have been rehabbed without surgery, but for an elite athlete who played a sport that required cutting and quick lateral movements, surgery was the only option.

Eva hadn’t cried. She hadn’t gotten angry.

She hadn’t shown any emotion, really. She only asked questions of the doctor to know what needed to be done next.

She asked about graft options, about timelines, about range of motion.

She acted as if this was an ordinary checklist she had to get through before she could move on with her day.

I wasn’t sure if I admired her or if it terrified me. Maybe both.

I kept waiting for it to hit her—the tremble in her hands, the choked-back sob, the anger that had nowhere useful to go. That was how I’d reacted when the doctor had told me about my wrist.

The surgery would be delayed a few weeks.

Unlike my wrist surgery, which had occurred the same night as my injury, the most successful ACL procedures happened only after swelling had subsided and she was able to bend her knee completely.

According to the doctor—and everything I’d read online— restoring normal range of motion before surgery significantly improved recovery.

Operating on a swollen, stiff knee would only increase the risk of excessive scar tissue and stiffness in the aftermath.

I sat in the doctor’s office, trying not to fidget, trying not to betray that my heart was crawling into my throat. Eva was the one with the torn ACL, but somehow I felt like I was breaking.

We went back to the apartment with the news and sat in contemplative silence.

Something buzzed on the TV in the background, but neither of us paid it any attention.

Teammates and other league players had been dropping by with well-wishes and food since it had happened.

Casseroles, pasta bakes, a bag of Publix subs—more food than two people with no appetite could possibly eat.

I mentally braced myself after another knock on the door.

Everyone meant well, but I knew that the small-talk and the quiet, sympathetic “how are you doings” were wearing on her.

Eva had been polite and gracious through it all, but I could tell—without her having to say so—that she’d rather retreat than interact with anyone else.

I leaned down and gave her a quick kiss. “I’ll put up a sign that says Go Away .”

I expected another teammate with a covered dish or maybe Jazz with a card game. What I didn’t expect was Virginia Montgomery, standing tall and elegant on our doormat with a small roller bag at her side.

“Wow.” I blurted out the first dumb thing that popped into my head.

“Where’s Eva?” she demanded.

I stepped aside to let her in, still stunned.

Eva’s mom took no time to inspect our apartment.

She made no remarks about the furnishings.

She didn’t even bother taking off her shoes.

Her roller bag only got as far as the front foyer.

She left it behind and strode purposefully towards Eva, who had remained on the couch with her leg iced and elevated.

“A colleague told me you’d been injured in a game,” she explained. “I had to wrap up some things at work, but I’m here now.” She sank into the empty cushion near Eva’s elevated knee. “What happened?”

No hug. No squeeze of Eva’s hand. Just business.

The corner of Eva’s mouth twitched. “I went for a rebound and came down funny.”

Mrs. Montgomery looked up sharply, dark eyes boring into me as if I was somehow responsible. “What did the doctors say?”

I shoved my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie. “She tore her ACL.”

Eva’s mom looked pensive. Torn. Finally, she sighed as if realizing there was nothing else to be done.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

“I’m not hungry,” Eva refused.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Montgomery dismissed. “You need to eat. You need to keep up your strength.”

She looked again in my direction.

“I’ll-I’ll make up some plates,” I said, already walking towards the kitchen.

I opened the fridge and stared at the mountain of Tupperware and foil pans, all neatly stacked by the stream of visitors who’d already come through. It felt like the aftermath of a funeral: people not knowing what to say, so they showed up with food instead.

I blindly heaped food onto three plates, my attention torn between my task and the activities in the living room.

The plates clattered louder than I meant when I set them on the counter.

From the couch, I could hear the low murmur of Mrs. Montgomery’s voice, precise and clipped.

Eva’s was softer, shorter, like she was conserving her energy.

I risked a glance into the living room. Mrs. Montgomery had already straightened the throw pillows, smoothed the blanket draped over Eva’s lap, and moved the water glass closer to her hand. She behaved like an executive running a board meeting, not a mother tending to her injured daughter.

“You can’t afford to let your nutrition slide,” I overheard her say. “Protein, iron, hydration. All of it matters, especially now.”

“Mom,” Eva sighed. “I know how to take care of my body.”

“Clearly not well enough,” her mom sniffed.

Eva didn’t answer. She stared at the TV, her expression blank.

I finished plating the food and carried it over, feeling more like a server than someone’s partner. I set the dishes on the coffee table and stepped back.

“Thank you, Alexandra.” Mrs. Montgomery’s tone was similar to one she might use with a restaurant employee.

I took my plate to a nearby chair.

Mrs. Montgomery looked over the food on her plate, but she didn’t reach for her fork. “You’ll come home for the surgery, of course.”

“Miami has doctors, too,” Eva resisted. “In fact, one of the top ACL surgeons is based here.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Montgomery clucked. “Boston has world-class healthcare. Plus your parents,” she added. “Who’s going to take care of you after the surgery and drive you to and from rehab?”

Mrs. Montgomery’s dark eyes flashed in my direction as if challenging me to argue with her. Or maybe she was only asking me to back her up on this. I hadn’t spent enough time with her yet to interpret her non-verbal cues.

“I’ll have the surgery in Boston,” Eva placated. “We’ll talk about my rehab later.”

Mrs. Montgomery’s expression softened only slightly, as if she’d won a skirmish but not the war. “Maybe this injury was fortuitous.”

Eva rolled her eyes. “I can’t even imagine what you’re going to say next.”

“It’s a reminder of how fragile this career choice is.”

“ Mom .” Eva’s tone pitched up in frustration. “We’ve gone over this a thousand times.”

“There’s going to be a time when basketball is no longer an option,” came her unsolicited advice. “It’s best you start thinking about that now rather than later.” She looked sharply in my direction. “Both of you.”

I only spoke my peace when everyone had turned in for the night. I set up the guest bedroom for Eva’s mom before retiring to the primary room.

Eva was arranging the pillows that propped up her knee.

I sat down at the end of the mattress and toyed with the duvet. I spoke quietly but carefully so she wouldn’t miss my words: “I can take care of you after your surgery.”

She shook her head. “You’re still going to be playing. I won’t have surgery until February, but this season runs through March.”

I straightened, a stubborn flutter in my chest. “I’ll quit.”

Eva’s features pinched. “You can’t do that, baby. You’ve got a responsibility to Briana. If you drop out, others might, too.”

I swallowed. “Oh. I didn’t think about that.”

The league was brand new. Two players dropping out within weeks could start a chain reaction. After Eva’s injury, Briana might face a mass exodus of talent who decided it wasn’t worth it.

“No one wants to get injured in the off-season,” Eva went on. “What if they miss an entire year due to injury and get released from their pro team?”

She exhaled slowly, her gaze dropping to her leg. “I won’t be able to play this year. No amount of PT is going to have me ready. The regular season starts in May, and there’s no way I’d even be ready for the playoffs. The entire upcoming season is a bust.”

“Chicago’s not going to release you,” I said, trying to lift her mood. “They invested too much draft capital to let you go that easily. You’re the future of that team.”

“I know. My brain knows, at least,” she murmured. “But another part of me …” She looked down at her swollen, angry knee. “Another part worries I’m replaceable. A new draft is coming. New hotshot rookies.”

“You’re Eva frickin’ Montgomery,” I said firmly. “Ain’t nobody replacing you.”

Gingerly, I got into bed, careful not to disturb her knee. I fluffed the pillows behind my head and welcomed her into my arms. She rested her head on my chest, letting out a quiet sigh. I ran a hand along her hair, letting the quiet stretch between us.

“Is your mom going to freak out that we share a room?” I asked after a moment. “Should I sleep on the couch until she’s back in Boston?”

“My mom isn’t naive,” she murmured, lifting her gaze. “She knows what two grown women can get up to. Besides, it’s not like I’m in any condition to do more than lay in bed.”

I grinned, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Sounds like a challenge.”

Eva’s laugh was soft, but then her shoulders tensed against me. “I’m scared, Lex.”

I held her a little tighter.

I was, too.