Page 42 of Half-Court Heat (Hoops & Heartstrings #2)

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

“ D id you get my video?” I asked.

I’d spent the better part of the morning running around the practice facility with my phone out like some low-budget documentarian, begging sweaty teammates to pause mid-drill and record quick clips.

Some rolled their eyes at me, but most leaned into it—grinning, flexing, or blowing exaggerated kisses at the camera while offering Eva both get-well wishes and hyped-up cheers for her new role on the union’s CBA negotiation team.

Eva gave me a look over FaceTime, her braids falling into her face as she adjusted against the pillows stacked behind her.

“You didn’t have a cast to sign,” I explained. “So I thought this might be a nice alternative.”

Her eyes narrowed a little, skeptical but not unkind. “Who’d you have to beg to make that?”

“No one. They respect the hell out of you, babe,” I insisted, holding her gaze even though my chest was tight with wanting her close instead of pixelated. “You’ve gotten more eyes on the league, and that’s good for everyone.”

She sighed, but it wasn’t frustration—it was the sound she made when she wanted to pretend she wasn’t touched. “It was really sweet, Lex. Thank you for pulling that together.”

I grinned, relieved. “So you liked it?”

“I loved it,” she said, her voice softer now. “Even if it was a little corny.”

“Corny is my brand,” I shot back, making her laugh.

It was the kind of laugh I wanted to bottle up and play on repeat while I was stuck in Miami without her.

She tilted her head, a tiny crease forming between her eyebrows. “And you’re sure this isn’t too much for you? Me doing union stuff while I’m out? I’m going to be busier than ever.”

“I’m sure,” I said, trying to sound steadier than I felt. “You’re the perfect choice. You’re smart, you care, and honestly—you’re the person I’d want in that room if they were negotiating my paycheck. Which I guess, you kind of are,” I laughed.

Her smile was slow, cautious, like she was weighing whether to believe me. “Sometimes I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

My chest ached. “Ditto.”

From across the gym, sneakers squeaked against polished wood. A laugh rang out, sharp and playful, followed by Rayah breezing past my row of chairs. She caught my eye and winked—unsubtle as hell, like always—before jogging toward the locker room.

I felt heat creep up my neck, the guilt automatic, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Thank you again for the video,” Eva said, her voice gentler now.

I swallowed and forced a grin back into my voice. “It’s no problem,” I told her, leaning into the camera. “I’ve got nothing but time down here.”

The rooftop bar was loud enough to make you lean in to hear everyone. I’d come because staying home alone felt worse. Our group had claimed two pushed-together tables, empty cocktail glasses crowding the middle like trophies.

Rayah was across from me at first, but the second someone slid over to greet a late arrival, she moved next to me with an easy smile. “You always look like you’re thinking about practice,” she said, leaning close so I could hear her over the music. “You know you’re allowed to have fun, right?”

“I’m having fun,” I stubbornly resisted.

She grinned. “Sure. You just hide it well.”

Her shoulder brushed mine when she laughed at something Arika said across the table. I told myself it was just the cramped seating, but I didn’t move away either.

My attention drifted from one conversation to the next, never stopping long on any one discussion. I was half listening to Dez and Arika arguing about sports cars versus luxury SUVs when I caught a thread from the far end of the table—two players I didn’t know well were talking about the CBA.

“I still can’t believe they put Montgomery on the committee,” one of the women said. She was a power forward for Seattle. “She’s not exactly living the same reality as the rest of us. When’s the last time she had to worry about rent in the offseason?”

“She’s the face they want for the cameras,” the other woman agreed.

I recalled that she was a free agent and had yet to decide between her former squad or signing with a new team.

“I mean, she’s doing Sports Illustrated shoots in her spare time.

What’s she gonna know about fighting for health insurance? ”

Rayah glanced at me, maybe to see if I’d react.

“She knows more than you think,” I said, sharper than I meant to. A couple of heads turned in my direction.

Jazz looked up from the seat across from me, clocking my tone. Beside her, Freya—the Belgian point guard she’d been talking to more than usual—sipped her drink without saying a word.

“I’m not saying she’s not smart,” the first player backpedaled. “Just … optics matter.”

I took a long sip of my drink, tasting the tequila more than the lime. Conversation eventually drifted to something else, but their words sat in my chest, heavy and hot.

Rayah’s phone buzzed on the table. “Speak of the devil,” she quietly chuckled. She angled the screen toward me. “This is what you’re missing while you’re stuck slumming with us.”

Her phone displayed a social media post from a Boston-based sports reporter—Eva was at a fundraiser gala. Dark dress, thigh slit, crutches just visible in the shot.

Boston’s own Eva Montgomery at the Sports Access Gala, raising funds for community courts , the caption read.

Kate Gillespie stood beside her in the photo, her hand light on Eva’s elbow. Both of them were laughing at something just out of the frame.

I stared too long before realizing Rayah was watching me.

“She looks good,” Rayah said. It wasn’t threatening, only observational.

“She always does,” I managed. My thumb itched to check the comments, to see who else thought so. Instead, I returned Rayah’s phone to the table.

Dez leaned in. “I thought you might be the jealous type.”

“I’m not,” I stiffly resisted.

Jazz raised one eyebrow, the kind of silent commentary only your best friend can deliver.

Freya, the Belgian point guard, finally spoke. Her accent was soft but clipped: “If my girlfriend wore that, I would fly to Boston immediately.”

Her words earned another round of laughter. I forced a smile and kept my hand wrapped tight around my glass.

“Hey,” Rayah said, nudging my arm. “She’s in Boston. You’re here. That doesn’t mean you can’t have a good time tonight.”

I gave her a smile I didn’t feel and drank deeply from my cocktail.

My apartment was quiet enough at the end of the night to make my ears ring after the heightened noise of the rooftop bar. I kicked my shoes off, let my keys fall on the counter, and poured myself a glass of water.

My phone lit up on the kitchen counter—a text from Rayah.

Fun night. Glad you came out.

I stared at the bubble a second longer than necessary before setting the phone face-down. I wasn’t drunk, but the edges of my thoughts were blurred enough that I didn’t trust what I might send back.

I found myself scrolling social media instead. The gala photo from earlier was everywhere now—reposted by sports accounts, fan pages, and even a couple of our teammates. Most had cropped Kate out entirely, but a few accounts had left her in. Those were the ones I couldn’t stop looking at.

The comments were a split screen in my head:

She’s gorgeous.

Does she even know what regular players go through?

Queen.

More like a brand than a human.

The CBA talk from earlier came back like a bad aftertaste. I could still see their shrugs, could still hear that jab about “optics.”

I typed out a message to Eva:

Saw the gala pics. You looked amazing.

I deleted it and tried again:

How was your night?

I deleted that, too.

The screen eventually went dark without a single message sent. I sat at the kitchen island, my phone heavy in my hand, thinking about how Eva was a thousand miles away and somehow still right in the middle of my night.

The gym was already loud when I walked in the next morning—sneakers squeaking, basketballs thudding in quick, rhythmic dribbles, Dez trying to hit a half-court shot before warmups began.

We were scheduled to scrimmage Jazz’s team that morning. It was only practice—it didn’t count in league standings—but no athlete ever wanted to lose, especially not to a friend whose trash talk game was top tier.

I dropped my bag by the bench and started lacing up my shoes. Rayah wandered over, a bottle of Gatorade in each hand. She set one by my feet and crouched down just enough to be in my line of sight.

“You looked like you were drinking for two last night,” she said. “Figured you could use the electrolytes.”

“Thanks,” I said, pulling the knot tight.

She gave me that easy, nothing-to-prove smile before jogging back toward the baseline. I watched her join the shooting line, smooth and quick on the catch-and-release, before shaking it off and grabbing my own ball.

Halfway through warmups, I caught Arika’s voice from the sideline.

“They’re saying Eva is pushing for more marketing perks in the CBA draft,” I overheard her say to Dez.

Dez raised an eyebrow. “Marketing perks? We need better travel and injury guarantees, not tote bags.”

“It’s just what I heard,” Arika said. She glanced my way like she knew I’d caught it.

I sent my next shot long off the rim.

“She’s not the only one in the negotiation room, you know,” I said, chasing after my own rebound. “You think she’s not fighting for the important stuff?”

Dez held up her hands like she didn’t want the smoke. “Relax, Lex. We’re just talking.”

But it didn’t feel like just talking . It felt like a thread getting tugged and everything was starting to unravel.

When the scrimmage began, my head was still back in Boston. I hesitated on a cut, lost my defender, and heard Coach Demarios’s voice cut across the court like a whistle: “Focus, Lex!”

I blinked and tried to pull myself into the play, but my legs felt sluggish and my mind was heavy.

Jazz was running with Freya, weaving through defenders like we were standing still.

They moved in perfect sync, Jazz grinning at something Freya murmured under her breath before sinking a corner three without breaking stride.

“Nice shot,” I called as we passed at mid-court.

Jazz’s eyes flicked to mine—not a thank you, not quite a warning, just a check-in. It was a look that said I see you, but get your goddamn head in the game.

By the time we wrapped, sweat was sliding down my back, sticky and hot, and my head felt heavier than my legs.

Rayah came over and tossed me a towel. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure what that meant anymore.

The place Rayah picked out for lunch that afternoon was one of those open-air spots that forgot it was Miami.

The ceiling fans worked overtime, condensation dripping down glasses faster than anyone could drink from them.

The smell of fried plantains and grilled fish hung in the air, cut by the sharper tang of citrus from someone’s mixed drink.

We’d pushed a few tables together, leaving enough elbow room for the menus but not for comfort. Jazz sat across from me. Beside her was the Belgian guard—Freya—wearing a crisp white tank, sunglasses hooked on the neckline.

Rayah slid into the seat next to mine, bumping my hip with hers. “They do a mango ceviche here that’ll ruin you for anywhere else,” she said, flipping her menu open.

Dez leaned forward, already grinning. “Ruin you like you ruined our victory today?”

Rayah curled her lip. “We’re not talking about that.”

“Yes, we are,” Arika said. “Because Lex dropped the prettiest dime, and you still bricked it.”

Rayah shot me a mock glare. “Guess I’ll have to redeem myself somehow.”

The server came by, took our orders, and left us with another round of sweating glasses. For a few minutes, the table was all laughs—Dez telling a story about her rookie year, Freya adding a perfectly timed dry comment that made Jazz smirk.

Eventually, Dez tilted her head toward me. “Can we talk about the CBA without you getting your panties in a twist?”

I didn’t want to, but I nodded.

“They’re saying Eva pushed hard to codify the charter flight deal—which is great,” Dez allowed. “But she’s not as loud on injury protection. Some people think she’s more worried about luxury perks than the bread-and-butter stuff.”

“ Some people need to realize she’s balancing a hundred things while also rehabbing an ACL,” I said before I could stop myself. “And, also, Eva of all people knows the importance of having a guaranteed contract while working back from an injury—it’s literally what she’s doing right now.”

Rayah hummed under her breath, not quite agreeing or disagreeing.

Freya spoke next, her accent smoothing the edges. “In my league, the stars have a duty to look after the rest. But sometimes the stars forget what the rest need.”

Jazz shot me a quick look—not accusing, just measuring my reaction.

“She hasn’t forgotten,” I said, a little sharper than I meant.

Dez grinned over her drink. “I love when Lex gets protective. Makes me feel all warm inside.”

Rayah nudged my arm lightly. “Warm’s not bad.”

The table laughed, and I laughed with them, but the heat in my chest had nothing to do with Miami.