Page 44 of Half-Court Heat (Hoops & Heartstrings #2)

Chapter

Thirty

T he first photo hit my feed before I’d even started on my second cup of coffee.

I was still in shorts from my morning run, the end of my ponytail damp from the Miami morning.

I leaned against the kitchen counter, scrolling through my phone and half-listening to Jazz gripe about how Cuban coffee was too sweet, even when it’s not actually sweet.

She dug through my pantry like she lived there and not the apartment next door, but my attention snagged on a familiar face framed by gold and black.

Eva.

She was wearing a black gown with a plunging neckline, her dark hair swept up in a twist that showed off the perfect line of her neck. She wasn’t looking at the camera, but the lighting caught her like it had been planned for her skin alone.

My stomach churned uncomfortably. Kate Gillespie stood just to her right in a champagne-colored dress, angled close enough that her bare arm brushed Eva’s.

It was the kind of photo that made you feel like you’d interrupted something private.

Except it wasn’t private at all. There were at least three hundred comments under the image, half from sports accounts reposting it with captions like Power duo and half from people speculating if I’d been cropped out of the image.

I had known Eva was going to another fancy event. She’d texted me a picture of her in her dress beforehand with a short text about missing me. But I hadn’t known Kate would be her Plus-One again.

I should have stopped—I should have turned off my phone and taken a shower, or hell , even gone for another run—but I kept scrolling until my algorithm betrayed me again. I stopped on a second photo.

This time, it was one of me.

Or me and Rayah, depending on who you asked.

We were at a nightclub, the whole team crammed around a table after that night’s win. We’d clinched the second spot in the upcoming playoffs, and for the first time since Eva had gone back to Boston, I’d actually felt like celebrating.

The shot had caught me mid-laugh, my head tilted toward Rayah as she leaned in to say something over the noise. Her hand was resting on my shoulder, fingers curled just enough to look like they belonged there.

I knew exactly what she’d said—something about the DJ playing three different Pitbull songs in a row—but no one else would know that from the picture.

“Uh oh.” Jazz’s voice floated into my consciousness.

“What?” I asked without looking up.

“The internet thinks you’re cheating on Eva. Something about you and Rayah Thompson having undeniable chemistry .” She had the decency to look apologetic. “Their words, not mine.”

I made a noise low in my throat. “They also think Eva is dating Kate again, apparently.”

Jazz raised her eyebrows. “Oh. That’s … convenient timing.”

“Yeah.” I pressed my lips together. “Convenient.”

The phone buzzed in my hand, startling me. Eva’s face and name lit up the screen.

My own face must have done something because Jazz started shuffling towards the front door. “I’ll … just be next door,” she said.

I nodded as she showed herself out and then answered the call.

“Hey,” I said. I aimed for casual but hit something closer to guilty.

“Hey,” she echoed. There was a pause—the kind that makes you brace for bad news. “Have you seen it?”

I swallowed. “Which one?”

Another pause. “Both, I guess.”

“It’s nothing,” I said quickly. “Just bad timing and camera angles.”

“Same here,” she replied. “You know Kate and I?—”

“I know,” I cut in, even though my stomach didn’t completely believe it. “I’m not worried about that.”

She made a noise—half exhale, half something else.

“Okay,” she said finally.

We didn’t ask the follow-up questions out loud. Not the one I wanted to know— Why didn’t you tell me Kate was going to be there?

Not the one she might have been thinking— Why did you let Rayah touch you like that?

Instead, we talked about safe things. Rehab exercises. The weather. My next game. But the space in between the words felt heavier than the words themselves.

When we finally hung up, I stared at my phone’s blacked out screen, trying to decide which photo I hated more.

We didn’t fight about it right away.

For a few days after the photos had surfaced online, we’d stuck to neutral topics—texts about practice, her rehab progress, the weather in Miami versus Boston.

I told myself it was fine, that we’d both just decided not to give the internet the satisfaction of getting in our heads.

Not to feed oxygen to the growing doubts and suspicions.

But by the time she called after her latest CBA meeting, I could hear the strain in her voice, and it rubbed something raw in me.

“How’s the knee?” I asked.

“Same,” she said. “We’re working on lateral movement now. Slowly.”

“That’s good,” I offered, but it landed flat.

She hesitated just long enough for me to hear it. “You sound … off.”

“I’m fine.”

“Lex.”

I hated how she could still get me to talk just by saying my name like that. “I’m just tired. The semi’s are coming up and Coach D is getting on my last nerve. Practice was?—”

“You think I’m just out here for photo ops?” she said suddenly.

It was like she’d skipped ahead to the part of the conversation we’d both been circling.

“I think you’re everywhere but here,” I shot back before I could pull it back. The second the words left my mouth, I knew there was no way to make them sound less like an accusation.

Her inhale was sharp. “Do you have any idea what we’re trying to do with this CBA? We’re fighting for fair contracts, for year-round pay, for protections?—”

“I get it,” I snapped. “I get that you’re doing important work. But I’m still here, Eva. I’m still …”

“Still what? Letting Rayah Thompson put her hands all over you while I’m busting my ass to save this league?”

My throat tightened. “That’s not what happened.”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s what it looks like.”

“Funny, that’s exactly what I thought when I saw you and Kate standing there looking like a damn prom couple.”

Her silence landed harder than any words. I could hear her breathing, slow and deliberate, like she was choosing not to say what she really wanted.

“You say you want me in your life,” I said, quieter now, “but it’s like there’s only room for me in the off-hours. Between meetings, between photo shoots?—”

“That’s not fair,” she cut in. “You knew who I was when we started this.”

“I knew you were busy. I knew you were ambitious. I didn’t know I’d have to fight for scraps of your time.”

The pause stretched until I thought maybe the call had dropped.

“Maybe we should hang up before we say something we can’t take back,” she said finally.

I agreed, but it didn’t feel like a truce.

When the line went dead, my apartment was so quiet I could hear the hum of the fridge, the faint buzz of my phone as it lit up with another notification I didn’t want to look at. Somewhere, probably in Boston, Eva was dealing with her own version of silence.