Page 46 of Half-Court Heat (Hoops & Heartstrings #2)

Chapter

Thirty-One

W hy did people want to win? What drove them?

Was it the prize money? The bragging rights?

Maybe the recognition that came with a championship—words like legacy , or even Greatest of All Time.

Whatever the motivation, there was no casual way to be an elite professional athlete.

You had to be competitive. You wanted to win. You wanted to be the best.

The Miami league was brand-new, so it’s not like I’d grown up dreaming about this championship.

When I was younger, taking fadeaway shots in my Mya Brown jersey on the blacktop court in my parents’ yard, the fantasy had been making the last-second shot to win the chip in the pros or even a college championship.

Winning used to be my favorite thing. I was damn good at it, too.

But it had been a long time since I’d been part of a team that finished on top.

I’d lost the national championship in college.

I’d lost in the finals during my rookie year in the pros.

Now, I had an opportunity to win the championship in this new league.

The only issue—I was playing the worst basketball of my life.

The days leading up to the playoffs were all muscle memory: practice, eat, sleep, repeat.

In Boston, Eva’s physical therapist called her out for coasting.

She hadn’t told me—I’d heard it from Jazz.

We’d gone from constant texts and phone calls to radio silence.

But maybe that was easier than saying the wrong thing.

I observed the CBA negotiations through the lens of social media.

The league had offered a max contract of $1 million and a league minimum of $250,000.

It was a significant pay hike from the current status where veterans maxed out at $250,000 and rookies scraped by with $50,000.

But the players’ union rejected the offer.

As we’d long been saying, this next contract was bigger than salaries.

To the casual fan, however, we were supposed to roll over and be grateful for whatever the league’s front office decided we were worth.

I hadn’t reached out to Eva, but I’d witnessed her being dragged on social media because of her involvement with the union. I’d been tempted to make a burner account just to argue with Eva’s critics, but I had a semifinal game to prepare for.

I sat on the sideline, my heart thumping louder than the arena’s music. Team Embers versus the Monarchs. The crowd that evening was electric. I could feel it before tip-off; it was the kind of anticipation that stuck to your skin like humidity.

But instead of feeling sharp and energized, I felt scattered. My mind wasn’t on the game. Not fully. It was back in Boston, thinking about Eva, about the text I hadn’t sent her the previous night, about the video call I’d wanted to make that morning just to hear her voice and see her face.

We had said we’d see each other once the Miami league was over, but that had been before the fighting had begun. I didn’t know what we were anymore. I didn’t know how to make my way back to her.

“Lex, you good?” Rayah strolled over, tossing a basketball from one hand to the other.

I nodded, too quickly, like it would convince both her and myself.

“Yeah. I’m good,” I said, forcing a grin.

She didn’t look convinced, but she let it slide.

Our team huddled up just before opening tip-off. Dez bounced like she had springs in her sneakers.

“Stay disciplined,” Mya told us, her voice low and calm. She had that captain energy even if no one had officially named her one. “Vargas will try to bait us. Don’t let her set the tone.”

“Don’t let Lex get baited, you mean,” Dez cracked.

I shot her a look, but she wasn’t wrong. Lina Vargas was smirking at me already, like she had waited all season for this game. The memory of Eva’s arms around my midsection, dragging me away from a suspension, lingered in my brain.

We walked onto the court to thunderous applause and cheers.

Arika and the tallest player for the Monarchs faced off at center court.

A referee with a long blonde ponytail tossed the ball up.

Arika won the opening tip and batted the ball into my waiting hands.

Game One of the inaugural 3x3 playoffs was officially underway.

My body moved out of habit, muscle memory doing what my brain couldn’t. I ran, pivoted, dribbled, jumped—but nothing felt right. My first passes were sloppy, my shots clanged off the rim.

Dez called me out during an early timeout. “Lex—focus! You’re overthinking it!”

I wanted to tell her it wasn’t the pressure of the game getting to me—it was Eva. I nodded instead, swallowed my frustration, and tried to shake the haze from my brain.

Back in the game, my hands itched, wanting the ball, but I found myself avoiding it, as if letting someone else run the offense would save me from screwing up entirely.

Mya and Arika were already in rhythm, moving fast, making sharp passes that sliced through the defense.

Rayah was aggressive, driving to the rim with fearless energy.

By the end of the first quarter, we were only down by two points, but I felt like I was dragging the team down.

I missed easy layups, clanged jump shots, and misread defensive rotations.

As point guard, I was supposed to be the backbone—the player who kept us steady in chaos. Instead, I was the chaos.

The second quarter didn’t get any better. I turned the ball over twice in a row, a stupid misread, and Arika barked at me for the mistakes. My chest burned and I felt the old frustration bubbling up.

Mya came over mid-quarter, leaning on me as we huddled briefly on the sideline.

“Lex, snap out of it,” she implored. “We need you.”

I wanted to tell her I would, but I didn’t know how. Instead, I nodded, forcing my body to respond. I passed the ball, I switched on defense, I really tried. But every move felt like a step behind.

Rayah scored on a fast break, Arika followed up with a beautiful pick-and-roll to Dez, and Mya knocked down a corner three. The team carried me through my fog. Their precision, their trust in each other, reminded me why we’d made it this far.

Still, I felt useless, like a ghost on the floor.

Halftime felt like a reprieve and a punishment all at once. Sweat stung my eyes as we sat on the bench, Coach D pacing in front of us.

“Lex,” he said, stopping and fixing me with a hawk-eyed stare, “I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but you’re letting it affect your game. You’ve got one half of basketball to decide if you’re here to play or just to watch.”

His words stung, but they were deserved. I draped a towel over my head, listening to the white noise of the crowd and wishing I could remove my brain and set it somewhere safe.

Rayah leaned over. “We’ve got this, Lex,” she encouraged. “Just do your part.”

I nodded again, but I wasn’t sure I knew what that meant anymore.

The Monarchs caught fire in the third quarter, hitting back-to-back threes.

Our lead evaporated and everything tightened.

My palms were slick on the ball, my legs heavy.

I tried to push through it, to run plays the way we’d practiced a thousand times, but everything I did still felt slow, wrong, and out of sync.

I kept missing layups I should have made. Shots I normally wouldn’t think twice about fell short or bounced too hard off the backboard. I saw the win slipping through my fingers, and my stomach coiled tighter with every mistake.

I missed a pass to Rayah—an easy, simple, everyday pass—and the ball got stolen. Lina Vargas scored an uncontested layup. The crowd groaned. Dez muttered something under her breath. Rayah shot me a glare.

I wanted to shrink into the floor, crawl under the bench, and disappear. I had never felt this bad in a game. Not in college. Not in the pros. Not ever.

Coach D didn’t bench me. He left me on the floor, staring me down in a way that said figure it out .

Somehow, despite me messing everything up, we stayed in it. Rayah stole the ball at midcourt and drove hard to the basket before kicking it out to Mya. She faked the shot, then passed it back to Rayah in the corner. Three points. The Embers were back on top.

I could feel the tide turning, even though I felt like I was wading through molasses. I hit a few clean passes and finally contributed a rebound or two. It wasn’t my best game—it wasn’t even close—but my team’s energy was contagious. I rode their wave, letting their momentum carry me.

Early in the fourth, we started to pull away. Team Monarchs was desperate, pushing, hacking, trying to force errors. I passed to Rayah, then cut to the rim, ready for a return pass that never came. Instead, I watched her take the shot herself.

The crowd roared when the ball fell through the hoop. I felt like a bystander, watching my own game from the outside.

Mya intercepted a desperate Monarchs pass. Arika hit another three-pointer, securing the victory as the fourth quarter came to an end. Team Embers had won. We were going to the finals. And I still had no idea where I stood with Eva.

We’d won, but I couldn’t shake the sour taste in my mouth.

Everyone else was buzzing, already rehashing step-back threes and blocked shots, but all I could think about was how badly I’d played.

My shot had been clunky, I’d telegraphed my passes, and I’d been a step behind Lina Vargas all night.

The scoreboard said we were moving on, but my chest said I didn’t deserve it.

Rayah and Dez lingered by my locker afterwards.

“We’re going out to celebrate,” Rayah announced. “You coming?”

I didn’t have an opportunity to reply before Mya Brown’s voice cut in: “Nah, she’s good.”

I looked over at my idol and teammate. Her tone and penetrating stare bordered on ominous: “She’s coming to family dinner.”

I didn’t have a noodle salad prepared.