Page 49 of Half-Court Heat (Hoops & Heartstrings #2)

Chapter

Thirty-Three

It wasn’t life-changing money for everyone, but for most of us, it mattered. It was rent money, stability money, pay-off-debt money.

I bounced the ball between my hands, willing myself to breathe.

It wasn’t nerves, not exactly—more like electricity.

Championship electricity. It was the kind of energy that made the court feel smaller, the crowd louder, and the rim higher.

And still, with everything on the line, I couldn’t stop checking the sideline. I couldn’t stop searching for her.

Eva sat, one ankle crossed over the other, in a white jumpsuit that looked like it belonged on a runway. Her dark, glossy hair gleamed under the lights. She looked calm, elegant, and untouchable—except for the way her gaze kept finding mine. Her sunglasses couldn’t hide that she was watching me.

She wasn’t playing, but she drew as many cameras as the game itself. The league commissioner sat next to her, their heads bent together in conversation, reporters hovering like bees.

Our conversation in her hotel room had been brief, almost stolen.

She hadn’t come to Miami for me, not officially.

She was here for optics, for the league, to show the world that the Commissioner and the players’ union weren’t at each other’s throats.

But when she looked at me, there was nothing polished or professional about it.

I only saw raw, familiar love—messy and real.

“Lock in,” Mya’s voice cut through my thoughts. She bumped my shoulder with hers, snapping me back to reality. “One more game.”

I nodded and rolled my shoulders, trying to channel every bit of restless energy into focus.

Our opponents—Briana’s squad—were the faces on billboards, the names etched into record books, the players I’d grown up watching.

Olympians. League MVPs. Women with their own signature shoes—shoes I’d once begged my parents to buy me for Christmas.

They ran warm-up drills on their side of the court, moving with a kind of economy that came with years of greatness.

No wasted steps. No wasted words. They didn’t need to trash talk; their reputations did the talking for them.

Among them, Briana dribbled in place, head down, locked in. She wasn’t a loud player, never had been. She played the game clean, hard, and precise.

Coach Demarios paced in front of us before the tip. “They’re veterans,” he said simply. “They’re not going to hand you anything. So don’t wait for your opportunity. Take it.”

Three-on-three was different from the five-player game. There was no coasting, no hiding. Every possession mattered. You were on offense and then defense in a blink, gasping for breath with no real breaks.

The first few possessions were a rapid succession of body blows—screens that rattled teeth, crisp passes that barely missed our hands. Briana’s squad jumped out to an early lead, and my lungs burned before I’d even found a rhythm.

Briana leaned close after I missed a particularly bad shot. “You’ll find it.” Her voice wasn’t pitying, just calm.

And she was right.

We chipped away, Arika banging inside for putbacks, Dez stretching the defense with her early release. I found angles, fed passes through seams no one else saw. Slowly, Briana’s veterans started glancing at each other, the smallest cracks in their certainty.

Team Embers came out even sharper after halftime. Arika set the tone, banging inside for a tough basket, her exhilarated shout echoing off the rafters. Dez hit a step-back three from deep. Mya bodied up in the post, showing flashes of the legend she’d always been.

And me—I attacked. I wasn’t playing haunted, not like the semifinals. I was playing free. Every drive was a release, every bucket a reminder: I could still do this. I was still this.

The score climbed, traded, and see-sawed. Neither team broke free. Rayah rotated in for bursts, giving us energy and defense, while Briana’s crew leaned on their shot-making and finesse. Every whistle, every loose ball, it all threatened to swing the game one way or the other.

With two minutes left in the game, fatigue had set in. My legs were heavy, my chest was tight. I bent forward, hands on my knees, and for the briefest moment, I wanted out. I wanted someone else to carry it.

But then I spotted her across the court. Eva, leaning forward, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Her eyes locked on me like there was no one else in the arena. No commissioner. No reporters. Just us.

I straightened.

Briana tried to muscle past me on the next possession, but I stuck with her, forcing a miss. Rayah snatched the rebound and kicked it out. The ball swung fast—Mya to me to Rayah—and landed back in my hands at the top of the arc.

I could have passed—maybe I should have.

One dribble. Step-back. Rise. Release.

The shot felt pure the second the ball left my hands. The ball connected with the front of the rim before bouncing in. The roar that followed practically shook the floorboards.

We were up by three with under a minute left.

Briana wasn’t done, however. Not by a long shot. She curled off of a screen, caught the ball behind the arc, and fired up a shot—nothing but net. The game was tied again.

Coach Demarios called a timeout.

We huddled near our bench, sweat dripping and lungs ragged. Coach Demarios crouched in front of us. “One possession,” he said. “That’s all you need. Don’t force the pass. Don’t rush the shot. Play together.”

“We finish it,” Mya growled, clapping my back. “Right now.”

We broke the huddle, hands stacked, minds singularly focused.

Mya checked the ball in at half court. I caught her inbounds pass and drove toward the basket. Rayah jogged to the wing and flashed her hands, calling for the ball. Mya hustled past me and posted up deep in the lane. I snapped a crisp pass into the post, only for Mya to rocket the ball back to me.

The shot clock was turned off, but an internal countdown ticked in my brain. I could waste time and go for the buzzer-beating shot. If I made the basket, I was the hero. If I missed the shot we’d go to overtime. If I shot too soon—make or miss—Briana’s team would have time left to respond.

I made the decision to split the difference—to shoot with only a few seconds left. If I missed the shot, we could fight for the offensive rebound and try a follow-up shot. If I made the basket, Briana’s team would have only a few seconds for a last-second desperation shot of their own.

My eyes shifted from the basket to my defender’s face. I kept my dribble, stepped back, and rose up for a midrange pull-up. My defender’s hand rose to block my shot, but it was too late. The ball dropped through the rim and the net snapped clean.

We were up by two.

The final seconds seemed to stretch on forever.

Briana’s team called a timeout to get organized.

They inbounded the ball, they scrambled, they fought, they launched one last shot that clanged off the rim.

Mya ripped down the rebound, clutching the ball tight to her chest, before rocketing the outlet pass to me.

The buzzer blared as time ran out.

The arena seemed to detonate. Confetti cannons fired from above. Rayah screamed and pulled Arika and Dez into a crushing hug. Mya just lifted her fists, soaking in the moment—another championship in a long and storied career.

But for me, none of it mattered. Not the prize money, not the cameras, not the paper confetti drifting down from the rafters.

Because I only had eyes for her.

I didn’t remember letting the ball fall from my hands. I didn’t remember how I crossed the court so fast either. All I knew was Eva—standing now, sunglasses off, eyes wet and shining even as she tried to look composed.

I didn’t slow down. I went straight into her arms and kissed her. Not for show. Not for the press. Not for optics. I kissed her because I wanted to. Because she was mine, and I was hers, and I didn’t care who knew it.

The cameras didn’t exist and the crowd faded away. All I felt was her—the warmth of her pliable mouth, the way her arms locked tight around me like she’d never let go.

“We’re good,” she promised, the words meant only for me. Her hands framed my face, thumbs stroking my damp cheeks. Sweat, tears, or both—I couldn’t tell anymore. “We’re better than good.”

I let out an ecstatic whoop and lifted her clean off the ground, like a rocket breaking orbit.

Her laugh against my mouth was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.

The crowd blurred around me. The noise from the arena blurred. Even victory blurred.

I lowered her back down, our lips meeting again as her feet found solid ground.

The last time I’d lifted her off this court, she’d just torn her ACL.

Before that, I’d been the one hauled away, my temper threatening to get me tossed from the game.

We’d picked each other up through injury, through anger, through doubt.

And I knew—we always would.