Page 51 of Half-Court Heat (Hoops & Heartstrings #2)

T he arena was packed tight that night—a sold-out crowd.

Fans buzzed with anticipation in the stands.

Sideline reporters dotted the perimeter of the court and photographers crowded the baselines.

The smell of popcorn and beer mingled with the sharp tang of freshly refinished hardwood.

It usually felt familiar, comforting in its own way, but tonight was different.

Tonight carried something heavier—something that had been building for eighteen months, ever since the injury.

The crowd wasn’t just here for a basketball game. They were here for her.

I twisted my noise-canceling earbuds deeper into my ears. My playlist was loud in my head—old-school punk—but it barely drowned out the thumping of my heart.

My teammates moved with the ease of repetition—stripping off warm-up layers, stretching out muscles, exchanging light jokes to ease pre-tip-off tension.

I tried to channel my adrenaline into something useful.

I tried to tell myself that it was just another game, but my head and heart didn’t believe the lie.

I laced my shoes tighter and worked through my warm-up routine: isolated shots from different spots on the court and ball-handling drills.

The tacky squeak of the hardwood was familiar under my feet, and the ball felt comfortable in my hands, but my eyes kept drifting to the other side of the court.

She was working through her own pre-game workout with one of her team’s trainers. She moved with an easy grace, side-shuffling across the floor, stretching lightly, shooting from under the net.

I wasn’t sure how to navigate pre-game. My instinct was to meet at half-court and give her a hug—I’d do the same for any other player with whom I was familiar, but I held myself back.

We’d never played against each other on different pro teams. She’d been traded late in our rookie year, and we hadn’t played Chicago again that season.

I’d played against Chicago since then, but she’d always been in street clothes, watching from the end of the bench.

I caught sight of a little girl in the stands, holding up a glittery sign: We Missed You, Eva!

A lump lodged in my throat. Me too, kid. Me too.

Briana jogged past me and flipped me a ball. “They’ve got this place Montgomery’d up tonight,” she observed. “You ready?”

I dribbled once, hard enough to feel it reverberate in my bones. “Yep.”

Dez was working a resistance band along the sideline. “Better be. That girl’s been waiting over a year to light someone up.”

Across the court, I spotted Jazz stretching alongside Freya.

The pretty Belgian point guard had been a big off-season acquisition for Chicago.

Now teammates, Jazz and Freya had immediately rekindled whatever had been started in Miami, nearly a year and a half prior.

It was hard not to be jealous. They got to share this: practices, bus rides, late-night team dinners.

They were building something side by side, while Eva and I had to fight distance, injury, and time zones.

The final horn sounded, ending my silent pity-party, and starting line-ups were announced. Chicago’s coach hadn’t put Eva in the starting rotation, but that was to be expected. Even though she’d been cleared by team doctors, they were still being careful by restricting her minutes.

The ball went up at center court, and the game began. I tried to lose myself to the rhythm of competition—the squeak of sneakers, the snap of a pass, the clean spin of a jumper rolling off my fingers. For a few minutes, it worked. It was just another game.

Halfway through the first quarter, a noise rumbled in the stands. Isolated cheers popped up from different sections around the arena, but it was far too early for the wave. It was a sound that gathered and gathered until it roared.

Eva stood at the scorer’s table to check into the game for the first time. She carefully, calmly, tucked her jersey into her shorts. I could hear the rapid-fire clicks of photographers’ cameras, all trying to find the perfect angle to document the long-awaited moment.

The arena’s public service announcer made it official: “Now checking in for Chicago … number three, Eva Montgomery!”

It was like the entire stadium collectively leapt to their feet. Like someone had hit a buzzer-beating shot to win the game.

I stood just past half-court, watching and taking it all in. I didn’t join the standing ovation, but I certainly felt like exploding. I schooled my features to be a passive observer, but I had to blink a few times to keep my swelling emotions in check.

I thought back to the nights she’d spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if she’d ever play again.

Four months removed from the surgery and we were celebrating small victories like her being able to stand on one leg.

The physical therapy had left her exhausted and frustrated.

She worried constantly about re-injury. Regaining trust in her repaired knee’s strength had come slowly, and at times I’d worried she might never get there.

Not only had she worked her way back from a season-ending injury, but she’d also been a key member of the negotiating team who’d secured a historic collective bargaining agreement for the league’s players.

It wasn’t everything we’d demanded, but it was more than anyone had thought possible.

Significant salary cap increases. A bigger percentage of profit sharing.

It was real progress that would serve as a jumping-off point for the next time the CBA needed to be renewed.

There was a whole lot to cheer for, players and fans alike.

Eva jogged onto the court and swapped places with one of Chicago’s other players.

She didn’t acknowledge the arena’s overly excited response with a wave or even a smile.

She entered the game like it wasn’t her first time doing so in well over a year.

Eva Montgomery might have had butterflies in her stomach, but her facial features were all business.

It didn’t take long for her to test herself. A drive down the lane. A kick-out pass. A little stop-and-pop jumper from the elbow. Her first shot rattled out, but the crowd cheered just for the attempt.

A few possessions later, a long rebound turned into a loose ball. Mathilde and Eva both lunged for the ball. They collided, Mathilde’s much taller and broader frame knocking into Eva’s lower body. A collective gasp rose up from the stadium when they both hit the floor.

My heart seized when neither player immediately popped back up. I hustled to the pile of arms and legs as they began to slowly untangle. I offered both of my hands and hauled them both to their feet.

“Everybody good?” I asked quietly.

Eva’s honey eyes connected with mine for the first time that day. She nodded, brushing herself off. I searched her face for signs of discomfort but found none. She looked steady. Strong. Like the floor couldn’t keep her down anymore.

By the middle of the second quarter, the game had settled. I came out for a breather, a towel draped around my neck. My chest heaved as I sank onto the bench, but my focus wasn’t on the clipboard our assistant coach held out or the water bottles being offered my way.

From the bench, I watched her. Really watched her.

She navigated the court like she’d never left, directing traffic, demanding the ball, rising into her jumper with that same smooth release that used to hypnotize me during practice.

I’d memorized her form back then. Somehow, watching her tonight, it was like seeing it for the first time all over again.

She pivoted, drove, spun—her agility still as sharp as ever. The crowd rose and fell like waves around her, and my stomach knotted every time the ball left her hands. The arena was electric, every fan leaning forward as if their own fingers could influence the arc of the shot.

Coach Spirit waved me back in. My legs still felt heavy, but adrenaline carried me onto the court.

The score stayed close well into the fourth quarter. Both teams traded scoring streaks and droughts like boxers exchanging jabs, neither able to land the knockout punch. It was the kind of game you lived for. Every possession mattered. Every whistle carried the potential to tilt the balance.

The score was still tied with under a minute left.

Briana drove hard along the baseline, slipping past her defender.

She spun, rose, and hit the jumper—two points for the Shamrocks.

The lead was slim, but enough to feel a shift in momentum.

The court felt smaller, more intense, with every movement magnified, every mistake more consequential.

The final possession belonged to Chicago. The game clock was winding down and the shot clock was turned off. Everyone in the arena knew where the ball was going, and so did I.

I picked up my defensive assignment just past half court, forcing Freya to tighten her dribble against her body and throw up an arm bar between us.

I focused on Freya, but my eyes flicked again and again to where Eva circled near the wing.

My hands were high, feet planted wide. Behind me, my teammates shouted coverages, switching, hedging, trying to keep the ball out of her hands.

It didn’t matter.

Eva broke free with a cut I’d seen a hundred times in practice; one sharp plant and she was gone, curling off a screen and catching Freya’s pass in rhythm. My chest tightened.

Ten seconds.

I shifted toward her, aware of every subtle movement—her shoulders, the tilt of her head, the way she held the ball. I knew every trick she had in her bag, but that didn’t mean I could stop it.

She dribbled once, twice, and then rocked back on her heel.

Five seconds.

She stepped-back, that little sliver of space carved out of nothing. Her feet lined up behind the solid black three-point line.

My arm went up to contest the shot, but it didn’t matter. The ball left her hand, the arc impossibly high. I knew the second it spun off her fingertips.

I pivoted just in time to watch the basketball knife through the net.

The arena erupted. The final buzzer sounded, and Chicago’s bench stormed the court. The noise swelled like a tidal wave crashing over all of us.

I bent over, my hands braced on my knees and my chest heaving. My teammates slapped my back and muttered curses. Across the court, Eva was swarmed by her team—Freya leapt onto her back and Jazz tugged her into a hug, the two of them laughing like they’d been waiting all season for this.

I hated losing, but I loved how happy she looked. Both feelings carved me open at once.

I forced my legs to straighten. There wasn’t a handshake line, but it was good form to congratulate the winning team. One by one, palms slapped palms. Good game. Good game. And then she was in front of me.

“Nice defense,” she said softly, like we weren’t surrounded by cameras and chaos.

“Nice shot,” I managed, my throat tight.

Our hands clasped for a moment too long. Her thumb brushed the inside of my wrist before she let go. Then she was swept away again, back into the tide of her team and her city.

I drifted toward mine. Mathilde slung a sweaty arm over my shoulders. “We’ll get them next time.”

I hung out courtside to sign programs and sneakers and T-shirts for kids pressed against the railings. Tiny arms reached out with sharpies and posters. I signed what I could, smiling through the sting of defeat. A little girl handed me a basketball, and I scribbled my name across it.

I hazarded a glance sideways. I’d attracted a modest crowd post-game, but Eva was absolutely mobbed, surrounded by fans, cameras, and microphones. She smiled graciously, signing autographs, hugging kids, and positively glowing under the lights.

For a moment, I felt that old tug—the worry that her star would blaze too bright and I’d fade into the background. I’d wrestled with it for months—through magazine covers and commercials and her voice everywhere I turned.

But then she looked up, over the crowd, and straight at me.

It was only a second—her sharpie still moving, the flashbulbs still firing—but her gaze found me like it always did, as if the noise and chaos all blurred until there was just me.

When the crowds had dispersed and the media obligations had been met, we finally found each other in the players’ tunnel. It was quieter there, cooler, with soft shadows nothing like the harsh spotlights of the arena.

Eva reached for my hand without hesitation, our fingers lacing together naturally, like muscle memory. She tugged me into her body for a sweaty embrace. “Hey, baby.”

Her hands traced my back with a kind of ease that made everything else fade. We stood there, quiet, letting the noise of the world slip away.

We stayed like that a little longer, holding each other in the half-light, letting our hearts catch up with everything our minds couldn’t quite process.

The sounds of the arena—empty seats, distant footsteps, the faint scrape of a janitor’s cart—felt far away, almost unreal.

In that moment, there was only her, only us, and the quiet hum of love that had always been beneath it all.

“We did it,” she murmured, her voice low.

I smiled against her shoulder. “ You did it.”

She pulled back just enough to reward me with that warm, brilliant smile that always made me feel like the luckiest person alive. “We did it together.”

I wanted to say it out loud; I wanted to tell her how deeply I was rooted to her, how sure I was that this was forever. But I kept it in my chest, a quiet certainty blooming inside me.

I wanted to marry this woman.

I squeezed her hand back and let my smile say everything I couldn’t. Yet.

She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek, a silent promise of everything still to come.

Hand in hand, we walked out of the tunnel together—wearing different jerseys, but with a love bigger than any rivalry.