Page 9 of Half-Court Heat (Hoops & Heartstrings #2)

Chapter

Seven

N ovember in central Wisconsin was unpredictable. Typically, the leaves had all died and the temperatures had dropped, but that year we’d gotten a rare second summer—just warm enough to be outside in shorts, slides, and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

My mom was inside, pulling together what was sure to be an overly elaborate home-cooked meal, while my dad had claimed his spot on the recliner, drifting in and out of sleep as college football played at a low volume in the background.

Paige had never shown any interest in sports—not even basketball. Maybe because I lived and breathed it, she wanted nothing to do with anything I liked. So it surprised me when she suggested we shoot around on the modest court in our parents’ driveway once we’d put the groceries away.

I’d expected her to retreat to her room, not grab a well-worn basketball from the garage and give me a hopeful look.

I was tall for a girl—just under six feet—while Paige didn’t have my height.

Not yet, anyway. I’d hit my growth spurt freshman year of high school.

Paige was still in junior high, so she had time.

Height was a tricky thing for a girl. I’d gotten lucky because I loved basketball, but if you weren’t into sports, all those extra inches could be a burden.

No one liked to stick out. Especially not at that age.

“How do you do that?” Paige asked.

I dribbled the ball in place. I loved the sound of leather on hardwood, but there was nothing like the playground ping of a basketball against pavement.

“What?”

“You, like, dribbled behind your back.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t even realized I’d done it. It was muscle memory—something I did without thinking.

“Push the ball with your right fingertips behind your back and imagine you’re checking your back pocket for something,” I told her. “Keep your left hand ready to receive the ball.”

Paige tried to copy my movements. The first attempt sent the ball careening off her right ankle and into the grass.

“Okay. That was embarrassing,” she muttered, jogging after it.

“It just takes practice,” I encouraged. “Stay loose and don’t rush it. You’re not trying to be on SportsCenter. Just get the motion down.”

She tried again. This time the ball whipped around too fast and ricocheted off her left hip. She huffed but reset without me needing to say anything. I could see it in her face—stubborn determination, the kind that ran in our family whether we liked it or not.

On the third try, the ball made it behind her back and landed in her left hand. Her whole face lit up.

“I did it!”

“Nice job, P.”

She grinned, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. “That felt cool.”

“You want to try dribbling between your legs?”

Her eyes widened. “Like, the crossover thing?”

“Sort of. Just one bounce for now. Plant your feet wider than your shoulders,” I instructed, “one leg in front of the other, and dribble once through. Then, catch the ball with the opposite hand.”

I demonstrated slowly, letting her watch the rhythm of it.

Paige bit her lip and copied me. Her first attempt hit her shin, but by the fifth try she got it clean. Then again. And again. The ball slapped the pavement, controlled and steady.

“Check it out!” she shouted. She looked up at me like I’d just given her a cheat code.

She kept going, alternating between behind-the-back and between-the-legs like she was inventing her own drill. There was no real finesse, but she was moving with joy—giddy and amazed at herself.

“You’re a natural,” I complimented. “You could be better than me one day.”

She scoffed. “Whatever.”

I shrugged. “You picked this up fast.”

Paige stopped dribbling and cradled the ball against her hip. “Do you think if I practiced enough, I could actually be good?”

Her voice was skeptical—uncertain in a way that made my chest squeeze. I hadn’t realized until then how much she might have watched me growing up. Not just rolled her eyes or ignored me, but actually watched .

I gave her an easy smile. “Only one way to find out.”

We were practicing layups when I heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

The sound didn’t belong in our quiet cul-de-sac, where the only cars that passed by were our neighbors coming home from work or someone’s teenager learning to drive. I turned instinctively, shielding my eyes from the low-angled sun as a gleaming black SUV rolled to a stop in front of our mailbox.

Paige stopped mid-dribble and stared as well. “Who’s that?”

A driver in a black suit walked to the back of the SUV and retrieved a suitcase. He carefully set it on the asphalt.

The rear passenger door opened—and there she was.

She looked out of place and somehow perfectly right at home.

Fresh off a private jet, no doubt. Fresh from a glamorous photoshoot.

She wore sunglasses and matching sweats that she somehow made look like haute couture .

Her braids were piled into a loose bun, and she held a foil-covered casserole dish with a practiced grip like she was on her way to a church potluck.

Eva’s voice carried across the chilly air: “Hey, baby.”

My heart leapt into my throat, and for a moment, all I wanted was to sprint down the driveway and leap into her arms. Barely—just barely—I managed to hold myself back. My legs buzzed with restraint.

Eva shut the car door behind her and started walking up the driveway. Her sneakers were silent on the pavement. “Who’s winning?” she asked.

“Me!” Paige shouted.

I stared, still not believing my eyes. We’d texted earlier that morning. She’d mentioned she might finish early, but I had no idea she’d meant this early.

“How?” I gaped.

Her smile looked particularly pleased. “Surprised?”

“Uh— yeah ,” I emphasized.

Her grin broadened. “Good. Then chartering that flight was worth it.”

“What’s that?” I asked, finally recovering enough to comment on the casserole dish.

She held up the foil-covered container like it was a sacred offering. “Mac and cheese,” she said. “Food from my people.”

I grinned so hard my cheeks hurt. “You brought mac and cheese to Wisconsin.”

“I can guarantee you’ve never had mac and cheese like this before.”

I was still grinning when she reached me. The casserole was warm between us, but I set it aside on the porch railing because there was something else I needed more.

I kissed her.

Not long. Just enough to feel her breath hitch and to remind myself that she was real and wasn’t a dream and that she was actually standing in my parents’ driveway. Her lips were cold from the early November air, but she kissed me back like she’d been waiting all day.

When I pulled back, her smile was softer now. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I echoed back, still a little dazed.

An awareness of our surroundings and my little sister’s prying eyes came rushing back to me. I grabbed the dish from the railing and nodded toward the curb.

“Hey, Paige—grab Eva’s suitcase, will ya?”

Paige, obviously star-struck, not so unlike her older sister, jogged off without complaint.

I turned on my heel and stormed up the porch steps. “Hey, Ma! We might need to go out for more food!”

My mom poked her head around the corner from the kitchen, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

Eva stepped through the front door just behind me and pulled off her sunglasses. “Hi, Mrs. Bennet,” she greeted. Her smile was so warm it could have melted snow. “Have room for one more?”

My mom blinked in surprise, and then beamed. “We always do.”

Dinner that night was everything I missed about being home.

There was nothing fancy about the meal—just some good old-fashioned, Midwestern comfort food.

A pot roast my mom had probably started right after we got back from the grocery store.

Steamed green beans. Mashed potatoes drowning in butter.

And now, thanks to Eva, a bubbling tray of golden-brown mac and cheese that practically demanded you ruin your appetite before anything else made it to your plate.

Phones were tucked away. A big glass pitcher of two percent milk sat sweating on a cork trivet in the center of the table.

Dishes were passed around, elbow to elbow, family-style, with overlapping conversations and clinking forks and my dad periodically mumbling about the Badgers’ prospects that year like anyone was listening.

Eva fit in so seamlessly it almost hurt.

She asked my dad thoughtful questions about his job. She complimented my mom’s cooking so sincerely that my mom actually blushed. And Paige—who had barely said two words all night—kept sneaking glances like she couldn’t believe she was sitting across the table from a real-life celebrity.

If I’d let myself dwell on it for too long, I would have been self-conscious.

My parents’ house was modest, a little worn down in places, with mismatched chairs around the table and a front door that stuck when it swelled up in the summer months.

Eva had just come from a beachfront resort with a professional hair-and-makeup team.

But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t try to shrink herself or make anything about the dinner feel like charity. She just joined in with the loud chatter. Took second helpings. Asked for the recipe.

I caught her looking at me across the table, cheeks glowing, and she mouthed, You’re so cute.

After dinner, the table broke up slowly. Plates were cleared, leftovers packed up, the dishes washed and put away. Everyone squeezed into the living room to watch a movie my mom had picked. Eva and I sat next to each other on the couch, openly holding hands, our thighs pressed together.

At the end of the evening, Eva hugged everyone goodnight like she’d known them for years.

We stood at the top of the basement stairs in a quiet moment.

Paige and my parents had gone down the hallway to their respective bedrooms, their doors clicking shut one by one behind them.

The house had settled into that soft stillness I remembered from childhood—faint creaks in the floorboards, the hum of the fridge, the occasional whoosh of the furnace kicking on.