“One, all.” She grinned and showed off deep-set dimples. I didn’t know if I’d ever seen her grin so authentically before.

  I walked back to the top of the key. I shifted the ball to my left hand and flexed my right wrist, a movement that didn’t go unnoticed.

  Eva relaxed her defensive stance. “Still hurts?”

  “Yeah, sometimes,” I admitted. “Shooting around is fine, but I’m worried about really giving my wrist a workout.”

  Eva delicately coughed. “TMI, Bennet.”

  “Not like that!” I squeaked. “I mean like in an actual game!”

  She chuckled. “Uh huh.”

  “No, really.” The blush was hot on my cheeks as I tried to explain myself. “Like the first time there’s a loose ball. My instincts are going to kick in, and I’m gonna dive into the fray. I know I will.”

  “You don’t get to be Defensive Player of the Year without instincts like that,” she remarked.

  “I guess.” I dismissed the compliment. “But will my wrist hold up?”

  The cocky smile slipped from her face. “What did your doctor say?”

  “That if I was his daughter he’d suggest a new career path.”

  “Wow.” Eva’s intake of air was audible. “And what did you say?”

  I grinned despite how poorly the consultation had gone. “That I was fucking glad I wasn’t his daughter.”

  She shook her head. “You’re crazy.”

  “It doesn’t really matter though,” I noted. “Barely sixty percent of rookies actually see playing time in their first year. And third rounders only make up eight percent of current league players. Eight percent!”

  “Yeah, but you’re not really a third rounder,” she opined. “If you hadn’t broken your wrist, you would have gone much higher. I’m honestly amazed you fell to the third round. Boston got a steal.”

  The praise was unexpected. I blinked a few times. “…Thanks.”

  Eva snatched the ball out of my hands even though we’d been on an unofficial timeout. She took a shot. It bounced around the rim before finally going through.

  “Two, one!” she crowed.

  Eva tapped an impatient foot. “What’s the holdup, ladies? We have to get to shoot around.”

  “Mathilde’s just finishing braiding my hair,” I said.

  I was sitting on the floor while Mathilde was perched behind me on the sectional couch in the living room.

  Mathilde sighed. “Well, I’m trying to braid. I seem to be all thumbs. You’d think the girl from France could handle a French braid.”

  “Move out of the way,” Eva huffed. “I’ll do it.”

  “It’s fine,” I insisted. “She’s got it.”

  “I so totally don’t have it,” Mathilde countered. She stood from the couch and backed away. “Eva, it’s all yours.”

  Eva settled in behind me with an exaggerated huff. She abruptly tugged my hair loose from the failed braid, dashing out Mathilde’s valiant effort. “You’re going to make us late.”

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized, properly chastised.

  “French braid?” she asked.

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” I confirmed with a frown.

  Despite her palpable annoyance, I could feel her fingers begin to work through my hair.

  “Needed a new hairstyle now that you get to suit up?” Eva snorted.

  “No. I always have a French braid for game days.” I winced when Eva sharply tugged on my hair. “My mom used to do it for me in high school, and Jazz did it for me in college.”

  “Jasmine Rivers?” Eva’s fingers had either softened or my scalp was getting accustomed to the pulling as she braided.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Did you guys date or something?” Eva asked.

  “God, no. I mean she’s beautiful and smart and funny,” I noted, “but we’re like sisters.”

  “Sisters from another mister,” Eva said softly. “Think it’ll be strange playing against her today?”

  “You wrongly assume I’m getting off the bench,” I deflected.

  Eva tugged a little harder on my hair, probably unnecessarily.

  “Rubber band.”

  I lifted my arm and blindly handed her the hair tie. I heard the stretch and snap as she finished.

  “All done,” she announced.

  I touched my fingers to the top of my head and felt the tidy, tight plaits. My hair was in no danger of working its way free from the expert braid. “Thank you.”

  I felt humbled by the action despite knowing she’d only done it to get us to the game faster.

  We grabbed our ridiculous rookie backpacks and headed for the arena. Our uniforms and warm-up pants and shirts would be awaiting our arrival, set up in our respective lockers by the equipment staff, so we need only bring clothes and sneakers for morning shoot around and whatever compression gear or protective braces we wore in a game.

  A white conversion van was waiting in front of the apartment, ready to bus us to the arena downtown. Some players drove their personal vehicles to the stadium, but most everyone who lived in player housing took advantage of the courtesy van. It was a short drive, but typically heavy traffic had us moving at a snail’s pace.

  Upon arrival, we staggered our entrance to the stadium even though we’d all arrived in the same vehicle. Photographers and other members of the media lingered in the belly of the arena, awaiting the players’ arrival. Pre-game interviews were conducted and game-day fit pics needed to be taken for the team’s social media accounts.

  I had never felt comfortable in front of a camera. I lowered my head and quickened my pace towards the home locker room. Someone called my name, followed by the metallic click of photos rapidly being taken. Mathilde and Eva both slowed their gait and posed for the photographers. I practically sped walk until I was safely behind the heavy metal door of the Shamrocks’ locker room.

  Morning rituals filled the time between arrival and tip-off. Pre-game shoot around was individualized to each player’s needs. Some required training staff to help stretch them out or tape them up. Others worked one-on-one with assistant coaches, shooting from sweet spots on the court.

  I had always liked to meditate beneath the basket and visualize running through various set plays, much like an actor running through lines before the actual performance. We were competitors, but we were also entertainers. Ticket holders paid good money to see us put on a show.

  Chicago’s team had spent the previous night in town so they would be rested and ready for that afternoon’s game. I walked to half court and tried to catch my friend Jasmine’s attention without being too obvious. She was working with one of her team’s coaches, shooting fifteen footers from various points around the basket. She was too focused, too locked in, to notice me. Either that, or our friendship was suspended until the final buzzer sounded.

  About an hour before tip-off, both teams retreated to their respective locker rooms to change into uniforms and receive final instructions from the coaching staff. I didn’t find Coach Spirit’s pep talks to be particularly motivational, but I didn’t need any external encouragement to get pumped up and ready to compete. That adrenaline boost came naturally to me, like a switch being flipped.

  In college I’d been a perennial starter, going directly from warm-up drills to center court for the opening tip-off. But as a third-round rookie for the Boston Shamrocks, my warm-up gear stayed on over my game jersey, and I retreated to the end of the players’ bench.

  From the start, the score was close and gameplay was fast. Both teams played with a sense of urgency through the first quarter. With three minutes left in the quarter, a whistle sounded and Coach Spirit subbed out a few of the starters. The home crowd applauded their efforts and cheered for the substitutions, namely the future Hall-of-Famer, Mya Brown. Mya subbed in for Eva while Mathilde went in to give Lauren a breather.

  Lauren and Eva walked along the sideline, grabbing towels and water bottles from the training staff. Eva flopped into the empty chair beside me. Residual heat steamed off of her body. I held out my hand, palm up. She slapped her damp hand against mine.

  The point guard for Chicago slowly dribbled the ball up the court. She zipped a crisp chest pass to Jasmine who waited in the wing, loosely guarded by Dez. Jazz dribbled in place and lunged forward as if to drive towards the basket. She abruptly stopped, however, and stepped back, putting just enough distance between herself and Dez. Her release was lightning quick. I watched the high arc of her shot as it swished through the net.

  Eva drank deeply from a plastic bottle of energy drink and used a hand towel to wipe the sweat from her arms. “Your girl is a damn bucket,” she approved.

  I let myself feel proud of Jasmine even though she wore a different team’s uniform these days.

  When the end of the second quarter came, we were eight points down. It was a respectable deficit. Chicago was a strong team—a possible championship contender that year. Evening the score in the third quarter wasn’t entirely out of the question.

  We started slow and sluggish after the halftime break. A few turnovers and missed opportunities on our half of the court quickly turned into a double-digit deficit.

  Erica brought the ball down the court after Chicago converted a three-point play. When she reached the top of the key, she launched up a three pointer of her own. The ill-advised shot bricked off the front of the rim before bouncing over the backboard and out of bounds.

  “Alexandra!” Coach Spirit turned to me on the bench. “Go get Erica.”

  I leapt up from my chair. I had no thoughts, only adrenaline. I whipped off the long-sleeved t-shirt I wore over my jersey and jogged to the scorer’s table to check into the game. I took my time tucking my jersey into my shorts while I waited for the next whistle. I scuffed the bottoms of my shoes on the hardwood until they squeaked.

  The public announcer’s booming voice filled the arena. “Entering the game for the Shamrocks, number 11, Lex Bennet.”

  A smattering of applause reached the court. I was too focused on replacing Erica, however, to really take it in. I made eye contact with my teammate and jerked my thumb in the direction of the team bench. Her face clouded with recognition.

  I faced the Chicago player taking the ball out of bounds. She inbounded the ball to the team’s shooting forward. I stayed in my player’s hip pocket while keeping an eye on the player with the ball. The ball zipped around the perimeter of the three point line; each Chicago player unselfishly passed up their shot in favor of passing to a teammate who had a better shot.

  The ball went into the post, but Chicago’s center touch passed the ball to another player waiting in the corner behind the three-point line.

  The shot went up and in.

  I exhaled. Shit, these women were fast. The ball moved more quickly than I ever could.

  Lauren grabbed the ball and took it out of bounds. She inbounded the ball to me. I brought the ball beyond the half court and surveyed my teammates.

  Lauren jogged past me and put her backside into Chicago’s center to post up. She threw her arm in the air, calling for the ball. Dez hovered by the three-point line in one corner. Eva stood in the other corner, hands ready for a pass. Briana left the low post and set a screen on the woman guarding me. I dribbled past the screen while Briana rolled to the basket. I dumped the pass to Briana, hoping for a quick mid-range shot, but she passed the ball to Dez.

  Dez didn’t have a quick release. She should have secured the pass and gone immediately into her shooting motion, but she dribbled in place instead of firing off a shot.

  Jazz stripped the ball away.

  I cursed under my breath. I could have hung my head and pouted about the unnecessary turnover. Instead, I changed directions and bolted down the court like I’d been shot out of a cannon.

  I took a shallow angle to chase down Jazz. I didn’t need to put my body between hers and the basket. I only needed to catch up with her before she lifted her arms for the layup.

  I knew Jazz’s game like I knew my own. Her layup had never been fluid. She tended to slow down, almost like a jump-shot near the baseline. I watched her arms raise, along with the ball. I timed my jump just as the ball left her hands. I swatted the basketball out of the air like a volleyball player spiking a perfect set.

  The crowd’s cheers drowned out the referee’s whistle.

  I nearly blacked out from the adrenaline surging through my body. My teammates’ hands thumped me on the back and shoulders.

  Dez got in my face and hollered. “That’s some nasty shit, man!”

  The blocked shot didn’t end up mattering. Once Chicago pulled ahead, we were unable to catch up. When the game clock ran out and the final buzzer sounded, we’d lost the game by twelve points.

  We hadn’t notched the win, but I still felt good. Losing never got easier, but I’d actually gotten a few minutes of playing time. I usually prioritized the team, but finally getting on the court and producing a stat line felt like a personal victory.

  I untucked my jersey from my shorts and scanned the court. The arena was starting to empty with fans heading for the exits, but the playing surface was still relatively crowded. I couldn’t hold back my grin when I spotted Jasmine; she saw me at nearly the same moment. It was like the Red Sea parting at half court.

  I walked toward her, a bounce in my step. “Hey,” I greeted. We clasped hands and shared a slightly sweaty embrace. “Good game.”

  Jazz pulled back from the hug, but continued to grip my hand. “So I guess your wrist is better? What the hell was that block?” she grinned.

  “Just lucky,” I brushed off.

  “Lucky I still like you, yeah,” she laughed. “I might have taken a swing and risked ejection if that had been anyone else embarrassing me.”

  “I’ll be sure to get a picture of it framed for your birthday,” I smirked. “Or maybe a .gif playing on a constant loop.”

  Jazz tugged lightly at the end of my plaited hair. “Cute braid,” she teased. “Don’t tell me you finally figured out how to do that yourself?”

  I touched my fingers to the top of my head. The braid had remained tightly bound all game. “Eva did it.”

  “Eva? As in Eva Montgomery?” Jazz looked a combination of impressed and horrified. “The chick who shattered your arm and stole our national championship?”

  “It was just my wrist, not the entire arm,” I downplayed.

  “Whatever. You go from hating her guts to braiding each other’s hair?”

  I felt compelled to look in Eva’s direction. I spotted her on the sideline signing autographs for a group of little girls. They wore oversized Boston jerseys and tightly gripped homemade poster board signs.

  “We were going to be late to the game,” I explained, “so she helped.”

  “I guess miracles do happen,” Jazz quipped.

  “She also thinks you’re a certified bucket,” I revealed.

  Jazz raised an eyebrow. “She said that?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Jazz pursed her lips and finally smiled. “Can’t fault the woman for being right.”

  Chapter

  Twelve

  Eva leaned against the back of the sectional couch. “Do you guys watch anything besides sports and cartoons?”

  Some random European soccer match Mathilde had selected played quietly on the TV.

  I peered up at her. “Sometimes we watch Reality TV.”

  Mathilde’s eyes never left the flatscreen TV. She sat in ultra comfort with one hand down the front of her sweatpants and the other above her head. “The Kardashians are helping me learn English.”

  I snorted out a laugh. “You speak better English than the Kardashians.”

  Eva had been spending more and more time out of her bedroom over the past week. She hadn’t yet claimed a spot on the couch, but it was obvious, at least to me, that she was getting bored of only going between practice, games, and her bedroom.

  Eva continued to linger behind the couch. “My parents host a big barbecue over Memorial Day weekend. Do you guys want to come?”

  “I’m going up to Maine with some of the other girls,” Mathilde said. She flicked her eyes in Eva’s direction. “Thanks for the invitation though. I’m sorry to miss it.”

  We typically had a game every few days, but the schedule was such that we weren’t slated to play again until after the holiday weekend. I was a little surprised that Mathilde had weekend plans when I had none. The thought of going out of town hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  Eva looked to me. “What about you?”

  “I was planning on spending it on the couch,” I admitted. “Maybe squeeze a tennis ball.”

  Eva’s lips tightened to a thin line. She paused as if considering her next words. “You could always do that on the car ride to Brookline.”

  “Your parents live in Brookline?”

  I didn’t know much about the Greater Boston area, but I’d heard the name of its affluent suburb before. Superstar athletes like Tom Brady and Larry Bird had lived in Brookline.

  Eva nodded.

  “But you went to college in the South,” I pointed out.

  Not everyone went to college in their backyard like I had, but it seemed so far away when there were plenty of good basketball schools in New England.

  “It’s a long story,” Eva dismissed.

  Mathilde shifted on the couch, removing her hand from her sweatpants, and stretched. “You should go, Lex. Think of all that good food.”

  I looked back to Eva. Her features were guarded and aloof like usual. I imagined it had taken a lot for her to extend the invitation. Something that felt a lot like pity seeped into my bones. But still, I hesitated.

  “Are you sure your parents won’t mind?”

  Eva’s gaze drifted to a window. “They always invite a lot of people. They won’t notice one more.”

  I had no good reason to turn her down. I had no other plans. Plus, I loved a good cookout.

  “Yeah, okay,” I agreed. “Barbecue in Brookline.”

  Eva stood near the front door, her purse and keys in hand. “Are you ready?”