“Pinch me.” Mathilde exhaled beside me. “I have posters hanging up in my room of some of these women.”

  “It’s pretty surreal,” I agreed.

  My eyes fell to one player in particular. She kept to herself, slowly dribbling around the court, as if taking it all in. Mya Brown was a living legend. After fifteen years in the league, she held several season and career records, was a former league MVP, perennial All-Star, and had won championships with three different pro teams. She was one of the few current female players to have her own shoe, and she used her platform to agitate for social change.

  An ACL injury had cut short her previous season. The talking heads on television were worried she might not have any gas left in the tank, which is why her previous team hadn’t protected her from being selected for one of the expansion teams. I, however, couldn’t believe my luck to be sharing a space with her, even if only for the next few weeks.

  Hers had been the first jersey I’d ever bought. I’d saved up my birthday money to buy her college jersey and had spent an embarrassing amount of time in my parents’ driveway pretending I was Mya Brown, shooting the final shot in the Big Game, to just barely beat the buzzer.

  Kelsey Howard was the second player who caught my eye. I observed her as she stretched out at center court with a few other players. Like Mya Brown, Kelsey Howard was an experienced veteran. She wasn’t as seasoned as Mya, but she’d been in the league for just over a decade. She had a list of accolades as long as my arm, but had lost a step in recent years. With her camera-ready good looks, however, she’d successfully made the transition to broadcast analyst during the college season, setting herself up for life after basketball.

  Life after basketball was always the elephant in the room. Not that long ago, I’d believed my competing days were already behind me. Despite being drafted, it would probably take a miracle for me to make the final roster. I vowed, however, not to take any of this for granted. I was going to milk out my final playing days with everything I had, even if I never saw in-game action again.

  “Heads up!”

  A basketball hit a nearby rim at an awkward angle, and the off-target shot careened in my direction. My hands reflexively flew to cover my head and face. With only one functioning hand, there was little else I could do. Mathilde reacted before the errant ball could hit me; she swiped at the ball like she was blocking someone’s shot, and the wayward basketball ricocheted in a different direction.

  Dez Young, another familiar face, jogged up to Mathilde and me to retrieve the ball. She gave me a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that, Blondie.”

  She scooped up the bouncing ball and rifled off another shot. When she made the second attempt, she flashed another grin in my direction.

  Dez Young had been a fixture in the league for the past five years. As a shooting guard, her position complimented the point guard in the backcourt. She was built for the role, short but long limbed, ideal for making shots over taller players, fast-break layups, and lockdown defense.

  Unlike most of the other women in the gym with their long ponytails or braids, Dez presented more masculine. Her short Afro was typically bleached and dyed a bright primary color. Her hair was currently blue—her former team’s color. I imagined if she made the cut as a Shamrock, she might change her hair color to green.

  “Think I could pull off blue hair?” Mathilde asked, almost like she was thinking aloud.

  “Nope.”

  Mathilde laughed and bumped her shoulder into mine. She was at least six inches taller than me and possessed a much larger base and frame. I winced when her shoulder made contact with mine. I pitied anyone trying to fight her for a rebound.

  It felt good to have at least one new ally on the team. Mathilde and I had bonded the previous night over takeout food. Eva had kept to herself in her bedroom, which had been more of a relief than an annoyance. At twenty-one years old, Mathilde was the youngest person on the team, but she had been playing professional basketball in the European leagues since hitting a growth spurt at age sixteen. Those experiences gave her an edge over Eva and myself. Technically all three of us were rookies, but Mathilde knew what it was like to play ball professionally, to get traded from one team to another, to play with and against others who might be fifteen years your senior.

  A set of side doors opened and a man in dress pants and a polo shirt walked through them. He was a middle-aged white man with a thick head of brown hair that he wore slicked back like Pat Riley or Al Pacino. His slim build looked suited for the golf course. His shoes looked leather and expensive and wholly unfit for a basketball court. I’d never met the man, but I knew who he was by sight.

  As a fan of the game and as a hopeful future player, I kept track of league news and media gossip. Scottie Spirit had been named the Shamrocks’ head coach nearly in the same breath as the expansion team itself had been announced.

  Coach Spirit had been a long-time assistant under his father, the legendary coach Timothy Spirit. Tim Spirit was already in the College Basketball Hall of Fame for his coaching accomplishments. His son, however, had never been a head coach before, not even for his daughters’ T-ball teams. Social media had been aghast at what they’d perceived as unabashed nepotism. I had decided to keep an open mind.

  “Ladies,” he called to us.

  Those who’d been warming up on the side hoops paused their shots and stilled their dribbling.

  Scottie Spirit twirled his pointer finger in the air, beckoning everyone to circle up. The dozen and a half of us gathered closer, albeit with some hesitation.

  Coach Spirit grinned broadly. “Congratulations, ladies. Who’s ready to make some history?”

  His question seemed rhetorical, but he paused as though he expected some kind of response. When none came, he continued.

  “Congratulations on being selected for the inaugural season of Boston Shamrocks basketball.”

  This time, his words elicited a few noises—the clearing of throats and quiet grunts. With the exception of the rookie class, I could tell his verb choice of selected tasted a little sour. Everyone in the gym had technically been selected by the new General Manager of the Boston team, but only because their previous teams hadn’t wanted to keep them.

  I didn’t envy Coach Spirit’s position. Both Boston and Detroit were like the Island of Misfit Toys. I could only imagine the chip on everyone’s shoulder because their old team hadn’t protected them from being claimed by one of the new expansion teams. It was the same with all sports leagues, men’s and women’s. Expansion teams’ rosters were filled with seasoned veterans from across the sport. Teams could protect players they didn’t want sent away. Everyone else was fair game provided they fit under the salary cap.

  I wondered at our new coach and the kind of first impression he was trying to make. Was he our boss? Was he a friend? I’d only ever played under totalitarian coaches who showed their displeasure through extra drills and running sprints until we puked.

  “Good talk.” Coach Spirit openly grimaced. “Briana,” he called out.

  A long-limbed, light-skinned Black woman with a sleek ponytail and laid edges stepped up. She held a basketball propped against her hip. “Yeah, Coach?”

  Briana Davis was a bonafide superstar. She’d been the first overall draft pick four years ago and was in the prime of her career. With no other power forwards of her caliber at Shamrocks training camp, she was practically guaranteed a spot on the team if not also being an automatic starter. I was a little taken aback that her former team hadn’t protected her from being sent to Boston.

  “Get them going through some stretches,” Coach Spirit instructed.

  Briana bobbed her head and looked determined. “Sure thing.”

  “Bennet,” he unexpectedly shouted. “Where’s Alexandra Bennet?”

  I jerked to attention, not expecting to be singled out so early. “Here, Coach.”

  Coach Spirit’s dark blue eyes leveled on my face in the crowd. “The physical therapy room is through there,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the doors through which he’d just come. “Go introduce yourself.”

  The reassuring sounds of tennis shoes squeaking against hardwood and the dribbling of rubber basketballs dulled when I walked through the double doors that led to the other sections of the 70,000 square foot training facility. The building was a recent construction to bring the men’s team, and now us, back into Boston from the suburbs. With so many conveniences under one massive roof, it was a wonder why anyone had need to leave. It even smelled new.

  The training room was conveniently located just off of the court. The door was open, but I still knocked before entering.

  A tall white woman with short bleach-blonde hair sat alone in the room. The radio played quietly in the background. She was tan, far too tan for it to have occurred naturally, unless she’d recently returned from vacation at a more tropical location. She wore white sneakers, black mesh shorts, and the same shirt as Coach Spirit—an off-white polo with a small, green shamrock where a logo might go.

  “Lex Bennet!” she said as I walked through the door. “Just the woman I was waiting to see. As soon as we drafted you, I started planning your rehab.”

  My eyes widened at the greeting and frank admission. “Oh, thanks.”

  “Trish Walton,” she introduced herself. “Head trainer.” She slapped her palm on an elevated, padded platform, not unlike what one might find in a hospital examination room. “Let’s take a look at that wrist,” she encouraged.

  I hopped onto the examination table and let my feet swing back and forth.

  Trish pulled out a tablet and started to take notes. “When did you have the surgery?”

  “Same night as the injury,” I said. “The doctors were worried the bones wouldn’t set properly if we didn’t do it right away.”

  Her eyes lifted to the ceiling. “So that’s …”

  I did the math for her. “Three weeks ago. I got my removable brace last week. I’ve been doing strengthening exercises every day ever since.”

  Wrist surgeries were unique in that movement was encouraged right away to prevent blood clots. My surgeon had said I could perform most routine daily activities within six weeks, although competitive basketball probably didn’t fall under the umbrella of ‘routine.’

  Trish made a humming noise and typed out a few more notes. “Ice, elevation, and ibuprofen, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I confirmed.

  “Remove the brace for me, will ya?”

  I tore at the Velcro straps of my air cast and gingerly pulled the stiff brace away from my wrist. The skin beneath the brace was slightly anemic looking, but the swelling was gone and the bruising had nearly disappeared.

  Trish took my upper arm into both of her hands to inspect the healing. Her hands were warm and dry. She ran her thumb along the vertical incision that was the only visual evidence of my injury. The surgery was called an open reduction. My doctor had made an incision in the skin and had realigned the bones through the small opening. I was grateful I’d opted to have the surgery right after the game. It had given me a head start on getting a basketball in my hands again.

  “How’s your pain level?” she asked.

  “It comes and goes. Kind of a deep, dull pain, but nothing I can’t handle,” I boasted.

  Trish smirked. “Tell that to the men’s team. One little tweak or twinge and they’re on IR.”

  She pressed the pad of her thumb against a spot on the back of my injured hand, near the base of my thumb. I sucked in a sharp breath, making a hissing sound.

  “Tender?” she questioned.

  I blinked rapidly, not wanting to cry. “Uh huh.”

  “That’s your Anatomical Snuffbox,” she explained.

  “Sounds gay,” I quipped. Trish’s asymmetrical haircut suggested she was queer, but I’d been wrong before.

  Her laugh was robust. “It totally does. But it’s also a good place to assess for signs of trauma. We don’t want to baby the wrist, but we also don’t want to push too hard and risk long-term pain or functional disability.”

  I flexed my thumb and fingers, still feeling the dull, residual ache in my bones. “Whatever you say, Doc.”

  I called my parents’ landline as soon as I returned home for the night. It was the only phone number I had memorized.

  My mom picked up after the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  My parents were a little behind the times when it came to technology. They didn’t even have Caller ID. I don’t know how they lived that life, just answering the phone without already knowing who was calling them. It was like going to a restaurant and not looking at the menu ahead of time online.

  “Hey, Ma,” I greeted.

  “Alexandra!” Her voice lilted with enthusiasm. “How was your first day?”

  “I saw the inside of the PT room, but not the actual gym.”

  “That’s to be expected, honey. You’re still injured,” she reasoned. “You’ll be out there soon enough.”

  I grabbed a pencil and started scratching the tender skin under my brace. “Not soon enough.”

  “How are you getting along with everyone?” she asked.

  Whenever I’d gone away to a basketball camp when I was younger or had joined a new travel team, my mom always wanted to know if I was making any friends. The actual basketball part took a backseat. She was funny like that.

  “It’s too early to tell,” I said with fake nonchalance.

  I was hesitant to put too much effort into bonding with my new teammates. All of this could be over in a few weeks. It still felt like a dream, if I was being honest with myself. In what world would I have found myself on a team with so many women whom I’d idolized and had tried to model my own game after? Only in my wildest dreams.

  “And the roommate situation?” she pressed.

  “There’s only one bathroom, so it might become an issue.”

  My mom was quiet on her end of the phone. I knew she hadn’t run out of questions or things to say. She knew what she wanted to ask, but she didn’t know how to phrase the question.

  “And … that other detail?”

  I’d called my parents the previous evening, incredulous that the Shamrocks had decided to house Eva and me in the same apartment. It was bad enough that we’d been drafted to the same team without having to also live together.

  “It will be fine, Ma,” I said. I looked to my closed bedroom door. I couldn’t be sure how soundproof the walls were in this place, so I didn’t say her name out loud and I kept my voice low. “She’s mostly been holed up in her bedroom, with the exception of practice.”

  “She has?” My mother’s tone turned to one of concern. “Is she eating enough? Is she getting along with the other girls?”

  “I don’t know,” I said with some annoyance. Why was she suddenly so concerned about Eva Montgomery’s well being? “Whose mom are you, anyway?”

  “Hush. It can’t be easy being in a new place with a new team. You’ve always made it look effortless, but it’s not the same for everyone. Remember how homesick Renee got at sleep-away camp?”

  My mom named a girl I’d grown up with. Renee had had talent for days, but at basketball camp in middle school, she’d kept to herself at her bunk, hiding her tears and staring at family photos, instead of making new friends.

  I sighed. “I’ll keep an eye on her, Ma.”

  I could practically hear my mom’s proud smile through the phone.

  I took a quick shower despite not having done any activities at practice to actually work up a sweat. I changed into sweatpants and a hoodie and decided to pull together some kind of dinner.

  The practice facility had a full cafeteria, but it was only open for breakfast and lunch. I couldn’t complain though. I knew the Shamrocks’ facilities far outshined most teams’ resources. We had dedicated practice space compared to other teams who might be renting gym time from a local college or even a high school. I had a dedicated locker that hopefully would have my name on it once I officially made the team.

  Mathilde was lounging on the sectional couch in the living room. She flipped through the TV channels, only pausing when she landed on something sports related.

  “You hungry?” I asked.

  “Starving,” she admitted, eyes never leaving the television.

  I tugged open the refrigerator door and peered inside. The team had set us up with groceries, but I assumed we’d be responsible for filling the fridge and pantry ourselves after this first week.

  “What are you in the mood for?” I asked, scanning the refrigerator’s options.

  I didn’t have extensive culinary skills, but having lived off-campus for most of my college career, I had learned how to fend for myself. Being on a tight budget had meant instant noodles most nights.

  “Whatever you’re making,” she replied. She turned from the TV and grinned a megawatt smile.

  I barked out a laugh. “Nice.”

  “Think Eva wants to join us?” she posed.

  I stared at what was becoming a familiar sight—Eva’s closed bedroom door. We hadn’t spent much time in the apartment, but Eva had spent no time hanging out with us in the common area. She only appeared when it was time to go to practice.

  I didn’t particularly want to be spending my free time with Eva Montgomery, but my mom’s words from before had gotten stuck in my brain.

  Maybe Eva was homesick. Maybe she was feeling sad and overwhelmed. I, myself, definitely went through waves of missing friends and family and wondering if I was good enough to make the team.

  Most of my instincts said to leave it alone—to leave her alone. But a smaller, louder voice told me to knock on her door.

  I stood before the heavy door with misgivings rumbling around in my stomach. I knocked lightly at first. I didn’t want to sound oafish or demanding. I paused and listened for any sounds coming from inside.

  When I got no response, I knocked a little louder. I leaned my head closer to the door. Mathilde was playing the TV at a reasonable volume, not loud enough that it might drown out Eva’s response.