Hoops and heartstrings, p.30
Hoops & Heartstrings,
p.30
Our final timeout was only a reset timeout, meaning we wouldn’t actually get to go to our respective bench to receive instructions or have Coach Spirit draw up a last-second play. The reset timeout only meant we would inbound the ball past the half-court line instead of the baseline, saving us a few valuable seconds.
“Flare! Flare!” Coach Spirit called from the sideline. He called out the play whose movement would get Mya open for a quick three.
New York would probably be doubling Dez, knowing her three-point percentage was the highest on the team. Mya’s three-pointer was respectable, however. The play made good sense.
Dez darted toward the perimeter, drawing two defenders with her, just as Coach had predicted. I caught the inbound pass from Briana and pivoted quickly, scanning the floor. Mya made her move, cutting hard through a pair of screens, her defender struggling to keep up. She curled around the arc, and for a split second, I saw daylight.
With no hesitation, I whipped the ball to her. She caught the pass in rhythm, her form perfect, the release smooth. The ball sailed toward the basket, a clean arc cutting through the noise.
I could already hear the celebration in my mind.
Mya’s shot hit the front of the rim, bounced high, and then rattled around the cylinder. I held my breath as I watched, waiting for that final roll to drop.
It didn’t.
The ball spun out, and New York’s center pulled down the rebound as the final buzzer echoed through the arena.
I stood there, hands on my head, my heart pounding in my chest. We’d been so close. So damn close.
New York’s center threw the ball straight up in the air in celebration and their fans roared. For us–silence. New York’s bench players and coaching staff stormed the court in celebration, while we stood with our hands on our knees—breathless, deflated, and heartbroken.
As the final buzzer’s echo faded, I stood in place, trying to process the defeat. It felt surreal—the sudden stoppage after all of that motion, all of that effort.
New York’s players celebrated wildly, their fans on their feet, while we stood motionless, watching their joy from the opposite end of the emotional spectrum. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Sit on the bench? Go back to the locker room? Try to congratulate some of the celebrating New York players on their well-earned victory?
In the midst of the jubilation, I acknowledged an unexpected scene transpiring–Mya’s family navigating their way down to the playing surface. Her wife held their daughter’s hand as they walked onto the hardwood court. The little girl couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. She played with a mountain of confetti that had settled on the floor like it was freshly fallen snow. It was a cute, private family moment, surrounded by the most public of celebrations.
Mya must have noticed my stare. She waved me over. “Hey, Bennet!” she called. “I wanna introduce you to someone.”
I walked up to the family of three. Mya lifted her daughter and propped her up on her hip. The girl wore a miniature Shamrocks jersey with her mother’s number on the front and over-the-ear headphones to muffle the loud noises around her. She and Mya had the same face.
“This is Lex Bennet, Reed,” Mya introduced. “Can you say hi?”
The little girl buried her face into Mya’s shoulder.
“Reed’s a little shy,” Mya seemed to apologize. “She doesn’t really like anyone but my wife and me.”
I leaned closer to the pair and lowered my voice. “Reed, did you know your mom’s the greatest basketball player to ever play the sport? She’s the G.O.A.T.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” her wife scolded. “I’ll never get her to retire.”
Mya laughed, but I couldn’t help my frown.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wanted to win it for you.”
Mya shifted her daughter to the opposite hip. “Don’t worry about me, Bennet. I’ve been to the mountaintop before—it’s your turn now. You’ll get your chance soon enough,” she affirmed. “I’m sure of it.”
Confetti continued to slowly float onto the court from above, and t-shirts and baseball caps emblazoned with the words World Champions were passed among the celebrating New York team. Most of my teammates had already retreated to the locker room. The loss stung, like I knew it would. The last time I’d been in this position I’d had to watch the trophy ceremony on tape delay from a hospital room while some doctor put a cast on my injured wrist.
Confetti stuck in my hair and had adhered itself to my sweaty skin, but I was too distracted by the beautiful woman trying to negotiate with the stern-faced security guard who was keeping fans from rushing onto the court. I could see the frustration on her face and the way she waved her arms as she tried, no doubt, to get the barrel-chested man to let her pass.
My feet moved of their own accord until I reached the sideline and her.
“It’s okay,” I called out to the stadium guard. “She’s with me.”
Eva flashed the man a final disparaging look before she stepped past him and onto the court. She stayed on the black rubber matting at the edge of the court instead of walking onto it; her skyscraper heels would have damaged the lacquered finish on the hardwood floor.
Her dark jeans were practically painted on, her cropped leather jacket hugged her figure, and the way she looked at me—like I was the only person in the world—was all I needed right then.
“Good game,” she told me.
“Not good enough,” I retorted. I wasn’t really bitter, though. New York had played hard for four quarters. They’d earned the win.
Eva plucked an errant piece of confetti from my hair and flicked it to the floor. “You did your best, Lex. You always do.”
I made a noncommittal noise, deep from my throat.
“I’m sorry,” she frowned. “I know how much you wanted this.”
“You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted more.”
She shook her head and lightly laughed. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“You just lost the biggest game of your career, and here you are still charming as hell.”
The corner of my mouth quirked up. “So it worked?”
“You have no idea.”
She touched her fingers to the side of my face. Somewhere in my brain it registered that we were far from being alone. There were cameras and people everywhere, but my senses blocked all of them out.
She leaned in close. The scent of her delicate perfume rose above the stadium odors of sweat, popcorn, and beer. Her voice was steady, yet it carried the weight of something monumental.
“I love you.”
The words hit me. Filled me to bursting. My chest tightened with an overwhelming warmth, and for a second, I thought I might lose it right there, in front of everyone.
“I love you, too,” I breathed. The truth of it was almost too big to say.
She continued eliminating the distance between us until her full, plush mouth pressed against mine.
She kissed me there, at the edge of the court, in front of thousands of fans, cameras, and a live television audience. Her lips moved against mine with a soft urgency. My arms found their way around her waist and I pulled her closer. My jersey and skin were still damp from the game, but Eva didn’t seem to care. She didn’t seem to care about anything beyond kissing me.
She pulled back, just enough to meet my eyes. A teasing smirk played on her lips. “I guess this is my Coming Out parade?” She plucked another piece of confetti from my skin and tossed it in the air. “Got the confetti and everything.”
She leaned in for another kiss—this one softer, sweeter, but with just as much love.
It felt a whole lot like winning.
About the Author
Eliza Lentzski is the author of sapphic fiction, romance, and erotica including the best-selling Winter Jacket and Don’t Call Me Hero series. Although a historian by day, Eliza is passionate about fiction. She was born and raised in the upper Midwest, which is often the setting for her novels. She lives in Boston with her wife and their cat, Charley.
Follow her on Twitter/X, Instagram, Threads, or BlueSky @ElizaLentzski, and Like her on Facebook for updates and exclusive previews of future original releases.
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Eliza Lentzski, Hoops & Heartstrings
