Hoops and heartstrings, p.1
Hoops & Heartstrings, page 1
Hoops & Heartstrings
A RIVALS-TO-LOVERS SAPPHIC NOVEL
ELIZA LENTZSKI
Contents
Series by Eliza Lentzski
Standalone Novels
Prologue
Chapter 1
Untitled
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Untitled
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Untitled
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Untitled
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Untitled
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Untitled
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Untitled
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
About the Author
Copyright © 2024 Eliza Lentzski
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, other than those in the public domain, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, re-sold, or transmitted electronically or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
ISBN: 9798338989500
Imprint: Independently published
Series by Eliza Lentzski
Don’t Call Me Hero Series
Don’t Call Me Hero
Damaged Goods
Cold Blooded Lover
One Little Secret
Grave Mistake
Stolen Hearts
Winter Jacket Series
Winter Jacket
Winter Jacket 2: New Beginnings
Winter Jacket 3: Finding Home
Winter Jacket 4: All In
Hunter
Standalone Novels
Hoops & Heartstrings
Lighthouse Keeper
Sour Grapes
The Woman in 3B
Sunscreen & Coconuts
The Final Rose
Bittersweet Homecoming
Fragmented
Apophis: A Love Story for the End of the World
Second Chances
Date Night
Love, Lust, & Other Mistakes
Diary of a Human
Works as E.L. Blaisdell
Drained: The Lucid (with Nica Curt)
To C
Prologue
My hand hovered close to her hip, always there, but never quite touching. I focused on her hips and her midsection, not her eyes. The eyes could deceive, but her body wouldn’t mislead me. I shuffled my feet and maintained a slightly crouched stance. Muscle memory took over. Extensive conditioning had strengthened my upper thighs; I could do this all day.
For someone her height, Eva Montgomery had impressive handles. Her footwork was solid, too. She had a few inches on me, both in overall height and wingspan, but I was quicker. When she crossed her dribble, switching the basketball from her right hand to her left, I saw my opportunity. I’d played her often enough over the years and had watched enough film to know that her left hand was her weakness.
I jabbed my outstretched hand forward, anticipating the movement of the ball from right to left. My fingertips made just enough contact to knock the ball loose.
The referee’s shrill whistle was immediate.
The balding man in his zebra-striped shirt pointed directly at me. “Foul! Number 21! Reach-in foul.”
A cacophony of cheers and boos rose from the stadium bleachers. I chanced a quick look at the electronic scoreboard. I had plenty of fouls to give, and, as a team, we weren’t close to being in the bonus yet.
My friend and teammate, Jasmine, caught my attention across the court. She made a settling gesture with her hands. Calm down, her intense stare and body language implored me. Take it easy.
I knew I needed to take it down a notch. I’d been hyped since opening tip-off, but could you really blame me? This was the culmination of my college career. These were the moments I’d fantasized about, the payoff after the hard work and the sacrifices I’d made. The weekends forfeited for basketball tournaments. The summer breaks spent at basketball camp while other girls wore bikinis and got tan by the pool. The countless hours practicing on the well-worn pavement outside of my childhood home.
Less than half a quarter more stood between me and that big, beautiful trophy.
The game had been tight from the start. Each team would go on a scoring run, only for the opposite side to go on a run of their own and eventually catch up. The crowd had long ago abandoned their seats in favor of standing.
I wiped the sweat from my brow and took my position as the referee readied the ball on the sideline. Our triangle and two defense crippled most teams when there was a massive drop-off in talent between the shooting forwards and everyone else. Their Bigs had talent, but it was their backcourt that really carried the team.
I face-guarded my assignment, the opposing team’s point guard. She didn’t shoot often, but she had amazing court vision. Some of her passes were so beautiful, they made you want to cry.
The other team’s center, a tall gangly brunette who looked fresh off the farm, in-bounded the ball. Despite Jazz’s best defensive efforts, the pass—predictably—went to Eva Montgomery.
I sprinted from my assignment to help with the double team. Jazz and I had the ball trapped in one corner at half court, but Eva Montgomery still hadn’t picked up her dribble. I watched the ball each time it made contact with her right hand instead of observing her eyes or her feet. I took note of the flex in her fingers, the movement in her hips. She was changing hands again.
I was quicker the second time around. I shot my right hand out and intercepted the ball. We fumbled briefly with the unsolicited exchange before I gained sole possession. The crowd’s cheers filled my head, and this time I heard no whistle for a foul.
I took off like being shot out of a canon. I pushed the ball ahead of me rather than keeping my dribble tight against my body as I sprinted down the court towards an easy layup.
To hear my dad tell it, I was born with a basketball in one hand. It must have been an uncomfortable delivery for my mom, to say the least.
I only slowed as I approached the basket. I picked up my dribble. One step. Two. I lifted my right hand for the underhanded layup. The ball elevated out of my palm and bounced with precision off the corner of the backboard. My body was still moving forward, but I didn’t need to watch the end of the shot. I already knew it was going in.
Two hands centered in the middle of my back. My body kept moving forward, aided by a strong shove from behind. There was too much force, too much inertia.
My arms reflexively shot forward to break my fall. I landed hard with my right hand making contact with the hardwood first. A violent burst of pain lurched up my arm. My right shoulder hit next, followed by the rest of my body.
The referee’s whistle pierced through the crowds’ gasps and shrieks. I rolled onto my back and clutched at my right arm. My hand and wrist felt like they were on fire. I sucked in a sharp gasp that came out like a whimper.
Don’t cry. Don’t scream.
I forced my eyes open despite the overwhelming urge to vomit. Jazz stood over me, her face a perfect picture of worry. The hardwood court vibrated beneath me as the team’s trainers jogged out to check on me.
Eva Montgomery’s face was the last thing I saw before the adrenaline wore off and the pain kicked in.
Chapter
One
My mom nudged at my feet on the coffee table. “Your arm is broken. Not your legs.”
“My wrist is shattered, Ma,” I was quick to correct.
“Which is why I haven’t given you a hard time about those dirty cereal bowls that keep appearing in the sink. You do know we have a dishwasher, right?”
I sighed and groaned and made a big show of removing my feet from the coffee table as though it was a massive inconvenience.
“Why are we even watching this?” My annoyance was palpable.
“Because Jasmine is your best friend,” my mom clucked, “and we’re going to cheer for her, even if it’s from our living room.”
My mom moved around the living room, making piles of things and rearranging various knick-knacks. She tidied as if expecting company, even though I knew no one was coming over that night. She’d always had a hard time sitting still. She was constantly in motion, fussing over this or that.
“Ooh!” My kid sister, Paige, cooed from her place on the carpet and pointed at the television screen. “Look at her dress!”
I snorted dismissively at the familiar woman striking a pose for the cameras like some pseudo-celebrity. “Who the hell invited Danica Wainwright to this thing? There’s no way she’s getting drafted tonight.”
I knew nearly everyone who was at the event.
My mom rearranged the framed photographs on the mantle. “You need to check your attitude, young lady,” she censured.
“Should have been you,” my dad grumbled. He cracked open a can of beer and sat back in his worn recliner. He was typically a man of few words, but he’d been nearly as morose as myself since I’d come to live back home after my injury.
I gestured to my dad’s newly opened beer. “Can I get one of those?”
“You know you shouldn’t be mixing alcohol with your pain killers,” my mom chastised.
“It’s the only way I’m gonna get through tonight,” I sullenly protested.
“Let the girl pout a little, Mary,” my dad implored. “She’s earned it.”
He leaned forward and stretched his arm toward me. I reached across my body with my good arm—the one not in a brace—to claim the hand-me-down beer. I leaned back into the couch cushions, feeling smug and adult.
“What were you going to wear?” Paige asked me.
I took a quick drink of the watered-down, second-hand pilsner. “It’s the draft, not the Oscars.”
I gave my sister a hard time, but in reality, the fitted suit was hanging in my bedroom closet. I’d squirreled away some Name, Image, and Likeness money I’d made from an appearance at a local restaurant just for that purpose. In hindsight, it had been an impulsive and extravagant waste of money. I couldn’t think of a single scenario where I’d have the opportunity to ever wear the outfit.
I’d thought myself a shoo-in to be drafted to the women’s professional basketball league, but the injury to my wrist had changed all of that. We were only one week removed from the national championship game. The swelling hadn’t even gone down; my fingers were like plump sausages in my brace. No one was going to draft a point guard with only one good hand.
“Oh, wow. Look at her,” Paige audibly admired.
And there she was. Eva Montgomery. Three-time All-American. Naismith College Player of the Year. Two-time AAU Sullivan Award winner. The consensus number one draft pick. And the reason I was laid up on my parents’ couch in Middleton, Wisconsin instead of walking the orange carpet in New York.
The hot pink tailored power suit should have clashed with the orange carpet, but she was somehow making it work. The shimmering bralette she wore beneath her fitted blazer was sexy but classy, and it matched the color of her glittering shoes. The height of her spiked heels had my ankles complaining.
She wore her dark hair parted to one side. Long, black tresses fell like an iridescent waterfall down her right shoulder. Her warm umber skin tone glowed even more beneath the bright lights. The camera came in close on flawlessly applied makeup, smoky eyeshadow, and thick, augmented eyelashes.
She’d paused to speak with the entertainment reporter the network had hired to work the orange carpet that night. She spoke with poise and grace and was effortlessly humble even though everyone knew her name would be the first one called that night.
God, she was annoying.
“You done with that already?” My dad’s voice tugged at my attention.
“Huh?”
He gestured to the aluminum can in my tensed left hand. There was still liquid in the can, but I’d unintentionally crushed it.
“Want me to recycle that for you?” he offered.
“Oh. No. I’ll take care of it.”
I glanced once more at the television. Eva Montgomery had moved on and the network’s reporters were gushing over her draft day look. I left the couch and brought my slightly dented beer can with me to the kitchen.
The living room was only a few steps away from the kitchen. My parents had purchased the split-level home not long after they’d gotten married, and the interior, like myself, was starting to show its age. The house would have benefited from a remodel, but my sensible midwestern parents cared little about material objects or updated interior design.
I poured the rest of my beer down the kitchen sink. It was still drinkable even though I’d dented the can, but my mom was right about not mixing alcohol with the pain medication the doctors had me on.
Despite my earlier grumblings, I continued to observe the television from the kitchen. The potential draftees sat at round tables with their support systems: parents, old coaches, and former teammates. My friend Jazz had invited me to be at her draft day table, but I’d refused with some lame excuse. I didn’t want my injury or my bad attitude to spoil the special night for her.
The network’s talking heads droned on in the background about potential landing spots for various players while I hand washed the empty cereal bowls my mom had complained about earlier. I took my time and tried to be intentional about the task. With the restrictive brace on my wrist, everything took a little longer.
I returned to the living room and my place on the couch just as the league commissioner reached the podium. She smiled brilliantly into one of the television cameras and waited for the cheers and polite applause to dissipate.
“Welcome all, to the 2024 draft. It’s an honor to be here with you tonight. We’ve been waiting a while to be able to say these words.” She paused and grinned again. “Boston Shamrocks! You are officially on the clock.”
It was a big moment for the sport and for the league. Previously capped at twelve teams, the growing popularity of women’s basketball had necessitated the addition of two new expansion teams: the Boston Shamrocks and the Detroit Forge.
There had been some controversy regarding who would be awarded the number one draft pick that year. Traditionally in the men’s and women’s professional leagues, expansion teams didn’t receive the first overall pick. That right still went to the teams with the lowest winning percentages from the previous season. Expansion teams might get the fifth overall pick, but never the first.
But the league hadn’t added a new team since Atlanta in 2008, so there was some chatter that league officials wanted to reward both Boston and Detroit’s new team ownership. The two newest teams had flipped a coin for the right to the first overall pick. Boston had won the coin flip, and therefore Eva Montgomery.
The commissioner smiled and thanked the crowd before stepping away from the podium. The cameras shifted to the network’s talking heads—all former and current league players and one gravel-voiced male announcer selected for the deep timbre of his voice. The TV coverage moved from the seated row of analysts to Eva Montgomery at her friends and family table. She sat, straight backed, legs crossed at the ankle. She smiled, tight lipped, and waved at the cameras that were, no doubt, shoved in her face.
Coverage flipped between the analysts—all fawning over Eva Montgomery’s talent and unprecedented popularity—and old college game footage. Eva Montgomery shooting a three pointer. Eva Montgomery boxing out a smaller opponent. Eva Montgomery grabbing a rebound and taking the ball up the court herself. She was going to be the new face of the league. And I had no fucking clue what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
“You really played against her?” Paige’s voice broke into my thoughts.
I sucked on my front teeth. “Yep.”
The league commissioner walked back onto the stage and behind the podium. She leaned closer to the microphone and read from a small index card.
“With the first pick of the 2024 draft, the Boston Shamrocks select Eva Montgomery, Forward …”
The rest of the commissioner’s announcement was drowned out by vigorous cheers and applause. Cameras zoomed in on ticketed audience members—super fans who had made the pilgrimage to the televised draft. They held up homemade signs and screamed into the cameras. Coverage shifted back to the elevated stage where the commissioner greeted Eva Montgomery with a hug. She handed her the symbolic first round jersey and the two posed and smiled for the cameras.
My dad had gotten himself a new beer. He grunted as he settled back in his chair. “Should have been you.”
I didn’t have the stomach or the patience to watch too much more of the draft. With each new selection, the nauseous bile crept higher and higher up my throat and I sank deeper and deeper into bitter annoyance and regret. I hadn’t expected to go first overall, but I was definitely more skilled than the women getting drafted towards the end of the first round.
