Hoops and heartstrings, p.29
Hoops & Heartstrings, page 29
“That your girl?” she guessed.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
She made a motion with her hand. “You should answer it. I’m not even here.”
“Cool. Thanks.” I cleared my throat and answered the call. “Hey, babe.”
“Oh! I thought you’d still be in practice. I was going to leave a voicemail.”
“Want me to hang up so you can try again?” I teased.
She chuckled. “No. I suppose I can talk to you.”
“What was your message going to be?” I asked. “Something cute or something sexy?”
Mya audibly cleared her throat.
I flicked my eyes in her direction and mouthed an apology. Maybe I shouldn’t pretend she wasn’t there.
“Neither,” Eva told me. “I just wanted to let you know I’m in Brookline at my parents.’”
I sat up in the ice bath. “Brookline! Why are you in Brookline?”
“I moved out of the team apartment in Chicago. My things are in storage until I figure out the next move.”
“So you’re staying with your parents?”
“I can’t stay with you, Lex.” She anticipated what was to be my next suggestion. “You need to focus on these upcoming games.”
“Can’t I do both?” I openly pouted.
“Stop. I won’t be the reason you’re not all in. You’ve got film to watch and weights to lift and physical therapy. Oh, and don’t forget—actual practice.”
The words tumbled out without my permission: “I miss you so fucking much.”
My stomach tightened with her pregnant pause.
“Just do your best, okay? I’ll be here when your season is over, whenever that might be. I’m not going anywhere.”
She never said that she missed me, which made me paranoid that I felt more for her than she did for me. I had a lot of big emotions, while she was more tempered with expressing her feelings. With the exception of the time I’d confronted her about seeking my friendship to appease her corporate sponsors, she’d kept her emotions in check. Only the thought of losing me had caused her guard rails to slip.
I swallowed down the juvenile impulse to question everything about our relationship.
“Okay.” I released a shaky breath. “I’ll do my best.”
I hung up and resisted the urge to throw my phone across the room.
“It’s tough,” Mya said, leaning back into the icy water, “balancing ball and a relationship—especially when there’s distance involved.”
“Yeah.” I pressed my palms to my face, cooling my flushed skin. “It sucks.”
Mya chuckled, but there was empathy in the sound. “I’ve been there. When my wife and I started dating, we were playing in different cities, too. It’s hard as hell. You’re in one world, they’re in another, and it feels like you’re always trying to make time for each other between games and practices.”
“How did you handle it?” I asked.
“We made it work because we wanted it to. But it took patience and a whole lot of late-night calls. It might feel impossible now, but if you’re both in it for the long haul, you’ll find a way.”
Mya’s words hung between us.
“But for now,” she cautioned, “we’ve got a championship to win. Don’t lose sight of that.”
My chest felt tight, either from the icy water in which I was submerged or the serious look on Mya’s face. “I won’t.”
There was a sharp knock on my hotel door. I considered ignoring it because of my sour mood. Our first game of the Finals had been a disaster—one of the worst games in which I’d ever participated. The game had been a blowout, 100-73. Our shots weren’t falling. Briana had gotten into foul trouble early in the game. The referees seemed to favor New York for every close or potentially controversial call.
Coach Spirit had pulled all of the starters in the middle of the fourth quarter because the deficit was so bad and he didn’t want to risk us getting hurt in a game we had no chance of winning. It had been humbling. Embarrassing.
I tugged open the door without bothering to inspect the peephole.
My body sagged in relief. “Oh, thank God.”
Eva leaned her hip against the inside of the doorframe. “I needed to make sure I was the only groupie who knocked on your door tonight.”
On any other night, I would have ogled her bare midriff and the low cut of her halter top. But on this night, my lip trembled, and I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
Her playful expression softened. “Oh, baby. Come here.”
She stepped forward, arms open, and I collapsed into her.
She was silent as she held me. Her hand stroked over my hair, my shoulders, and my back. I pressed my face into the front of her shoulder. I closed my eyes and inhaled her familiar scent.
“Were you at the game?” My voice was muffled by her shirt.
“No. I ended up watching at a bar down the street.” Her hands on my back were calming and consoling. “You wouldn’t believe what scalpers wanted for re-sale tickets. Apparently everyone watches women’s sports.”
I inhaled an ugly, rattling breath through my nose. “So I’ve heard.”
Eva pulled back and inspected my face. She wiped away the defiant tears that clung to my cheeks. “I had planned on surprising you tonight,” she revealed, “win or lose.”
I stared into her gentle, honey-light gaze. “Thank you. Thank you for being here.”
“Of course, babe.” Her hand fell to the small of my back and she guided me further into the room. “Why don’t we get you ready for bed?”
I’d already showered in the visitor’s locker room after the game, but I brushed my teeth and washed my face in my hotel bathroom. When I finally re-emerged, Eva had gotten comfortable. She’d exchanged her regular clothes for one of the fluffy hotel robes. The outfit she’d shown up in was carefully folded and laid out on the room’s built-in desk.
She patted the empty space on the mattress beside her. “There’s a new episode of House Hunters on.”
I smiled despite how miserably the evening had gone.
“I hate these couples who complain about paint colors. Don’t they know they can change that when they buy the house?” she clucked. “So dumb.”
I settled in beside her on the king-sized bed. I leaned against her and rested my head on her shoulder. A newly-married couple wanted to buy a single-family home in Seattle. She wanted a turnkey house by the water. He wanted a fixer-upper.
Eva draped her arm across my shoulders. Her fingers wove gently through my hair as she massaged my scalp. The rhythmic motion lulled me, and soon the space between my blinks stretched longer and longer, until I fell asleep.
I woke up sometime later to the low murmur of the TV. Eva had changed the channel to a cooking show, the volume barely audible. I wondered which house the Seattle couple had decided on.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Welcome back.”
I lifted my head from her shoulder. My neck felt stiff from the unnatural angle.
“Sorry. The first time we see each other in weeks, and I pass out.”
“You’re fine,” she assured me. “I came here with no expectations. I wanted to support you, regardless of the game’s outcome.”
I stuck out my lower lip. “It was bad.”
“It was a bad game,” she agreed, “but you’ve got a couple more. Take Game Two from them and then you’ll be back in Boston where you’ll have the advantage.”
I knew all of these things, naturally. But hearing it from her made it somehow sound more reasonable.
I turned onto my side, still nestled against her. Her fingers lightly trailed down my arm, her touch grounding me.
“You okay?” she whispered.
“Better now that you’re here.”
Eva leaned over and pressed a kiss to my temple. The steady rise and fall of her chest against my back was soothing, and for a moment, the loss, the frustration—it all seemed distant, irrelevant compared to the quiet intimacy we shared in the darkened room.
“The next game will be better,” she said softly, her lips close to my ear. “You’ll bounce back.”
Her faith in me was more inspiring than any pep talk from Coach Spirit.
“I hope you’re right,” I murmured.
She brushed a strand of hair away from my face. Her touch lingered on my cheek. “I always am.”
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
The lights in the arena were dimmed for pre-game introductions. I sat on the bench with the other starters and waited to hear my name. My legs twitched and my knees bounced with a mix of excitement and nerves. Game One against New York had been an embarrassing defeat, but we’d bounced back in Game Two. It had been a close, low scoring affair, but we’d managed to steal a game on New York’s home court before the series shifted to Boston.
Game Three had been a bit of a circus. Ticket demand had been so feverish that the league had decided to switch the game from our regular venue to the downtown arena where the men’s team played. It was supposed to be an advantage, but playing under those championship banners and the names and numbers of their retired legends seemed to make everyone tighten up. We’d gone down early, trying to play too perfect. We chipped away at the deficit over four quarters, but New York ended up taking Game Three. With New York ahead in the series, two games to one, Game Four was win or go home. If we lost tonight there would be no Game Five.
I’d been bombarded with voicemails and text messages from friends and family, old coaches, and former teammates all week. They wanted to wish me luck, of course, but also to provide unsolicited advice about what I was doing wrong. It had been Eva who’d suggested I turn off my phone. It meant not having an easy way with which to communicate with her, but it was what I needed to remain focused and locked in, at least until the playoffs were over.
With the series on the line, Game Four felt different. Electric. Urgent. I stood for my introduction and exchanged elaborate handshakes with my teammates as we made our way to center court. The music in the stadium was loud; the crowd was even louder. Everyone was on their feet, a sea of green and teal—our colors against theirs.
We came out aggressive, with Lauren winning the opening tip-off. We jumped out to an early lead within the first few minutes of the game. But New York wasn’t going to give up just because we’d gone up by a few points. It didn’t take long for them to claw their way back. When we reached the game’s midway point, New York had chipped away at our lead, leaving us clinging to a slim margin.
The pep talk at halftime belonged to Mya. She didn’t speak in clichés or use tired metaphors like coaches usually did. She only spoke about the reality of our situation.
“You can go your entire playing career without ever being in this position,” she began. “I know women who’ve played in this league for a decade or more without ever competing for a championship. But it’s not good enough to simply be here. This isn’t an awards show where you’re just happy to be nominated.”
She paused and scanned the faces of those gathered in the locker room—players, coaches, and training staff.
"This could be my last game. Ever. And I don’t plan on walking out of here with any regrets,” she continued, solemn but intense. “We could win, or we could lose. But I’m not done yet.”
She held up her arm, signaling for us to huddle up. “On three,” she instructed. “No regrets.”
We all joined in, hands clasped in the middle of the circle. “One, two, three,” we recited. “No regrets!”
The third quarter started with the same intensity as we’d shown at the start of the game. New York kept the score close, however, never letting us go up by more than six points. By the start of the fourth quarter, the game had turned into a slugfest. We traded baskets with New York, neither team able to pull ahead by more than a couple of points.
I dribbled the ball at the top of the key and passed the ball to Mya. She drove hard to the basket, but three of New York’s defenders collapsed on her, causing her to pick up her dribble. She held the ball above her head and pivoted back and forth, in search of a teammate who might bail her out.
Briana had cleared out of the paint, bringing her defender with her. I cut towards the basket and looked for the pass. Mya’s bounce pass to me was deflected, resulting in a loose ball. Players on both sides scrambled to gain possession. I dove headfirst into the chaos, instinctive and unthinking.
Arms and elbows and heads and shoulders collided in the multiplayer scrum. I didn’t stop fighting for the ball until I heard the referee’s whistle for a jump ball.
Briana and Mya reached down to help me up. I clasped onto their hands with mine and let them tug me to my feet. An alarming pain shot down my right arm the moment they pulled me up. I winced and cradled my surgically-repaired wrist.
Panic bubbled up before I could swallow it down. I wasn’t hurt, not really, but the scare was enough. Coach Spirit immediately subbed me out for Erica.
Sitting on the bench, I flexed my wrist. The pain was already subsiding, but my frustration was just beginning to build. Trish, who’d been sitting at the very end of the bench, crouched in front of me.
“Did you re-injure it?”
“No. Just a scare,” I promised. “I’ve got to get back in there.”
Trish sighed, glancing toward Coach Spirit, who was deep in conversation with Coach Cartwright. “It’s only one game, Lex. You’ve got a long career ahead of you.”
But it wasn’t just one game. This was the game.
The longer I sat on the bench, the more my annoyance grew. There wasn't a deep drop-off in talent when Erica replaced me, but New York was starting to pull ahead. They took the lead for the first time all game with only six minutes left to play.
Coach Spirit called a timeout. The on-court players sat on the bench to rehydrate and receive Coach Spirit’s instructions. The bench players stood and faced the crowd, our backs to the court. Coach Spirit was talking, gesturing at the play he’d drawn up on his whiteboard, but his words sounded far away.
He was ruining everything. I should’ve still been in the game. We were down by a basket now, and every second I spent on the bench felt like an eternity.
I scanned the crowd, my eyes passing over handmade signs, foam fingers, and replica jerseys. My eyes stopped on a beautiful woman who sat in the lower bowl. They were good seats despite not being court-side or directly behind the players’ bench.
I caught Eva’s stare. She pointed at her eyes and then at the court. Pay attention, she seemed to say.
A laugh bubbled up my throat, almost like church giggles. I forced my smile to flattened and gave her a quick nod. I’ll behave.
The referee’s whistle signaled the end of our timeout. I grabbed a plastic water bottle from one of the trainers and returned to my seat on the bench.
Trish sat beside me again, tending to my wrist. She poked and prodded and tested my mobility.
“Talk to Coach, Trish. Please. Get me back in there.” My voice was low but insistent.
I heard her quiet curse. She rose from her seat and walked along the sideline to reach Coach Spirit. I couldn’t make out what she said, but whatever it was, it worked. Coach Spirit looked in my direction. Our eyes met, and he nodded.
“Alexandra! Go!”
The crowd erupted as I jogged to the scorer’s table to check back into the game. My heart was lodged in my throat as I tucked my jersey into my shorts and stepped onto the court.
The final minutes of the game were a blur of intensity and movement. We battled for every rebound, every loose ball, every possession. But New York’s offense was relentless, and with just under a minute left, a deep three-pointer had them ahead by four points.
Briana inbounded the ball. I let the ball roll in front of me, knowing that the clock wouldn’t start again until I touched the ball. I only picked it up when my defender sprinted towards me. I rocketed a quick pass to Dez. I saw her look toward the basket; she pump-faked and my heart sank. We didn’t need a low percentage three-point attempt. There was still time. We didn’t have to force the shot.
Dez passed on the contested shot, however, and dumped the ball deep into the post to Lauren. She pivoted and shot over New York’s center–a quick two-pointer that cut the deficit to two.
I had just enough time to slap Dez on the backside. “Way to find the open look,” I approved.
New York inbounded the ball under the basket. Dez and I flashed toward New York’s point guard for the double-team to force a turnover.
The referee’s whistle stopped game action.
“Foul!” she yelled. “Green, number 7, reach-in!”
Dez took a few quick steps towards the head referee. “I didn’t touch her!” she protested.
I stepped in between Dez and the official. “It’s okay,” I told her. Her eyes flashed in anger. “We’ve still got time.”
We couldn’t afford Dez getting a technical foul and giving New York an extra free throw.
New York was in the double bonus, meaning the foul–despite not being a shooting foul–resulted in two free throws.
The stadium’s volume elevated to near eardrum-shattering levels while New York’s point guard lined up on the free throw line.
I rested my hands on my knees to catch my breath. Time was slipping away. If New York made both free throws, it would be back to a two-score game. If she only made one of them, we could tie with a quick three-pointer. If she missed both, although unlikely, a three-pointer could win the game.
New York’s point guard dribbled twice and shot the ball up. She had an easy and automatic shooting motion. The ball dropped through the rim and net.
A combination of cheers and groans rose up from the crowd.
“Box out!” I yelled at our Bigs.
If she made the shot, our chances of evening the score wouldn’t be very likely. But if New York somehow secured the offensive rebound after a miss, our victory would become an improbable statistic.
She dribbled twice again and offered up her second of two free throws. My throat tightened when the ball hit the side of the rim. Lauren had expertly positioned herself between New York’s center and the basket. She jumped up and secured the rebound. From the sideline, Coach Spirit called our final timeout.
