This time, it was one of me.
Or me and Rayah, depending on who you asked.
We were at a nightclub, the whole team crammed around a table after that night’s win. We’d clinched the second spot in the upcoming playoffs, and for the first time since Eva had gone back to Boston, I’d actually felt like celebrating.
The shot had caught me mid-laugh, my head tilted toward Rayah as she leaned in to say something over the noise. Her hand was resting on my shoulder, fingers curled just enough to look like they belonged there.
I knew exactly what she’d said—something about the DJ playing three different Pitbull songs in a row—but no one else would know that from the picture.
“Uh oh.” Jazz’s voice floated into my consciousness.
“What?” I asked without looking up.
“The internet thinks you’re cheating on Eva. Something about you and Rayah Thompson havingundeniable chemistry.” She had the decency to look apologetic. “Their words, not mine.”
I made a noise low in my throat. “They also think Eva is dating Kate again, apparently.”
Jazz raised her eyebrows. “Oh. That’s … convenient timing.”
“Yeah.” I pressed my lips together. “Convenient.”
The phone buzzed in my hand, startling me. Eva’s face and name lit up the screen.
My own face must have done something because Jazz started shuffling towards the front door. “I’ll … just be next door,” she said.
I nodded as she showed herself out and then answered the call.
“Hey,” I said. I aimed for casual but hit something closer to guilty.
“Hey,” she echoed. There was a pause—the kind that makes you brace for bad news. “Have you seen it?”
I swallowed. “Which one?”
Another pause. “Both, I guess.”
“It’s nothing,” I said quickly. “Just bad timing and camera angles.”
“Same here,” she replied. “You know Kate and I?—”
“I know,” I cut in, even though my stomach didn’t completely believe it. “I’m not worried about that.”
She made a noise—half exhale, half something else.
“Okay,” she said finally.
We didn’t ask the follow-up questions out loud. Not the one I wanted to know—Why didn’t you tell me Kate was going to be there?
Not the one she might have been thinking—Why did you let Rayah touch you like that?
Instead, we talked about safe things. Rehab exercises. The weather. My next game. But the space in between the words felt heavier than the words themselves.
When we finally hung up, I stared at my phone’s blacked out screen, trying to decide which photo I hated more.
We didn’t fightabout it right away.
For a few days after the photos had surfaced online, we’d stuck to neutral topics—texts about practice, her rehab progress, the weather in Miami versus Boston. I told myself it was fine, that we’d both just decided not to give the internet the satisfaction of getting in our heads. Not to feed oxygen to the growing doubts and suspicions.
But by the time she called after her latest CBA meeting, I could hear the strain in her voice, and it rubbed something raw in me.
