The semifinals tip off this Saturday, with the finals to follow on Monday night.
Chapter
Thirty-One
Why did people want to win? What drove them? Was it the prize money? The bragging rights? Maybe the recognition that came with a championship—words likelegacy,or evenGreatest of All Time.Whatever the motivation, there was no casual way to be an elite professional athlete. You had to be competitive. You wanted to win. You wanted to be the best.
The Miami league was brand-new, so it’s not like I’d grown up dreaming about this championship. When I was younger, taking fadeaway shots in my Mya Brown jersey on the blacktop court in my parents’ yard, the fantasy had been making the last-second shot to win the chip in the pros or even a college championship.
Winning used to be my favorite thing. I was damn good at it, too. But it had been a long time since I’d been part of a team that finished on top. I’d lost the national championship in college. I’d lost in the finals during my rookie year in the pros. Now, I had an opportunity to win the championship in this new league. The only issue—I was playing the worst basketball of my life.
The days leading up to the playoffs were all muscle memory: practice, eat, sleep, repeat. In Boston, Eva’s physical therapistcalled her out for coasting. She hadn’t told me—I’d heard it from Jazz. We’d gone from constant texts and phone calls to radio silence. But maybe that was easier than saying the wrong thing.
I observed the CBA negotiations through the lens of social media. The league had offered a max contract of $1 million and a league minimum of $250,000. It was a significant pay hike from the current status where veterans maxed out at $250,000 and rookies scraped by with $50,000. But the players’ union rejected the offer. As we’d long been saying, this next contract was bigger than salaries. To the casual fan, however, we were supposed to roll over and be grateful for whatever the league’s front office decided we were worth.
I hadn’t reached out to Eva, but I’d witnessed her being dragged on social media because of her involvement with the union. I’d been tempted to make a burner account just to argue with Eva’s critics, but I had a semifinal game to prepare for.
I sat on the sideline, my heart thumping louder than the arena’s music. Team Embers versus the Monarchs. The crowd that evening was electric. I could feel it before tip-off; it was the kind of anticipation that stuck to your skin like humidity.
But instead of feeling sharp and energized, I felt scattered. My mind wasn’t on the game. Not fully. It was back in Boston, thinking about Eva, about the text I hadn’t sent her the previous night, about the video call I’d wanted to make that morning just to hear her voice and see her face.
We had said we’d see each other once the Miami league was over, but that had been before the fighting had begun. I didn’t know what we were anymore. I didn’t know how to make my way back to her.
“Lex, you good?” Rayah strolled over, tossing a basketball from one hand to the other.
I nodded, too quickly, like it would convince both her and myself.
“Yeah. I’m good,” I said, forcing a grin.
She didn’t look convinced, but she let it slide.
Our team huddled up just before opening tip-off. Dez bounced like she had springs in her sneakers.
“Stay disciplined,” Mya told us, her voice low and calm. She had that captain energy even if no one had officially named her one. “Vargas will try to bait us. Don’t let her set the tone.”
“Don’t let Lex get baited, you mean,” Dez cracked.
I shot her a look, but she wasn’t wrong. Lina Vargas was smirking at me already, like she had waited all season for this game. The memory of Eva’s arms around my midsection, dragging me away from a suspension, lingered in my brain.
We walked onto the court to thunderous applause and cheers. Arika and the tallest player for the Monarchs faced off at center court. A referee with a long blonde ponytail tossed the ball up. Arika won the opening tip and batted the ball into my waiting hands. Game One of the inaugural 3x3 playoffs was officially underway.
My body moved out of habit, muscle memory doing what my brain couldn’t. I ran, pivoted, dribbled, jumped—but nothing felt right. My first passes were sloppy, my shots clanged off the rim.
Dez called me out during an early timeout. “Lex—focus! You’re overthinking it!”
I wanted to tell her it wasn’t the pressure of the game getting to me—it was Eva. I nodded instead, swallowed my frustration, and tried to shake the haze from my brain.
Back in the game, my hands itched, wanting the ball, but I found myself avoiding it, as if letting someone else run the offense would save me from screwing up entirely. Mya and Arika were already in rhythm, moving fast, making sharp passes that sliced through the defense. Rayah was aggressive, driving to the rim with fearless energy.
By the end of the first quarter, we were only down by two points, but I felt like I was dragging the team down. I missed easy layups, clanged jump shots, and misread defensive rotations. As point guard, I was supposed to be the backbone—the player who kept us steady in chaos. Instead, I was the chaos.
The second quarter didn’t get any better. I turned the ball over twice in a row, a stupid misread, and Arika barked at me for the mistakes. My chest burned and I felt the old frustration bubbling up.
Mya came over mid-quarter, leaning on me as we huddled briefly on the sideline.
“Lex, snap out of it,” she implored. “We need you.”
I wanted to tell her I would, but I didn’t know how. Instead, I nodded, forcing my body to respond. I passed the ball, I switched on defense, I really tried. But every move felt like a step behind.
