Rayah scored on a fast break, Arika followed up with a beautiful pick-and-roll to Dez, and Mya knocked down a corner three. The team carried me through my fog. Their precision, their trust in each other, reminded me why we’d made it this far.
Still, I felt useless, like a ghost on the floor.
Halftime felt like a reprieve and a punishment all at once. Sweat stung my eyes as we sat on the bench, Coach D pacing in front of us.
“Lex,” he said, stopping and fixing me with a hawk-eyed stare, “I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but you’re letting it affect your game. You’ve got one half of basketball to decide if you’re here to play or just to watch.”
His words stung, but they were deserved. I draped a towel over my head, listening to the white noise of the crowd and wishing I could remove my brain and set it somewhere safe.
Rayah leaned over. “We’ve got this, Lex,” she encouraged. “Just do your part.”
I nodded again, but I wasn’t sure I knew what that meant anymore.
The Monarchs caught fire in the third quarter, hitting back-to-back threes. Our lead evaporated and everything tightened. My palms were slick on the ball, my legs heavy. I tried to push through it, to run plays the way we’d practiced a thousand times, but everything I did still felt slow, wrong, and out of sync.
I kept missing layups I should have made. Shots I normally wouldn’t think twice about fell short or bounced too hard off the backboard. I saw the win slipping through my fingers, and my stomach coiled tighter with every mistake.
I missed a pass to Rayah—an easy, simple, everyday pass—and the ball got stolen. Lina Vargas scored an uncontested layup. The crowd groaned. Dez muttered something under her breath. Rayah shot me a glare.
I wanted to shrink into the floor, crawl under the bench, and disappear. I had never felt this bad in a game. Not in college. Not in the pros. Not ever.
Coach D didn’t bench me. He left me on the floor, staring me down in a way that saidfigure it out.
Somehow, despite me messing everything up, we stayed in it. Rayah stole the ball at midcourt and drove hard to the basket before kicking it out to Mya. She faked the shot, then passed it back to Rayah in the corner. Three points. The Embers were back on top.
I could feel the tide turning, even though I felt like I was wading through molasses. I hit a few clean passes and finally contributed a rebound or two. It wasn’t my best game—it wasn’t even close—but my team’s energy was contagious. I rode their wave, letting their momentum carry me.
Early in the fourth, we started to pull away. Team Monarchs was desperate, pushing, hacking, trying to force errors. I passedto Rayah, then cut to the rim, ready for a return pass that never came. Instead, I watched her take the shot herself.
The crowd roared when the ball fell through the hoop. I felt like a bystander, watching my own game from the outside.
Mya intercepted a desperate Monarchs pass. Arika hit another three-pointer, securing the victory as the fourth quarter came to an end. Team Embers had won. We were going to the finals. And I still had no idea where I stood with Eva.
We’d won,but I couldn’t shake the sour taste in my mouth. Everyone else was buzzing, already rehashing step-back threes and blocked shots, but all I could think about was how badly I’d played. My shot had been clunky, I’d telegraphed my passes, and I’d been a step behind Lina Vargas all night. The scoreboard said we were moving on, but my chest said I didn’t deserve it.
Rayah and Dez lingered by my locker afterwards.
“We’re going out to celebrate,” Rayah announced. “You coming?”
I didn’t have an opportunity to reply before Mya Brown’s voice cut in: “Nah, she’s good.”
I looked over at my idol and teammate. Her tone and penetrating stare bordered on ominous: “She’s coming to family dinner.”
I didn’t havea noodle salad prepared.
The rich scent of garlic bread and marinara wafted into the hallway from Mya’s team apartment. I lingered outsidethe door longer than I should have, hand hovering in midair. We’d won the semifinal game, and in two days we’d play for a championship. But instead of feeling proud or excited, all I could think about was Eva. The silence from Boston had been louder than the crowd in the arena, louder than my teammates chanting in the locker room.
Were we broken up? Or were we just … paused? It was the kind of question that gnawed at you until there was nothing left.
I knocked before I could talk myself out of it.
The door swung open, and Mya Brown stood in the threshold in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt. “Lex Bennet,” she said warmly, tugging me into a hug before I could protest. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost.”
Her apartment, only a few doors down from my own, was the opposite of the sterile, impersonal team rental where I’d been living. Toys were scattered across the living room rug. A pile of picture books sat on the coffee table. Family photos hung from magnets on the fridge. It felt lived in, claimed—something rare in the churn of professional basketball, where every season could mean a new city, a new apartment, another lease you’d never renew.
Penny was at the stove, stirring pasta water with a wooden spoon while balancing their daughter Reed on her hip. “Lex,” she greeted, a smile in her tone. “Sit down. You look exhausted.”
I tried to smile back, but she wasn’t wrong. I all but threw myself into an empty chair at the dining room table.
