She cupped my face and smiled. “When I’m medically cleared, I’m gonna ride you until you forget what time zone we’re in.”
Laughter bubbled up my throat. “That’s the hottest threat I’ve ever heard.”
I leaned in and kissed her again, soft and slow.
Her hand slid down, resting over my heart like she was checking to see if it was really still beating for her. I covered her hand with mine, threading our fingers together and holding her there.
The upcoming season would scatter us—she would continue to rehab her knee in Boston while I would take the next steps in my second year as a professional basketball player. But this time, I wasn’t afraid of the distance or busy schedules.
We’d already proven, time and again, that we would find our way back to each other.
Epilogue
18 MONTHS LATER
The arena was packed tight that night—a sold-out crowd. Fans buzzed with anticipation in the stands. Sideline reporters dotted the perimeter of the court and photographers crowded the baselines. The smell of popcorn and beer mingled with the sharp tang of freshly refinished hardwood. It usually felt familiar, comforting in its own way, but tonight was different. Tonight carried something heavier—something that had been building for eighteen months, ever since the injury.
The crowd wasn’t just here for a basketball game. They were here for her.
I twisted my noise-canceling earbuds deeper into my ears. My playlist was loud in my head—old-school punk—but it barely drowned out the thumping of my heart.
My teammates moved with the ease of repetition—stripping off warm-up layers, stretching out muscles, exchanging light jokes to ease pre-tip-off tension. I tried to channel my adrenaline into something useful. I tried to tell myself that it was just another game, but my head and heart didn’t believe the lie.
I laced my shoes tighter and worked through my warm-up routine: isolated shots from different spots on the court and ball-handling drills. The tacky squeak of the hardwood was familiar under my feet, and the ball felt comfortable in my hands, but my eyes kept drifting to the other side of the court.
She was working through her own pre-game workout with one of her team’s trainers. She moved with an easy grace, side-shuffling across the floor, stretching lightly, shooting from under the net.
I wasn’t sure how to navigate pre-game. My instinct was to meet at half-court and give her a hug—I’d do the same for any other player with whom I was familiar, but I held myself back. We’d never played against each other on different pro teams. She’d been traded late in our rookie year, and we hadn’t played Chicago again that season. I’d played against Chicago since then, but she’d always been in street clothes, watching from the end of the bench.
I caught sight of a little girl in the stands, holding up a glittery sign:We Missed You, Eva!
A lump lodged in my throat. Me too, kid. Me too.
Briana jogged past me and flipped me a ball. “They’ve got this place Montgomery’d up tonight,” she observed. “You ready?”
I dribbled once, hard enough to feel it reverberate in my bones. “Yep.”
Dez was working a resistance band along the sideline. “Better be. That girl’s been waiting over a year to light someone up.”
Across the court, I spotted Jazz stretching alongside Freya. The pretty Belgian point guard had been a big off-season acquisition for Chicago. Now teammates, Jazz and Freya had immediately rekindled whatever had been started in Miami, nearly a year and a half prior. It was hard not to be jealous. They got to share this: practices, bus rides, late-night team dinners.They were building something side by side, while Eva and I had to fight distance, injury, and time zones.
The final horn sounded, ending my silent pity-party, and starting line-ups were announced. Chicago’s coach hadn’t put Eva in the starting rotation, but that was to be expected. Even though she’d been cleared by team doctors, they were still being careful by restricting her minutes.
The ball went up at center court, and the game began. I tried to lose myself to the rhythm of competition—the squeak of sneakers, the snap of a pass, the clean spin of a jumper rolling off my fingers. For a few minutes, it worked. It was just another game.
Halfway through the first quarter, a noise rumbled in the stands. Isolated cheers popped up from different sections around the arena, but it was far too early for the wave. It was a sound that gathered and gathered until it roared.
Eva stood at the scorer’s table to check into the game for the first time. She carefully, calmly, tucked her jersey into her shorts. I could hear the rapid-fire clicks of photographers’ cameras, all trying to find the perfect angle to document the long-awaited moment.
The arena’s public service announcer made it official: “Now checking in for Chicago … number three, Eva Montgomery!”
It was like the entire stadium collectively leapt to their feet. Like someone had hit a buzzer-beating shot to win the game.
I stood just past half-court, watching and taking it all in. I didn’t join the standing ovation, but I certainly felt like exploding. I schooled my features to be a passive observer, but I had to blink a few times to keep my swelling emotions in check.
I thought back to the nights she’d spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if she’d ever play again. Four months removed from the surgery and we were celebrating small victories like her being able to stand on one leg. The physical therapy had lefther exhausted and frustrated. She worried constantly about re-injury. Regaining trust in her repaired knee’s strength had come slowly, and at times I’d worried she might never get there.
Not only had she worked her way back from a season-ending injury, but she’d also been a key member of the negotiating team who’d secured a historic collective bargaining agreement for the league’s players. It wasn’t everything we’d demanded, but it was more than anyone had thought possible. Significant salary cap increases. A bigger percentage of profit sharing. It was real progress that would serve as a jumping-off point for the next time the CBA needed to be renewed.
