There was a whole lot to cheer for, players and fans alike.
Eva jogged onto the court and swapped places with one of Chicago’s other players. She didn’t acknowledge the arena’s overly excited response with a wave or even a smile. She entered the game like it wasn’t her first time doing so in well over a year. Eva Montgomery might have had butterflies in her stomach, but her facial features were all business.
It didn’t take long for her to test herself. A drive down the lane. A kick-out pass. A little stop-and-pop jumper from the elbow. Her first shot rattled out, but the crowd cheered just for the attempt.
A few possessions later, a long rebound turned into a loose ball. Mathilde and Eva both lunged for the ball. They collided, Mathilde’s much taller and broader frame knocking into Eva’s lower body. A collective gasp rose up from the stadium when they both hit the floor.
My heart seized when neither player immediately popped back up. I hustled to the pile of arms and legs as they began to slowly untangle. I offered both of my hands and hauled them both to their feet.
“Everybody good?” I asked quietly.
Eva’s honey eyes connected with mine for the first time that day. She nodded, brushing herself off. I searched her face for signs of discomfort but found none. She looked steady. Strong. Like the floor couldn’t keep her down anymore.
By the middle of the second quarter, the game had settled. I came out for a breather, a towel draped around my neck. My chest heaved as I sank onto the bench, but my focus wasn’t on the clipboard our assistant coach held out or the water bottles being offered my way.
From the bench, I watched her. Really watched her.
She navigated the court like she’d never left, directing traffic, demanding the ball, rising into her jumper with that same smooth release that used to hypnotize me during practice. I’d memorized her form back then. Somehow, watching her tonight, it was like seeing it for the first time all over again.
She pivoted, drove, spun—her agility still as sharp as ever. The crowd rose and fell like waves around her, and my stomach knotted every time the ball left her hands. The arena was electric, every fan leaning forward as if their own fingers could influence the arc of the shot.
Coach Spirit waved me back in. My legs still felt heavy, but adrenaline carried me onto the court.
The score stayed close well into the fourth quarter. Both teams traded scoring streaks and droughts like boxers exchanging jabs, neither able to land the knockout punch. It was the kind of game you lived for. Every possession mattered. Every whistle carried the potential to tilt the balance.
The score was still tied with under a minute left. Briana drove hard along the baseline, slipping past her defender. She spun, rose, and hit the jumper—two points for the Shamrocks. The lead was slim, but enough to feel a shift in momentum. The court felt smaller, more intense, with every movement magnified, every mistake more consequential.
The final possession belonged to Chicago. The game clock was winding down and the shot clock was turned off. Everyone in the arena knew where the ball was going, and so did I.
I picked up my defensive assignment just past half court, forcing Freya to tighten her dribble against her body and throw up an arm bar between us. I focused on Freya, but my eyes flicked again and again to where Eva circled near the wing. My hands were high, feet planted wide. Behind me, my teammates shouted coverages, switching, hedging, trying to keep the ball out of her hands.
It didn’t matter.
Eva broke free with a cut I’d seen a hundred times in practice; one sharp plant and she was gone, curling off a screen and catching Freya’s pass in rhythm. My chest tightened.
Ten seconds.
I shifted toward her, aware of every subtle movement—her shoulders, the tilt of her head, the way she held the ball. I knew every trick she had in her bag, but that didn’t mean I could stop it.
She dribbled once, twice, and then rocked back on her heel.
Five seconds.
She stepped-back, that little sliver of space carved out of nothing. Her feet lined up behind the solid black three-point line.
My arm went up to contest the shot, but it didn’t matter. The ball left her hand, the arc impossibly high. I knew the second it spun off her fingertips.
I pivoted just in time to watch the basketball knife through the net.
The arena erupted. The final buzzer sounded, and Chicago’s bench stormed the court. The noise swelled like a tidal wave crashing over all of us.
I bent over, my hands braced on my knees and my chest heaving. My teammates slapped my back and muttered curses. Across the court, Eva was swarmed by her team—Freya leapt onto her back and Jazz tugged her into a hug, the two of them laughing like they’d been waiting all season for this.
I hated losing, but I loved how happy she looked. Both feelings carved me open at once.
I forced my legs to straighten. There wasn’t a handshake line, but it was good form to congratulate the winning team. One by one, palms slapped palms. Good game. Good game. And then she was in front of me.
“Nice defense,” she said softly, like we weren’t surrounded by cameras and chaos.
