“Lina Vargas,” Briana said. “Spain. Shooting guard.”
Lina gave me a grin that made her challenge clear. “I’ve seen your game tape. You play con corazón—” she tapped her chest. “But I will block your shot every time.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “We’ll see about that.”
Before we could trade more barbs, Dez appeared again, a fresh drink in hand. “To the new league!” she called, raising her glass high. “To getting what we’re worth!”
The cheer went up around the boat, loud and proud.
Briana caught the momentum, her voice taking over the moment. “We’ve got a practice facility that belongs to us, a weight room that actually has everything we need, and locker rooms worth walking into. This league will be proof of what happens when you invest in your players.”
Lina grinned, her voice teasing. “You mean making the other league look bad.”
Briana smirked. “Let’s call it setting a new standard.”
The night unfolded from there, the music weaving in Afrobeats and R&B, players swapping stories, laughter filling the Miami air. Dez called out for the Electric Slide, and a chunk of the deck cleared for dancing. Eva got pulled into the crowd, her movements smooth, confident, and impossible to ignore.
Briana slid next to me in the middle of the celebration, her voice low. “You good, Bennet?”
“Uh huh,” I confirmed, my eyes still on the deck as it moved beneath me. “Just taking it all in.”
“Good.” Her gaze was steady, like she could already see the path ahead. “I want you right in the middle of this. Because we’re not just building a league—we’re making a statement.”
Chapter
Eleven
The sun had barely crested above the horizon, but the hum of anticipation was already palpable. The gymnasium was pristine—polished wooden floors gleaming beneath bright overhead lights, the scent of new sneakers and fresh paint filling every corner.
I stood near the entrance, still adjusting to the shift in pace. The previous night had been loud, filled with chatter and clinking glasses, but now it was all business. The celebration on the yacht might as well have been a lifetime ago. Eva was next to me, calm and collected, looking like she hadn’t gone out the night before. I had the sinking feeling that she could do this kind of thing forever—stay poised, stay perfect.
The gym was packed with players—rookies, vets, and some new faces from across the world. Balls bounced in rhythmic precision, the sound echoing off the high walls, rivaled only by the sharp squeak of sneakers against the hardwood. The energy was different today—no music, no celebrations. It felt like a practice or a tryout, but it wasn’t. It was the beginning of something that would dictate the next few months of our lives.
Briana was standing at the front of the space, her attention focused on a big LED screen that probably doubled as thescoreboard during games. The screen flashed to life, the first team logo of the day appearing in a burst of color:Team One.The names would start filling in soon, as a digital wheel began to spin with a click of Briana’s remote. This wasn’t the pro league’s draft. There was no podium, no commissioner making pretty speeches. There was no glitzy atmosphere—just six team logos and a list of names filling in, one by one.
I spied Dez sitting off to the side, arms crossed and head tilted back. Her sunglasses were still on, despite being inside. She was obviously hungover, but you could tell she was trying to will on sobriety, like she was bouncing along with the sound of the basketballs.
“Morning, Dez,” I called over, offering a half-smile.
She gave me a lazy thumbs-up in response.
Jazz slid beside me, peeling the lid off her coffee. “Ten bucks says you and Eva are split up,” she said, grinning as she took a sip, her eyes flicking toward the LED screen.
A strange sensation twisted in my stomach. With as much overthinking and worrying that I usually did, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought about team rosters. What would be preferable? To be on opposite teams or to share the court again?
Jazz didn’t have time to make the bet official before Briana was calling for the room’s attention.
“Alright, y’all,” she drawled. “It’s time to find out where everyone’s going. Team assignments are final,” she noted. “But remember, we’re not just building a team—we’re building a brand. You’re not just players. You’re ambassadors for this league, for what we’re trying to do here. You’re the future of women’s sports.”
A few players in our vicinity exchanged glances, some looking excited, others just nervous.
“You’re must-see-TV,” Briana added, eyes seeming to lock on Eva and me. The room let out a collective chuckle, but I felt a shiver run down my spine.
The screen flickered again, and names started filling in. A few rookies, then some vets. As each name appeared, I couldn’t help but privately analyze the team compositions. The first few rosters seemed like a good mix—balanced with veterans and rookies, all with solid potential. There were a couple of familiar faces from overseas highlights, some new names, some big personalities.
But I wasn’t really focused on them. I was waiting for the one name that mattered most.
Rayah Thompson’s name appeared underTeam Five: the Embers.
