This was dangerous. The building was technically closed, but we were still semi-public on the new league’s practice court. If anyone walked in—another player, a trainer, a camera crew doing late-night promo shots—we’d be headline news by morning.Rivals turned secret lovers caught stripping on the new league’s practice court. I could see the gossip site headlines already.
But Eva looked too smug not to challenge. And I wasn’t backing down.
“Your shot,” I said, rolling the ball back to her.
Eva moved to the right wing, took her time lining up the shot, and launched.Swish. Effortless.
I mirrored her shot and thankfully made it this time.
Eva pouted, dribbling in place. “Rude.”
“You know I’m not going easy on you just because you’re a pretty face.”
“Good,” she said, eyes narrowing. “It wouldn’t be any fun if you did.”
We went back and forth like that—trash talk and teasing layered over the slow, steady removal of clothing. Eva lost her arm sleeve first and then her tank top. I dropped my shorts after a missed corner three and stood in just my sports bra and briefs, trying not to notice how the moonlight caught the curve of Eva’s back.
“You’re staring,” she said, not looking at me.
“You’re very stare-worthy.”
She turned, lips curled. “Do you usually get so easily distracted during games?”
“Only when you’re wearing less clothes than usual.”
“Guess I should play defense like this more often,” she quipped.
I pulled on my face. “Please don’t. I’d never make another shot again.”
Eva moved to the free-throw line, bent her knees, and nailed another shot. I matched it, barely.
“How am I supposed to get you naked if you keep making shots?” I complained.
“You’ll just have to get creative.”
Eva was down to her sports bra and leggings. I still had the bra and briefs. The stakes felt increasingly ridiculous—and exhilarating.
“I’ve got one for you,” I said, backing up to the half-court line.
“Oh, come on.”
“What? You said creative.”
She waved me on with mock impatience. “Go on, Steph Curry.”
I took a deep breath and shot. The ball sailed long and clattered off the backboard.
Eva laughed. “Thank God.”
She stepped to the left baseline, sank into her stance, and launched a high-arching fadeaway. Nothing but net.
I groaned. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“You’re the one who agreed to it,” she grinned.
I missed the matching shot. Of course I missed. With a dramatic sigh, I stepped out of my underwear and stood only in my sports bra. I tried to ignore the heat prickling at the back of my neck—not from embarrassment, but from wanting.
Eva’s eyes flicked down, not even trying to hide the trajectory of her gaze.
