They’d spared no expense for the first game of the new league—pulsing lights, smoke machines, and a DJ who looked like he belonged in Ibiza rather than courtside in Miami. Everything felt oversized and hyped, including my nerves.
“Welcome to your opening matchup!” the announcer boomed over the arena speakers. “The Embers versus the Monarchs!”
I bounced on the balls of my feet, adrenaline already humming beneath my skin. The court was compact—a pared-down version of what we were used to—but the smaller scale only cranked up the intensity. Fewer players. No room to hide. The three-on-three format meant fast switches and zero time to adjust. You were either on, or you were out.
“Lex,” Eva’s voice was low beside me as we lined up for introductions, “relax your shoulders.”
I hadn’t realized my shoulders were hiked up practically to my ears. I exhaled and dropped them an inch.
“Better,” she murmured.
I was vibrating at a molecular level while she remained cool and focused, not a hair out of place. She looked every bit the cover star she’d been forSports Illustrated.
“Don’t coach me,” I muttered.
“I’m not,” she said. “I’m looking out for you.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. I wanted to say thank you. I wanted to shove her. I did neither. The lights dimmed as the DJ queued up our walkout music.
We jogged through the tunnel of spotlights as our names were announced. We were starting with me at point, Eva on the wing, and Arika in the post. The rest of our team—Dez and Rayah—lined the bench, just off the perimeter.
At the other end of the court, the Monarchs stayed loose and stared at us, stone-faced. Their squad was stacked with players I’d gone toe-to-toe with in the pro league and a few international stars, all of them All-Stars and deserving.
The first few minutes of the game were chaos. Not messy, unskilled chaos—more like barely-controlled combustion. Possession flipped back and forth in rapid-fire bursts. There were no fouls called in the first ninety seconds, even though I was pretty sure someone from the Monarchs had gotten away with a full-on forearm shove to Arika’s ribs.
Eva hit an early three, clean and quick off a step-back that sent her opponent, Sloane Hale, scrambling. I fed a fast inside pass to Arika that she finished with a little English off the glass. We were up 5–2 and the crowd was starting to get loud.
But then Lina Vargas decided to make it personal.
She pressed up on me after a rebound, way closer than necessary, barking something in Spanish that didn’t need translating. I let her angry tone roll off of me. I boxed her out again on the next play and snagged the board, only for her to rake her nails down my arm.
“Watch it,” I snapped.
“Make me,” she sneered.
The next possession, Lina set a hard screen, borderline illegal, causing me to bounce off her shoulder. Eva switchedplayers to cover for me, calling out a heads-up, but I was still reeling.
By the time Coach Demarios subbed us out for a breather, I was seething.
“I swear, she’s trying to bait me,” I said, gulping water on the sideline.
“Then don’t bite,” Eva said simply, eyes locked on the court.
“She shoved me,” I insisted. “Twice.”
“She’s an instigator. That’s her game.”
“Are you even listening to me?” I complained.
Eva turned to face me fully, her expression unreadable. “Yes, Lex. I am. But if you lose your cool, she wins. You want to give her that?”
“I’m not going to blow up,” I insisted.
“You sure?”
Before I could respond, Coach Demarios was calling for Eva and me to sub back in for Arika and Rayah.
I wiped my palms on the front of my shorts and jogged toward half court. The heat from earlier hadn’t left my body; it had just settled deeper, coiled and ready.
