“Keep your head,” Eva said as we passed each other; her hand brushed mine for the briefest second.
I didn’t respond.
Back on the floor, the tempo had only intensified. The Monarchs zipped the ball around the basket’s perimeter, no one holding it longer than a heartbeat. I stayed low in my defensive position, knees bent and reading the play as Sloane Hale dribbled left and faked the kick-out pass. Dez stepped into the passing lane and nearly stole it—but the ball ricocheted off of her shin and skittered free.
The ball hit the floor—loose, wild, andmine.
I dove.
My knees stung on impact as I skid across the unforgiving hardwood. My hands took purchase of the ball just as someone else did, too—Lina Vargas from the Monarchs’ crew, all elbows and attitude. She yanked. Hard. Nails scraped my wrist. I growled and yanked back.
The whistle didn’t come. Maybe the ref was letting us play, or maybe he just didn’t want to get in the middle of whatever this was becoming.
“Let go,” Lina grit out.
“Make me,” I shot back.
We were both on our knees now, fighting over the ball like school kids at recess, heads low, shoulders locked, and I could feel it: my pulse spiking, the crowd buzzing, that dangerous flash of white-hot temper licking at the back of my throat.
And then hands—strong, sure, and very muchnotLina’s—closed around my waist.
I was off the ground before I could react.
“What the …Eva!” I twisted midair as she literally lifted me off my feet and dragged me back a few steps like I weighed nothing. The soles of my shoes squeaked across the court.
“Are you serious?” I hissed as she set me down, my heart still jackhammering from the scuffle. “You can’t pick me up like a toddler!”
“You were acting like one.”
I whipped around, heat flushing up my neck. “Youknowsocial media’s gonna have a field day with that. I can see the memes now—‘Mommy Eva saves her rage-baby girlfriend from a fight.’”
Eva’s expression didn’t shift. She remained calm, cool, and controlled in the way that always got under my skin. “So I was just supposed to let you fight her?”
“I wasn’t going to hit her,” I muttered, even though I couldn’t totally promise that. “I was holding my ground.”
“You were halfway to a technical.”
I clenched my jaw, stepping out of her reach, embarrassment curdling with leftover adrenaline. All around us, the court was still humming—refs trying to restore order, fans shouting, phonesdefinitelyrecording.
“I can handle myself,” I said tightly.
“I know you can.” She took a slow breath. My attitude was starting to chip away at her careful armor. “But I also know that if I hadn’t stepped in, you’d be in the locker room right now instead of still in this game.”
I turned away, blinking hard. I hated that she was right. I hated that she knew me that well.
“Time out!” Coach Demarios shouted from the sideline.
The players on the court slunk over to their respective bench areas.
Coach Demarios looked us over like a disappointed dad.
“Come on y’all.” He sounded fed up. “I know everyone’s amped for the inaugural game, but you’ve got to keep your cool.” He looked pointedly in my direction, causing me to duck my head a little. “Each team’s bench is already thin. If we go down a player, we lose. Got it?”
Everyone in the huddle murmured their agreement. I moved my lips, but the words caught in my throat.
The ref blew his whistle, signaling the time out was over.
“Bennet!” Coach Demarios caught me before I could jog back onto the court. He shook his index finger. “Nuh uh. You’re sitting next to me.”
