“But, Coach—” I tried to protest.
He stabbed his finger toward the padded chairs along the sideline. “Cool your jets.”
I droppedmy duffle bag in the front foyer. The cool blast of our apartment’s air conditioner chilled my skin, but it did nothing to soothe the agitation I still felt. We’d won our first game against the Monarchs, but I hadn’t seen much playing time after my scuffle with Lina Vargas. I hadn’t been ejected, but Coach Demarios hadn’t called my name for the rest of the game unless someone else was totally gassed. I’d gone from Day 1 starter to bench warmer in less than a quarter of basketball.
I kicked off my slides and padded toward the kitchen, the smooth tile cool beneath my feet. My shoulder joints still ached from that dive. But my pride hurt more.
Behind me, the door clicked shut. “We need to get some groceries,” Eva said, setting her keys in the little ceramic dish by the entryway. “I think we’ve got one sad avocado and a half-empty carton of milk left.”
I yanked open the fridge door, stared inside like something edible might materialize, and then shut it with a little more force than necessary.
Eva leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “What’s with the attitude?”
I didn’t look at her. “What do you think?”
“Are you going to be able to handle us being on the same team,” she asked evenly, “or am I going to have to ask Briana for a trade?”
My mouth fell open. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would if it means we can avoid flare ups like today.”
“Would you have grabbed a teammate like that who you weren’t dating?” I challenged.
“To keep them from getting T’d up or ejected from the game? Yes. Every time.”
“It was embarrassing!”
“Don’t drag me into this. You were doing a fine job of being embarrassing all by yourself,” she quipped.
I dropped my head. “I get a little hot-headed sometimes.”
Eva’s full lips twisted into a smirk. “You don’t say.”
“I mean, it’s probably the biggest flaw in my game.” I ran a hand through my hair, still slightly damp from my postgame shower. “And I’ve always gotten away with it. Like, I could blow up and still stay on the court. But last season, coming off the bench? I had to earn every minute. I think that helped me keep my cool. I knew I couldn’t afford to screw up.”
“My old college coach used to tell us to chirp at you,” Eva revealed. “Get under your skin so you’d make stupid fouls.”
The news surprised me. “Really?”
She nodded. “I wasn’t much of a trash talker though.”
“No. Your game speaks for itself,” I noted. “That’s annoying enough.”
“Annoying?” she chuckled. “You’ve got the kind of game that you hate playing against but love having on your own team. You’re like a gnat out there on defense. You’re so fundamentally sound.That’sannoying.”
I perked up at the way our conversation had shifted. Our communication skills had turned out to be one of our strengths as a couple, but we’d never really explored why we’d disliked each other so much in college.
“You’rethe one with discipline,” I protested. “You’re so smooth and effortless out there. It’s like nothing ever phases you. You rise above all of that on-court drama.”
“Because the media and all of those internet trolls would crucify me if I got too heated. Just another angry Black woman,” she clucked. “Youcan get away with being a hot-head, and they’ll call it ‘passion for the game.’ If I raise my voice, suddenly I’mhostile,too aggressive,unstable. They don’t see fire; they see a threat.”
My stomach turned a little. There were different rulebooks, and we both knew it. One for men, who could scream at refs or punch lockers without it meaning anything more than they were passionate about the game. One for women, where even tears made us “unstable.” And within that, a sharper blade aimed at Black women. I got to be “feisty” and “fiery.” Eva? She had to stay palatable. Respectable.
It pissed me off. Not at her, never at her—but at the whole damn system that let me play messy and still be lovable, while she had to be perfect just to be considered enough.
“I’m sorry,” I said, quieter this time. “I’ll stop being a brat. Don’t request a trade, okay?”
“Talk to Coach Demarios,” she urged. “Apologize for being a hot-head and tell him it won’t happen again.” She leveled me with a stern gaze. “Because it’snotgoing to happen again. I didn’t uproot my life for three months not to get to play with you.”
