I returned my efforts back to another set on the leg press. “It’s not a big deal—really. There was some awkward fumbling at a college party, and then it was over.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation,” she said, licking her lips, “there’s nothing awkward about you any more.”
That voice, that look, made my quads burn ten times harder.
Morning lift was followedby recovery. The training room smelled like antiseptic and menthol, a cleaner, calmer air after the clang of weights. Eva and I found spots near the ice bathsand foam rollers. I plopped down on a padded bench while she grabbed a bottle of water and stretched her calves against the wall.
Rayah was stretched out on a massage table in the corner, a massage therapist working deep into her back and shoulders. Her face scrunched with concentration—and maybe a little pain—but she still managed to catch my eye as we walked past.
“Man,” she said, her voice low but carrying to everyone nearby, “I could get used to this.”
“No massage therapy in Turkey?” Briana quipped. She was lying on her stomach with ice packs strapped to both knees, chin propped in her hands like she was sunbathing instead of recovering from practice.
Rayah ignored Briana’s cheekiness. “You know, when I first got drafted,” she stated to no one in particular, “I thought the pro league was gonna be this dream. Plan your life around basketball and everything else just works out. But it was the other way around—it felt like I was planning basketball around a bunch of other people’s schedules.”
“Overseas isn’t much better, though,” my newest teammate Arika countered. She sat at the next table while a trainer wrapped her ankle. I knew, only by reputation, that she was one of the many league players who played both abroad and in the States. “New country, new coach every season—you barely see your family. You also get the joy of living in a country where you probably don’t speak the language. The internet’s trash and the grocery store closes at three on Sundays.”
Rayah groaned as the therapist dug into a tight knot. “I just want—” She paused and winced as the therapist pressed deeper into her back. “I just want to play somewhere stable, with a proper league schedule, not like—oh God—apartment roulette every three weeks!”
“Which is exactly why we’re going to use this league as leverage for a new CBA,” Briana observed.
Rayah shifted on the massage table to better appraise her friend. “Even with CBA improvements, most of us will make significantly less in the States than we would overseas. Unless you get endorsements.” I watched her eyes land on Eva.
“You’re thinking too small, Ray. We need transformational change,” Briana urged, “not marginal gains. It’s so much bigger than salaries.”
Arika snorted. “What’s bigger than money?”
“This room, for one,” Briana remarked. “High quality training facilities across the league. Maternity leave, mental health support, facilities for players with families, retirement plans so your old ass doesn’t have to keep doing this long after your body’s given up.”
Eva cleared her throat. “Revenue sharing.”
I would have melted on the spot if all eyes had landed on me the way they did for Eva. If anything, she only stood a little taller.
“The salary cap isn’t a made up number—it’s based on league revenue sharing,” she said. “Our current contract gives us access to 10 percent of the league’s revenue. The men’s league gets 50 percent of theirs. We should be pushing for a bigger piece of the pie, especially with the league signing bigger media deals. Player compensation should be commensurate with the league’s growth. We’re the product, after all.”
Briana waved her hands excitedly. “See? Montgomery gets it.”
A few other players in the room nodded. Even Arika, who’d been talking about overseas frustrations, made a low sound of agreement. The weight of the conversation still hung in the air, but the mood in the room had lightened, the way it always did after people got things off their chest.
I sat back and reflected on something Briana had said to me at the start—how if the Miami league failed it wouldn’t just impact the women who’d been invited. That was the leverage she’d been alluding to. If we could win in Miami, it would put pressure on the pro league.
Miami was off to a good start, though, and you could feel that optimism humming under everything—the fanfare, the sold-out crowds, the headlines. It all had people whispering about the pro league and the upcoming CBA negotiations. Articles were popping up daily, hot takes about whether the stars should be the ones at the bargaining table or whether the rank-and-file needed a bigger voice.
The brand-name players had leverage, but the rank-and-file were the ones who really knew what it meant to struggle. They were the ones cramming three to an apartment overseas or wiring half their paychecks home, the ones who could put faces and names to the gap between “making it” and making rent.
After getting treatment—me on my wrist, Eva on a lingering knee injury from college—we left the PT room together.
The hallway felt quieter, almost insulated after the steady murmur of the training room. Our footsteps echoed off the painted cinderblock, sneakers squeaking against the tile. Eva absently tapped her half-empty water bottle against the palm of her hand, making the plastic crackle with every hit. For a few strides, neither of us spoke, the earlier CBA discussion still circling in my head.
“You know what I want in a new CBA?” I started.
Eva angled her head toward me. “Enlighten me.”
“Stability,” I said. “A real salary—enough so you don’t have to go overseas just to make rent. Year-round contracts so you’re not scrambling for a new team every few months. Health coverage that doesn’t vanish the second you’re done playing. Stuff that actually lets people stay in the league.”
Eva hummed. “That’s important. But if we push for revenue sharing first, the rest follows. Bigger pie, bigger slices.”
I knew she was right, in theory. But she was also the kind of player whose name and face could get her endorsement deals and speaking gigs in the off-season. For the rest of us, it wasn’t about a bigger slice—it was about making sure there was still food on the plate.
