Two men in navy blue suits and brown loafers with no socks stood at the front of the room. A massive flatscreen hung on the wall behind them. Both men looked on the young-ish side in comparison to Eric. They introduced themselves, and I promptly forgot their names. Instead, my attention was monopolized by a mock advertisement stretched across the presentation screen.
It was a picture of me, mid-jump shot, my hair flying loose behind me instead of tied back in my signature French braid. My Shamrocks jersey had been photoshopped to remove any signs of trademarked material. I never played with my hair down—what kind of AI monstrosity had come up with that?
“So here’s the concept,” one of the marketing reps began. “Fuel the Fire.” He beamed like a proud parent. “It’s bold. It’s electric. It’s intimate, without being explicit.”
I felt Eva go still beside me.
“Lex, you’re on the court, pure focus,” the second rep narrated. He pointed a remote at the flatscreen and the image changed. “Eva,” he continued, “you’re on the opposing team. Cut to a close-up—your eyes meet. Boom. Lex charges the basket. You’re unstoppable. Then everything fades away—no ball, no refs, just chemistry. It’s playful. It’s fierce.”
Another click of the remote. Now Eva and I were facing off. Jerseys tight across our chests. Dramatic lighting that seemed to over-exaggerate the difference of our skin color. My hand was on her waist. Hers was on my jaw.
“And this is the moment,” the first rep continued where his partner had fallen off. “No dialogue. Just the beat of your hearts, the squeak of sneakers, the sound of desire. You kiss. And then …”
He clapped once, for emphasis. “—cut to the bottle of Electra Sports Drink slamming down on a locker room bench. Condensation dripping. Neon label glowing. Our tagline appears:Fuel the fire. Quench the craving.”
He paused, as if waiting for applause. Or gratitude. Or whatever reaction he thought that deserved.
Instead, the silence dragged.
Eva leaned forward slightly, her tone surgical. “Is this the actual pitch?”
The second rep looked taken aback. “Yes. Of course. We’re tapping into cultural relevance. The whole ‘thirst trap’ idea? It’s aspirational. Visceral. You’re breaking barriersandlooking good doing it.”
“You’re asking us to sexualize our relationship to sell fluorescent Gatorade,” Eva said flatly.
The first marketing rep gave a nervous laugh. “It’s not just about the kiss. It’s aboutconnection.About making people feel something.”
“Yeah, like objectified,” I muttered, unable to hold back.
He held up a hand, as if that would somehow help. “Look, I get it. You don’t want to lean too far into the queer angle?—”
“Thequeer angle?” I echoed.
Something that felt a lot like anger began to tingle under my skin.
“Or maybe you’re worried it’s too provocative?” he offered, like he was helping. “I promise, the feedback’s been amazing when we test this kind of authenticity. You two are, frankly, the perfect storm. Women’s sports. Interracial relationship. Queer visibility. It’s exactly what sells right now.”
I stood up so fast my chair nearly toppled over. “We’re not some kind of checklist, dude.”
The second rep glanced nervously between us. “I think you’re misreading the tone?—”
“No,” Eva said, standing too, calm as hell but no less lethal. “We’re reading it just fine. I never would have taken this meeting if I’d known the pitch,” she said. “I thought you wanted athletes.”
The first man scoffed. “Well, of course you’re athletes. But?—”
“Then showthat,” she snapped. “Not some slow-mo, masturbatory fantasy with electrolytes.” Eva was already turning toward the exit. “I’ve seen all I care to. My people will be in touch.”
Eva didn’t stop moving oncewe were outside of the conference room. Her long legs strode purposefully back in the direction of the elevators. I scrambled to keep up with her pace. She only stopped when we reached the call button for the elevator.
She jabbed her finger against the down button.
“I’m sorry,” she briskly apologized. “I never should have made you take this meeting without properly vetting their ideas first. These things usually go much better.”
I exhaled. “Did he really say ‘quench the craving’ like we’re sex-dehydrated?”
Eva gave me a sharp look. “You can’t say that shit when I’m still mad.”
I smiled despite myself. “I’m sorry, but I think I lost brain cells.”
