Eva leaned down and kissed my stomach, just above the top of my shorts. “Can I take these off?”
I nodded, already breathless.
She didn’t pull off my shorts all at once. She peeled them down, inch by inch; I lifted my hips to help her. The moment the fabric cleared my thighs, she slid her hands back up, parting my legs with an easy, practiced confidence.
She kissed the inside of my knee, and then the dip where thigh meets hip. Her mouth brushed every part of me. When her fingers finally slid between my legs, slick and knowing, my whole body jerked toward her.
“There you are,” she whispered, smiling against my skin.
Her fingers circled my clit slowly, exactly the way I liked it—light pressure, no friction. Just heat and rhythm and the unbearable tenderness of being wanted by someone who understood all of me.
I let out a broken breath. My hips rolled into the motion before I could think to stop them.
“You’re already so wet,” she said, her voice low and dark with delight. “I haven’t even really touched you yet.”
“I know,” I gasped, arching again. “Fuck. Eva?—”
She slid two fingers lower, not to enter, just to press the flat of her hand against me. Her mouth replaced her fingers on my clit, and I nearly came undone right then—her tongue soft, slow, fuckingperfect, while her hand grounded me exactly the way I needed.
She stayed like that, alternating between her tongue and the steady, relentless rhythm of her fingers. It was overwhelming.Shewas overwhelming. I fisted the sheets with one hand and clenched the top of her shoulder with the other, holding her to me. My thighs trembled on either side of her shoulders.
“I’ve got you,” she quietly encouraged. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”
And I did.
My orgasm hit like a warm wave, crashing and receding and crashing again. I cried out, not caring how loud I was. Eva never stopped, not until I was limp and half-laughing, half-sobbing into the pillow.
“Jesus.” I breathed out. “If I pull a hamstring today, it’s all your fault. You and that damn overachieving tongue.”
She dragged her nails across my inner thighs, leaving raised pink trails in their wake. “Better start hydrating.”
Wakingup in the same bed, eating breakfast in the same kitchen, picking out coordinating fits, Eva pulling my hair into a tidy French braid—our game day rituals couldn’t have been more in sync. I didn’t take any of it for granted either. I knew all too well how quickly it could be taken away. Back in Boston, I’d only just started to enjoy the small idiosyncrasies of dating Eva before she’d unexpectedly been traded to Chicago.
My favorite part of the Miami mornings, however, was showing up to the arena together. When I’d first entered the league, I used to dread the walk from the team bus to the locker room. Photographers from various media outlets, especially those connected to social media accounts, would be camped out in the tunnel beneath the stadium, awaiting our arrival. Before, I’d duck my head and speed walk to the locker room. Now, I took my time.
Eva and I arrived together and walked the concrete runway hand-in-hand. We posed separately and together, a basketball power couple, fierce in our streetwear and just as dangerous on the court.
Eva gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and a wink when I finished the pre-game obligation.
“I think you’re starting to like that.”
That night wasour first scheduled matchup against Briana’s team, the Inferno. Her squad wasn’t just good—they were stacked. Three All-Stars, one Finals MVP, every one of them an Olympian, with the kind of chemistry that made every possession feel like a highlight reel waiting to happen.
We’d kept the score tight for the most part. We were only three points down with time running low before halftime. The sweat was slick on my lower back as I tracked the bounce of the ball, quick pivots echoing against the arena walls. League games moved fast—a smaller court but with less players, sharp elbows, and a relentless pace.
“Switch!” I shouted, calling the screen, but Eva was already anticipating it, sliding around the pick like it wasn’t even there. She read the floor better than anyone I’d ever played with. Her body was poetry in motion.
And then it wasn’t.
She leapt for the defensive rebound, her hands snatching the ball cleanly out of the air. Dominant. Determined.
But she landed awkwardly—just off-balance enough that something went wrong.
I watched, nearly in slow motion, as her right leg buckled under her.
“No,” I breathed.
She hit the court hard, the ball slipping from her hands and bouncing free. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out—just the horror on her face.
