More like a brand than a human.
The CBA talk from earlier came back like a bad aftertaste. I could still see their shrugs, could still hear that jab about “optics.”
I typed out a message to Eva:
Saw the gala pics. You looked amazing.
I deleted it and tried again:
How was your night?
I deleted that, too.
The screen eventually went dark without a single message sent. I sat at the kitchen island, my phone heavy in my hand, thinking about how Eva was a thousand miles away and somehow still right in the middle of my night.
The gym was alreadyloud when I walked in the next morning—sneakers squeaking, basketballs thudding in quick, rhythmic dribbles, Dez trying to hit a half-court shot before warmups began.
We were scheduled to scrimmage Jazz’s team that morning. It was only practice—it didn’t count in league standings—but no athlete ever wanted to lose, especially not to a friend whose trash talk game was top tier.
I dropped my bag by the bench and started lacing up my shoes. Rayah wandered over, a bottle of Gatorade in each hand. She set one by my feet and crouched down just enough to be in my line of sight.
“You looked like you were drinking for two last night,” she said. “Figured you could use the electrolytes.”
“Thanks,” I said, pulling the knot tight.
She gave me that easy, nothing-to-prove smile before jogging back toward the baseline. I watched her join the shooting line, smooth and quick on the catch-and-release, before shaking it off and grabbing my own ball.
Halfway through warmups, I caught Arika’s voice from the sideline.
“They’re saying Eva is pushing for more marketing perks in the CBA draft,” I overheard her say to Dez.
Dez raised an eyebrow. “Marketing perks? We need better travel and injury guarantees, not tote bags.”
“It’s just what I heard,” Arika said. She glanced my way like she knew I’d caught it.
I sent my next shot long off the rim.
“She’s not the only one in the negotiation room, you know,” I said, chasing after my own rebound. “You think she’s not fighting for the important stuff?”
Dez held up her hands like she didn’t want the smoke. “Relax, Lex. We’re just talking.”
But it didn’t feel likejust talking. It felt like a thread getting tugged and everything was starting to unravel.
When the scrimmage began,my head was still back in Boston. I hesitated on a cut, lost my defender, and heard Coach Demarios’s voice cut across the court like a whistle: “Focus, Lex!”
I blinked and tried to pull myself into the play, but my legs felt sluggish and my mind was heavy. Jazz was running with Freya, weaving through defenders like we were standing still. They moved in perfect sync, Jazz grinning at something Freya murmured under her breath before sinking a corner three without breaking stride.
“Nice shot,” I called as we passed at mid-court.
Jazz’s eyes flicked to mine—not a thank you, not quite a warning, just a check-in. It was a look that saidI see you, but get your goddamn head in the game.
By the time we wrapped, sweat was sliding down my back, sticky and hot, and my head felt heavier than my legs.
Rayah came over and tossed me a towel. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure what that meant anymore.
The place Rayahpicked out for lunch that afternoon was one of those open-air spots that forgot it was Miami. The ceiling fans worked overtime, condensation dripping down glasses faster than anyone could drink from them. The smell of fried plantains and grilled fish hung in the air, cut by the sharper tang of citrus from someone’s mixed drink.
