Page 70 of Half-Court Heat
We went backto the apartment with the news and sat in contemplative silence. Something buzzed on the TV in the background, but neither of us paid it any attention. Teammates and other league players had been dropping by with well-wishes and food since it had happened. Casseroles, pasta bakes, a bag of Publix subs—more food than two people with no appetite could possibly eat.
I mentally braced myself after another knock on the door. Everyone meant well, but I knew that the small-talk and the quiet, sympathetic “how are you doings” were wearing on her. Eva had been polite and gracious through it all, but I could tell—without her having to say so—that she’d rather retreat than interact with anyone else.
I leaned down and gave her a quick kiss. “I’ll put up a sign that saysGo Away.”
I expected another teammate with a covered dish or maybe Jazz with a card game. What I didn’t expect was Virginia Montgomery, standing tall and elegant on our doormat with a small roller bag at her side.
“Wow.” I blurted out the first dumb thing that popped into my head.
“Where’s Eva?” she demanded.
I stepped aside to let her in, still stunned.
Eva’s mom took no time to inspect our apartment. She made no remarks about the furnishings. She didn’t even bother taking off her shoes. Her roller bag only got as far as the front foyer. She left it behind and strode purposefully towards Eva, who had remained on the couch with her leg iced and elevated.
“A colleague told me you’d been injured in a game,” she explained. “I had to wrap up some things at work, but I’m here now.” She sank into the empty cushion near Eva’s elevated knee. “What happened?”
No hug. No squeeze of Eva’s hand. Just business.
The corner of Eva’s mouth twitched. “I went for a rebound and came down funny.”
Mrs. Montgomery looked up sharply, dark eyes boring into me as if I was somehow responsible. “What did the doctors say?”
I shoved my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie. “She tore her ACL.”
Eva’s mom looked pensive. Torn. Finally, she sighed as if realizing there was nothing else to be done.
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
“I’m not hungry,” Eva refused.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Montgomery dismissed. “You need to eat. You need to keep up your strength.”
She looked again in my direction.
“I’ll-I’ll make up some plates,” I said, already walking towards the kitchen.
I opened the fridge and stared at the mountain of Tupperware and foil pans, all neatly stacked by the stream of visitors who’d already come through. It felt like the aftermath of a funeral: people not knowing what to say, so they showed up with food instead.
I blindly heaped food onto three plates, my attention torn between my task and the activities in the living room. The plates clattered louder than I meant when I set them on thecounter. From the couch, I could hear the low murmur of Mrs. Montgomery’s voice, precise and clipped. Eva’s was softer, shorter, like she was conserving her energy.
I risked a glance into the living room. Mrs. Montgomery had already straightened the throw pillows, smoothed the blanket draped over Eva’s lap, and moved the water glass closer to her hand. She behaved like an executive running a board meeting, not a mother tending to her injured daughter.
“You can’t afford to let your nutrition slide,” I overheard her say. “Protein, iron, hydration. All of it matters, especially now.”
“Mom,” Eva sighed. “I know how to take care of my body.”
“Clearly not well enough,” her mom sniffed.
Eva didn’t answer. She stared at the TV, her expression blank.
I finished plating the food and carried it over, feeling more like a server than someone’s partner. I set the dishes on the coffee table and stepped back.
“Thank you, Alexandra.” Mrs. Montgomery’s tone was similar to one she might use with a restaurant employee.
I took my plate to a nearby chair.
Mrs. Montgomery looked over the food on her plate, but she didn’t reach for her fork. “You’ll come home for the surgery, of course.”
