Page 96 of Half-Court Heat
“I still can’t believe they put Montgomery on the committee,” one of the women said. She was a power forward for Seattle. “She’s not exactly living the same reality as the rest of us. When’s the last time she had to worry about rent in the offseason?”
“She’s the face they want for the cameras,” the other woman agreed. I recalled that she was a free agent and had yet to decide between her former squad or signing with a new team. “I mean,she’s doingSports Illustratedshoots in her spare time. What’s she gonna know about fighting for health insurance?”
Rayah glanced at me, maybe to see if I’d react.
“She knows more than you think,” I said, sharper than I meant to. A couple of heads turned in my direction.
Jazz looked up from the seat across from me, clocking my tone. Beside her, Freya—the Belgian point guard she’d been talking to more than usual—sipped her drink without saying a word.
“I’m not saying she’s not smart,” the first player backpedaled. “Just … optics matter.”
I took a long sip of my drink, tasting the tequila more than the lime. Conversation eventually drifted to something else, but their words sat in my chest, heavy and hot.
Rayah’s phone buzzed on the table. “Speak of the devil,” she quietly chuckled. She angled the screen toward me. “This is what you’re missing while you’re stuck slumming with us.”
Her phone displayed a social media post from a Boston-based sports reporter—Eva was at a fundraiser gala. Dark dress, thigh slit, crutches just visible in the shot.
Boston’s own Eva Montgomery at the Sports Access Gala, raising funds for community courts, the caption read.
Kate Gillespie stood beside her in the photo, her hand light on Eva’s elbow. Both of them were laughing at something just out of the frame.
I stared too long before realizing Rayah was watching me.
“She looks good,” Rayah said. It wasn’t threatening, only observational.
“She always does,” I managed. My thumb itched to check the comments, to see who else thought so. Instead, I returned Rayah’s phone to the table.
Dez leaned in. “I thought you might be the jealous type.”
“I’m not,” I stiffly resisted.
Jazz raised one eyebrow, the kind of silent commentary only your best friend can deliver.
Freya, the Belgian point guard, finally spoke. Her accent was soft but clipped: “If my girlfriend wore that, I would fly to Boston immediately.”
Her words earned another round of laughter. I forced a smile and kept my hand wrapped tight around my glass.
“Hey,” Rayah said, nudging my arm. “She’s in Boston. You’re here. That doesn’t mean you can’t have a good time tonight.”
I gave her a smile I didn’t feel and drank deeply from my cocktail.
My apartment wasquiet enough at the end of the night to make my ears ring after the heightened noise of the rooftop bar. I kicked my shoes off, let my keys fall on the counter, and poured myself a glass of water.
My phone lit up on the kitchen counter—a text from Rayah.
Fun night. Glad you came out.
I stared at the bubble a second longer than necessary before setting the phone face-down. I wasn’t drunk, but the edges of my thoughts were blurred enough that I didn’t trust what I might send back.
I found myself scrolling social media instead. The gala photo from earlier was everywhere now—reposted by sports accounts, fan pages, and even a couple of our teammates. Most hadcropped Kate out entirely, but a few accounts had left her in. Those were the ones I couldn’t stop looking at.
The comments were a split screen in my head:
She’s gorgeous.
Does she even know what regular players go through?
Queen.
