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Throw Ball Good

Harper

Look, I'll be the first to admit that professional basketball is not my scene. Give me a cozy dive bar with decent lighting for Instagram photos, or a rooftop restaurant where I can watch the sunset while pretending to care about the menu's farm-to-table credentials, and I'm your girl. But basketball? Basketball is loud. Basketball is full of people screaming about fouls and three-pointers and other concepts I cannot be bothered to learn. Basketball is, quite frankly, not the vibe.

And yet there I was, courtside at a Fashion City Fangs game, because my best friend in the world, Mia, asked.

Well. Mia didn't exactly ask. More like she mentioned that Isla, her girlfriend’s best friend, had scored us free tickets, and before I could formulate a reasonable excuse involving a sudden onset of bubonic plague, Mia was giving me those big blue puppy-dog eyes that she absolutely knows are my kryptonite. So yeah. There I was. Being a good friend. A martyr, really. Someone should probably build me a statue. I'm thinking bronze, heroic pose, maybe a plaque that says "She Sat Through Sports For Love."

"Harper, you're not even watching," Mia hissed, elbowing me gently in the ribs.

I glanced up from my phone, where I was currently crafting the perfect caption for a photo of my iced latte from that morning. (The lighting had been chef's kiss, and the oat milk foam had this gorgeous swirl that practically begged to be documented for posterity.) "I'm watching spiritually, babe. I'm here in body, and honestly, that's about seventy percent more effort than I give most people."

"You're the worst."

"And yet you keep me around. Really says more about you than me, if we're being honest."

Mia tried to look annoyed but failed miserably. This is how we work. She pretends my complete lack of athletic interest is a character flaw, and I pretend her newfound basketball enthusiasm isn't entirely because she's dating someone whose best friend is married to a WNBA player. We're both lying to each other with love.

On Mia's other side, Laine, her girlfriend, leaned over, looking like she'd just stepped out of a Vogue editorial in what I was ninety-nine percent sure was a custom Valentino blazer. "The Fangs are up by twelve," she offered helpfully. "Trish has been on fire tonight."

"That's great," I said, having absolutely no context for whether twelve points was a statistical miracle or the basketball equivalent of "yeah, I showed up to work today." For all I knew, basketball games regularly ended with scores in the thousands. I'd never bothered to check.

Laine smiled that knowing smile she does, the one that locked her in as the nation's number one matchmaker. The woman could probably read sexual tension in a grocery store line. She definitely knew I had no idea what was happening on the court and found it amusing.

I went back to my phone. The caption was almost there. I was debating between "Monday moods require excessive caffeine" (classic, relatable) and "me thinking about the week ahead" (mysterious, contemplative) when the buzzer sounded and the entire arena erupted like someone had just announced free pizza.

Apparently the Fangs won. Yay, sports. Go team. Throw ball good.

"Come on," Isla, Laine’s bestie and the gifter of my courtside seat, said, already standing and practically vibrating with excitement. Her red and silver hair caught the arena lights as she grinned at us like a kid on Christmas morning. "We're meeting Trish in the tunnel."

"The what now?" I asked, looking up from my phone, where the latte post was already at twenty-three likes. "Do I need a hard hat? Is there mining involved? Because these are my good jeans."

"The players come through the tunnel after the game," Mia explained, already gathering her jacket and giving me her please behave look that never works. "Isla has us cleared to go back there."

"Oh, so it's a metaphorical tunnel. Got it. And here I was, ready to channel my inner coal miner." I stood, tucking my phone into my jacket pocket. "Though I feel like someone should've warned me we'd be meeting and greeting. I would've prepared questions. Like, 'How does it feel to throw ball?' and 'What's your favorite shape: circle or sphere?'"

Mia snorted. Laine looked like she was trying not to laugh. Isla just shook her head, already used to my nonsense.

The tunnel turned out to be exactly what it sounded like: a concrete hallway that connected the court to the locker rooms, full of security personnel and people with Very Important Lanyards who all looked like they had Somewhere To Be and I Was In Their Way. Isla navigated us through with the ease of someone who'd done this a hundred times, Laine gliding beside her in those ridiculous heels that should've violated several laws of physics, and Mia and me bringing up the rear like the basketball-ignorant peasants we were.

Well. I was basketball-ignorant and proud. Mia was at least trying to keep up for Laine's sake, which was adorable and also mildly nauseating in that way that happy couples always are.

We hovered near the edge of the tunnel, trying to look like we belonged, which was challenging when I was dressed in high-waisted black jeans, a cropped sweater that showed just enough stomach to be criminal in forty-six states, and my favorite leather jacket. I looked like I should be at an indie concert or a photoshoot for "Bisexual Fall Vibes: The Aesthetic," not lurking in a sports tunnel surrounded by people who probably knew what a pick-and-roll was.

"There she is!" Isla squealed, and I spotted Trish emerging from the crowd, still in her uniform, her dark skin gleaming with sweat. She was grinning, probably from the win, and she made a beeline straight for Isla, scooping her wife into a kiss that made me look away because, okay, they were cute, but also I didn't need to witness that level of PDA. Some of us were single and sensitive about it.

When they finally came up for air, Trish pulled Mia into a quick hug. "Did you see that three-pointer in the fourth? Cam set me up perfectly. That behind-the-back pass was—" She made some gesture with her hands that apparently meant basketball excellence.

"It was incredible," Laine said warmly, because she'd actually been watching instead of crafting the perfect social media presence like a normal person.

I checked my phone. The latte post was at forty-two likes. Not bad for five minutes. I debated adding a story, but—

"You know, most people actually watch the game when they're sitting courtside."

The voice came from directly beside me, low and colder than my ex's heart. I looked up—and up, and up, because apparently this woman was built like a redwood tree—and found myself staring at the most infuriating face I'd ever seen.