Hoops & Heartstrings

Chapter 3

I took my time lacing up my sneakers. With my right hand still in a brace, I knew it would be some time until I could be a full participant in drills. But the unnecessary task gave me a moment to gather my thoughts and settle my racing heart.

Like many other league teams, we would be sharing a practice facility with our city's men's team. It had been the same in college, with the men's squad getting first priority for court time and access to the weight room, but at least we were getting a share of the world-class amenities like team trainers, doctors, and nutritionists.

I observed my new teammates in my peripheral vision. Some of the older women were long-time vets of the league and had either played with each other on other teams, here or abroad, or were at least familiar with each other. They hugged and grinned and shared secret, elaborate handshakes.

Some of the others, like myself, hung out around the periphery of the practice facility court like anxious swimmers not yet confident about getting into the pool. They laced up high tops and ankle braces. They rolled up the waistbands of their new Boston Shamrocks practice shorts. They stretched out hamstrings and started to get loose.

Sixteen players had been invited to training camp. In a few weeks' time, those numbers would be whittled down to eleven or twelve. Bench players were a luxury, not a necessity, since each team actually had an all-volunteer practice team to scrimmage against. The all-male practice squad kept teams from hoarding female players.

"Pinch me." Mathilde exhaled beside me. "I have posters hanging up in my room of some of these women."

"It's pretty surreal," I agreed.

My eyes fell to one player in particular. She kept to herself, slowly dribbling around the court, as if taking it all in. Mya Brown was a living legend. After fifteen years in the league, she held several season and career records, was a former league MVP, perennial All-Star, and had won championships with three different pro teams. She was one of the few current female players to have her own shoe, and she used her platform to agitate for social change.

An ACL injury had cut short her previous season. The talking heads on television were worried she might not have any gas left in the tank, which is why her previous team hadn't protected her from being selected for one of the expansion teams. I, however, couldn't believe my luck to be sharing a space with her, even if only for the next few weeks.

Hers had been the first jersey I'd ever bought. I'd saved up my birthday money to buy her college jersey and had spent an embarrassing amount of time in my parents' driveway pretending I was Mya Brown, shooting the final shot in the Big Game, to just barely beat the buzzer.

Kelsey Howard was the second player who caught my eye. I observed her as she stretched out at center court with a few other players. Like Mya Brown, Kelsey Howard was an experienced veteran. She wasn't as seasoned as Mya, but she'd been in the league for just over a decade. She had a list of accolades as long as my arm, but had lost a step in recent years. With her camera-ready good looks, however, she'd successfully made the transition to broadcast analyst during the college season, setting herself up for life after basketball.

Life after basketball was always the elephant in the room. Not that long ago, I'd believed my competing days were already behind me. Despite being drafted, it would probably take a miracle for me to make the final roster. I vowed, however, not to take any of this for granted. I was going to milk out my final playing days with everything I had, even if I never saw in-game action again.

"Heads up!"

A basketball hit a nearby rim at an awkward angle, and the off-target shot careened in my direction. My hands reflexively flew to cover my head and face. With only one functioning hand, there was little else I could do. Mathilde reacted before the errant ball could hit me; she swiped at the ball like she was blocking someone's shot, and the wayward basketball ricocheted in a different direction.