Home Court Advantage
Prologue
Bee
Whoever said revenge didn’t taste sweet was a goddamn liar.
How else could I describe this zip along my tastebuds?
This overwhelming sense of feeling full, complete, stuffed to the absolute brim?
It took me four years in the league to see confetti falling from the rafters of the Hunt Center, my rafters for my team.
Four years of being the worst team in the league, four years of absolute grinding to prove, I don’t know, something, to myself, my family and every naysayer who questioned if the glory days of the Jersey Jaguars were ever coming back.
And I got to do it against her.
It was kismet that we would face off against the Chicago Violets, the back to back reigning champions of the W, on their way to a historic, never done before, three-peat.
I grabbed my head and looked up to the ceiling, absolutely beaming, at the mere thought of their media perfect story being trampled on the ground. Literally.
My sweaty body held onto Danny Da Costa, as we latched on tight to our mentor Rashida Blake. Danny and I watched the vets silent tears stream down her face as she took in our team, our families, our fans.
I could still remember the searing hot pain when she told us this season would be her last. I always knew the day was coming, but it felt surreal to have something so full of potential feel like it could slip away at any moment.
Danny and I had rebuilt our friendship before the season started.
Both of us were eager to stay in Jersey during the off season and figure out how the hell we were going to take it all the way this year.
Her girlfriend—but my friend first—Perry, could handle anything from the marketing side, but Danny and I were the literal boots on the ground.
Our history started in high school, a solid foundation until she got traded to the Jaguars.
I may or may not have assumed her tragic reputation would follow.
Our first professional season together took time, patience and less assumptions—ahem, arguments—on my end. But by the end of last season, the Jaguars had made it to the play-offs for the first time in years.
And now we are WNBA champions.
“I couldn’t have done this without y’all.
” Rashida sniffled, which only made me cry harder.
She’d been a rock for so many women in the league, but that did nothing to quiet the possessive hold I have for her in my heart.
She and Allison had been my parents away from my own, hosting me for my birthday when I hadn’t flown back to Charlotte to see my own family, and serving as my gay fairy godparents when I was finally brave enough to accept who I am and ready to voice it.
Tonight was about more than a ring, but I’d cry over that later.
“Can we get past all the tears and go straight to the celebrating, please?” I mustered the strength to say without a shaky voice. I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve and basking in this momentous occasion was no different.
“Yeah, let’s go take this party to the locker room,” Danny finished.
The three of us were about to turn away just as she approached.
I watched her dap Danny up then go in for a bear hug with Rashida. If Danny and I were Rashida and Allison’s pseudo children, Nola Young is the first born.
Perfect, superstar, nepo baby, Nola fucking Young.
I watched the two mumble into each other’s shoulders, their personal bond and relationship much deeper than I’d care to admit.
But I guess that’s what happens when you watch someone grow up first hand.
I tucked the championship snapback someone threw onto my head lower so the cameras didn’t catch me rolling my eyes in 4K.
The cameras snapped fast, journalists hustling over to get a moment of Rashida Blake and Nola Young embracing, the past and future of the W coming together in harmony. But just as the media approached, the two ended their familial moment, yawn, and started to turn away.
Nola didn’t make it two feet before Rashida cleared her throat, making the younger player turn back and head towards me.
We made brief eye contact before she stuck out her hand, the movement catching me off guard since I nearly got ejected from game four because of her. The same hand that had been pressed against me in defense more times than I could count.
“Nice work, Lee.” My rival complimented, nearly a decade of our on again, off again friendship acquaintance coming to a head for the last time this season. A moment currently being documented live to then be picked apart, frame by frame, later.
I didn’t want to shake her hand. I wanted to throttle her. I wanted to chuck a basketball at her head and watch it bounce off. I wanted to watch her slip and fall in a wet spot as I suppressed my laughter like I did in game two.
Instead, I clenched my jaw, closed-lip smile, grasped her soft and big hand, and said, “Thanks, Young.”
I turned around before she could make me regret this moment. Before she could roll her eyes and smirk her stupid lips, her tale when she’s bullshitting. A tale I knew well. A tale I’ve been on the receiving end long before we’d been drafted.
“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Rashida chuckled as we headed into the tunnel toward the locker rooms.
I didn’t have the voice to say that it wasn’t so bad. That it was actually nice to receive a compliment from Nola Young, especially when you knew you’ve earned it.
But if there’s one thing I knew about Nola, from the eight exhilarating years of playing against her, is that you couldn’t trust a single word out of her mouth.
No matter how sweet it sounded coming out.