Hoops and Hearts: A Small-Town, Friends to Lovers, Grieving Hero Romance
- eBook
- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
A man haunted by the death of his fiancée. A woman whose athletic career was cut short. Two people adrift, seeking to find a place in their community—and finding one another—and love ...
Assistant district attorney Sawyer Montgomery is overwhelmed with grief after losing his fiancée in an unsolved hit-and-run. He throws himself into his law career until he reaches his breaking point. Sawyer decides to return to his hometown of Hawthorne, Texas, where he has family and friends who can support him as he begins to seek a better balance between work and his personal life.
WNBA player Paisley Roberts has won basketball championships at every level, even playing for Team USA and earning Olympic gold medals three times. A cheap shot by a jealous player ends her playing days, and she finds a fresh start, landing a job as the head basketball coach of the Lady Hawks high school team.
When Sawyer and Paisley meet, she is closed off. As a former foster child who was never adopted, Paisley has never trusted—much less loved—anyone. Sawyer's easygoing nature and ability to see the best in others breaks through her tough exterior, though, and she finds herself opening up to the handsome lawyer, even believing they may have a future together.
Their relationship faces challenges along the way, however, as both begin to heal emotionally while trying to balance work obligations and career pressure, all under the watchful eyes of their small town.
Can Sawyer and Paisley let go of the ghosts from their pasts and realize that they are better together, thanks to the power of love?
Find the answer in bestselling author Alexa Aston's Hoops and Hearts, the fifth and final book in Hearts in Hawthorne. This romance contains no third-act breakup!
Release date: October 14, 2025
Publisher: Oliver Heber Books
Print pages: 282
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
Author updates
Hoops and Hearts: A Small-Town, Friends to Lovers, Grieving Hero Romance
Alexa Aston
PROLOGUE
Dallas
Sawyer Montgomery listened as his opposing counsel addressed the jury in her final summation. Like him, Elizabeth Pope sought to make a personal connection with each juror, looking them directly in the eyes. She was a formidable attorney. Polished. Prepared. Someone who fought passionately for her clients.
And she was the love of his life.
They had begun dating during their final year at Baylor Law School, though they had known each other since they were first years. Elizabeth drew others to her with her winning personality and compassion for all. She had been a part of Sawyer’s study group during 1L and 2L, but things had turned romantic just before the start of their last year. They had dated that year and the two following graduation and were now engaged to be married in two months’ time. This was the first time, however, that they had gone up against one another in a courtroom.
Usually, they tested their opening and closing arguments on one another, giving the other critical feedback. They hadn’t been able to during this case since they were opposing counsels. He had to admire his fiancée, though. She was convincing as she implored the jury to find the defendant not guilty.
Dispassionately, he took notes as she spoke, thinking of ways he could counter the points she was making in his own final argument. Though Sawyer believed he had proven his case beyond a reasonable doubt, Elizabeth now chipped away at small pieces he had presented throughout the trial. It wouldn’t surprise him if he didn’t receive the usual, unanimous verdict he was known for achieving.
Elizabeth thanked the jurors for their time and returned to sit next to her client, causing Sawyer to rise and move closer to the jury box, where twelve citizens were seated. They would begin their deliberations soon and determine the fate of Anthony Simpson.
He walked the jury through the state’s case, detailing each portion of evidence against the defendant and doing his best to negate the points Elizabeth had made. Still, his gut told him that his fiancée had done enough to place reasonable doubt in the minds of at least a few jurors.
Ending his summation, Sawyer told the jury, “I hope that you will carefully weigh the evidence the State of Texas has presented to you and find the defendant, Anthony Simpson, guilty in the murder of Jane Rockwell. Thank you for your time and your service. The citizens of Dallas County appreciate how much you have invested of yourselves in this case, and they are depending upon you to render a unanimous, guilty verdict and send Anthony Simpson to prison.”
Sawyer returned to the prosecution table without glancing at Elizabeth. He listened as Judge Johnson gave final instructions to the jury, who would first break for lunch before beginning their deliberations, and then they were led from the courtroom.
Now, they waiting game began.
He rose, as did Elizabeth, and they moved closer to one another. All he wanted to do was run his fingers through her strawberry blond hair and kiss her beautiful, rosebud mouth. Instead, he kept things professional, not revealing an inkling of their relationship. To anyone watching them, they would merely see two attorneys chatting briefly about the case they had just tried.
“Nice job with your closing, Counselor.”
She gave him a half-smile. “Same to you, ADA Montgomery. I won’t say it was a pleasure going up against you. You are a very tough opponent. You articulated your case perfectly, and your witnesses gave good testimony without seeming rehearsed.” Her smile widening, she added, “Then again, I believe my arguments were solid and that my client will walk out of here a free man.”
“Want to grab some lunch?” he asked.
“I wish I had time to, but I have a new trial starting in two days. I need to finish interviewing a couple of witnesses before working on my opening statement. Maybe you can help me work on that later tonight,” she added huskily.
“Maybe I’ll hear it—and then help you out of whatever you’re wearing,” he replied, causing her to laugh.
“If I don’t see you back in court for the verdict later today, I’ll see you at home,” she told him.
He smiled at her. “Ditto.”
They had stolen ditto from the movie Ghost, a film where Patrick Swayze’s character Sam had trouble voicing words of commitment to Demi Moore’s character, Molly. When Molly would tell Sam that she loved him, he would merely reply ditto, never speaking of love. Then Sam was killed by a mugger—and it was too late to speak what was in his heart.
Sawyer and Elizabeth had begun using the word to convey their feelings without alerting others around them to their involvement. No one at work knew they were dating, much less engaged. If his boss had known about their relationship, he never would have allowed Sawyer to try the Simpson case against Elizabeth, citing it would be a conflict of interest. They both were passionate about their jobs, however, and had actually looked forward to finally having the chance to face off against one another in court. After having attended law school with Elizabeth and coming in as salutatorian to her valedictorian, he knew what a powerhouse lawyer she was, one with a keen mind and attention to details that others often overlooked. Occasionally, he sneaked into a courtroom to listen to her for a few minutes, but it had been eye-opening watching her as he tried an entire case against her. It made Sawyer proud of her.
He left the courtroom, opening the bottom drawer of his desk once he was back in his office and removing a package of peanut butter crackers from his stash. He ate them while drinking a Diet Coke and began working his next case, reading witness interviews from the police department.
Hugh James, the Dallas District Attorney, appeared in his doorway. “How did it go?”
“I think we had a solid case against Anthony Simpson. The evidence should speak for itself.” Sawyer paused. “However, you know that juries can often ignore facts and vote based upon emotion. Elizabeth Pope is very skilled at manipulating a jury’s emotions. Did she raise enough questions for there to be reasonable doubt?” He shrugged. “We’ll soon see.”
“I wish we had Pope in this office,” the DA said. “She’s got a great track record. You know her, don’t you? Didn’t you both attend Baylor Law at the same time?”
He nodded. “She was the top of our graduating class and had multiple job offers from all kinds of big-name law firms. The fact that she went to work in the public defender’s office for peanuts speaks to her character.”
“Win or lose this case, Sawyer, see if you can draw her back from the dark side. This office could use a smart, thoughtful attorney like Pope.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Hugh,” he said solemnly, biting back a smile.
As passionate as Elizabeth was about defending the downtrodden, he was just as passionate about prosecuting criminals and bringing them to justice. He doubted he could ever convince his fiancée to join him in the DA’s office.
They had talked, however, about starting their own firm after they married. Montgomery & Montgomery. They had brainstormed about the kind of law they might practice and the type of clients they wished to represent. While nothing had been settled, Sawyer thought it would be amazing to go to work every day with his beautiful, intelligent wife and then be able to come home and spend his nights with her.
He received a text at four-thirty to return to the courtroom. The verdict was in after about four hours of deliberation, and he looked upon that as a good omen. The longer juries were out—especially on murder cases—the more likely they were to render a not guilty verdict.
He slipped back into his suit’s jacket, straightening his tie as he headed toward the elevators. He and Elizabeth had talked about whoever won this case, they would go out for a celebratory dinner, with the loser paying.
Entering the courtroom, he saw she was already at the defense table. He nodded to her as he took a seat. The judge came in and called the courtroom to order, and the jury was led in by the bailiff and seated. The judge asked if they had reached a verdict, and a Black man in his mid-forties who had been elected foreman rose.
“We have, Your Honor.”
He handed the results of the vote to the bailiff, who took it to Judge Johnson. He glanced at the paper handed to him, his face set in stone, not betraying anything.
Sawyer’s heart began thumping harder. He wanted this win. He truly believed that Anthony Simpson had murdered Jane Rockwell and should be locked away for his crime. Then again, Elizabeth had made a few excellent points in Simpson’s defense, so the door had been left open.
When he heard the not guilty verdict announced, he maintained his composure as the courtroom erupted. Simpson’s family, seated on the first row behind the defense table, leapt to their feet, cheering. Judge Johnson called for order, and everyone calmed down. The judge then thanked the jury for their service, and the courtroom room was dismissed. Sawyer watched from the corner of his eye as Elizabeth hugged Anthony Simpson and then hugged his wife and two teenaged children.
He hung around until she turned to him, offering her hand.
“Counselor, it was a well-fought battle.”
As he shook her hand, he said, “Hugh James gave me the mission to try and lure you from the dark side into the light of the DA’s office.”
She chuckled throatily, causing desire to flare within him. He released her hand.
“Hugh James—and the DA’s office—is the last place I would ever want to work. You know that.”
“I do. I told him I would try, though. I’ll report back that I failed miserably. That the Angel of Justice has vowed never to leave the public defender’s office.”
Sawyer referred to the nickname a journalist had given Elizabeth after a particularly long and grueling murder trial. He loved to tease her about it every and now and then.
She leaned in. “Anthony Simpson really is innocent,” she insisted and then grinned. “I guess that means you’ll be buying dinner tonight since you lost.”
“Name the place. I’ll make a reservation.”
“You know I love a good steak dinner at the end of a long trial.”
He laughed. “Al Biernat’s, it is. Meet you there? Seven?”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
Sawyer went to report back to Hugh James, who scowled as Sawyer entered the DA’s office.
“You lost, Montgomery,” the district attorney growled.
“I did. I’ll be calling the jury members over the next day or two, polling them as to how they voted and why.”
It was one of the quirks of the Texas legal system that allowed prosecutors to contact jurors. Naturally, the juror did not have to reveal anything about their particular service on a case, but a handful always chose to speak to him about what had occurred during deliberations. Sawyer found their words insightful, and he had learned quite a bit from those conversations, things that had helped him in future cases which he had tried.
“Did you approach Pope about switching sides?” Hugh asked, sounding surly.
“I did. The Angel of Justice wasn’t biting, sir.”
His boss frowned. “I didn’t think she would, but I’m not going to let up. That woman would be an incredible asset to this office. I’m going to see that she moves over here by hook or crook.”
“Good luck with that, Hugh,” Sawyer said breezily, knowing that Elizabeth would never change her mind. She would either continue in the PD’s office, or the two of them would begin their own law firm. He could see that happening in the near future. Right now, their careers consumed a majority of their waking hours, and it was hard to share a meal together, much less a night out on a date. Once they had kids, though, they would both need to dial things back. If they had started their own law firm by then, hopefully it would give them more time together, as well as time to be good parents. He and his sister Darby had grown up with two wonderful, supportive parents, and he wanted to emulate his mom and dad’s parenting style as much as possible.
Sawyer returned to his office and made their dinner reservation before working another hour. He asked his assistant to compile a list of the jurors’ phone numbers so he could begin calling them tomorrow.
Because tonight was strictly for him and Elizabeth.
They met at the famous steakhouse, him ordering a New York strip, while she requested her usual filet mignon. Both liked their steaks medium rare. They shared sides of whipped sweet potatoes and roasted mushrooms but passed on dessert when the server asked.
As Sawyer paid the bill, he leaned over and whispered in Elizabeth’s ear, “You’re the dessert tonight,” causing another of those low chuckles which had him hot for her.
They returned to their apartment in Oak Lawn, and he made love to her. In the afterglow, they lay entangled in one another’s arms. He had never been more content than in this moment.
“I can’t wait to be Elizabeth Montgomery,” she told him. “You know, of course, that I’ll continue to go by Elizabeth Pope at work. We’ll have to report our marriage to both our bosses, though. I already feel bad that we’ve kept quiet about it for so long.”
“I know. I can just see Hugh’s face when he finds out that I’ve been sleeping with the enemy. He will not be a happy camper. I’ll be raked over the coals and have to listen to a long lecture about fraternizing with the enemy.”
“You don’t think he would believe you threw the Simpson case?” she asked indignantly. “If he does, I’ll show up at the DA’s office and give him a piece of my mind.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Hugh will get over it. Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. But now that we’ve argued opposite sides of a case? As far as I’m concerned, it’s a one-and-done.”
“Everything always comes back to basketball with you,” she teased, referring to how college athletes would play their freshman year and then leave a university for the NBA.
Sawyer hadn’t had that opportunity. While he was a talented enough player to earn an athletic scholarship to the University of North Texas, he had suffered a horrific knee injury his senior year, curtailing any idea of a career in the pros. Instead, he had turned his passion for basketball toward the law and was happy in the work he did.
And with the woman he loved.
They fell asleep, waking at four-thirty in order to go their separate ways. Elizabeth would drink a cup of coffee and scroll through her emails before going for her usual run, while Sawyer hit the Y for his own workout. He showered at the Y and left for his office. His first order of business was to call yesterday’s jurors. Surprisingly, he reached half of the twelve. Three agreed to speak to him about the trial and the jury’s decision. All three said the same thing. The verdict was influenced by the small holes Elizabeth had poked in the state’s case.
He had lost to the better attorney, and he wasn’t saddened by that.
Mid-morning, Sawyer went to the break room to get a Diet Coke and see if any Danish might be left. Three other attorneys were huddled, looking as if they were gossiping.
“What’s up, guys?” he asked, pulling a can from the fridge and popping the top.
“We were just talking about the hit and run this morning. Did you hear about it?” Jack Schneider asked.
Sawyer shook his head. “No. Why?”
Schneider laughed. “For a moment, I’d almost think you were behind it. Except you’re such a Boy Scout, Montgomery.”
He frowned. “I don’t get it. What are you talking about?”
The other ADA shrugged. “The hit and run involved Elizabeth Pope. Apparently, she was out jogging and was struck by a car. The driver left the scene without rendering aid.”
Panic raced through him. “Where is she?”
“In the morgue,” Schneider replied. “DOA.”
Reeling, Sawyer, stumbled from the break room without a word, returning to his office, closing and locking the door. Anguish filled him. It felt as if his soul had been ripped from him.
Elizabeth was gone.
And nothing would ever be the same again.
CHAPTER 1
Las Vegas—Michelob Ultra Arena, Mandalay Bay Resort and Casino—Six years later
Paisley Roberts felt energy brimming inside her. She glanced around the dressing room of the Las Vegas Aces, seeing both determination and eagerness on the faces of her fellow teammates. Today’s final game of the regular season with the New Jersey Hurricanes would decide which of the two teams moved on to the playoffs.
She was determined to lead her team to victory.
These women meant everything to Paisley. They were the only family she had, just as previous teammates had been over the two decades she’d been playing basketball. She had never known who her father was. Her drug-addicted mother’s parental rights had been terminated by a jury when Paisley was only four years old. She had immediately gone into the foster care system, bouncing from house to house, never finding a home as she sprouted taller than any kid at school.
By the time she reached seventh grade, Paisley had reached her full height, an inch over six feet, towering over everyone in her middle school, including her teachers. But she found a home on the basketball court that year. Her first coach had seen Paisley’s potential, and while she had three children of her own, Coach Callahan still went through the prep of becoming a foster parent and fostered Paisley from the time she was twelve.
Coach Callahan was a tough woman, and Paisley had soon realized she was never going to be loved by the coach. Their relationship was transactional. Paisley’s job was to make Coach Callahan look good. In return, the coach gave her room and board. She didn’t care. Having a permanent foster home with Callahan allowed her to stay in one place, honing her athletic skills. She moved into AAU competitive basketball, and the rest was history.
Paisley had won two state titles in high school, with Coach Callahan being moved up to serve as the girls’ varsity basketball coach, riding her foster child’s coattails. Paisley had been offered numerous athletic scholarships and chose to play at Baylor University in Waco. The school already had several NCAA national championships under its belt. Paisley led the school to another national championship her sophomore year and the NCAA championship game her senior year.
Then when she was barely twenty, she played in her first Olympics in Madrid, taking home a gold medal. She had been named to Team USA again for the next two Olympics, as well, and it was assumed that she would also be on next year’s roster and compete for the gold in Rome. She would be thirty-two by then and figured it would be her last Olympics.
She focused on the game at hand now. As a former number one draft pick in the WNBA, she’d had a lot riding on her shoulders from the moment she entered professional sports. Paisley had lived up to her hype and even exceeded all expectations, bringing new fans to the sport in droves.
You were only as good as your last game, however, and the Las Vegas Aces needed a win tonight to move to the first round of the playoffs. They’d been plagued with injuries this year, but everyone was back for tonight’s showdown, healthy and ready for a victory.
The team took to the floor for warmups, and her shot rang true. As it happened with any basketball player, there were nights Paisley was more on than off.
Tonight, she was definitely on—and with every three-pointer she made, the growing crowd settling into their seats cheered.
They returned to the locker room, and she downed a Gatorade to stay hydrated. Coach Armstrong gave a pep talk, and the team went out to their home court, their enthusiastic fans cheering wildly during the player introductions. As usual, Paisley received the biggest hand from the crowd. Fortunately, her teammates never showed any signs of jealousy because they knew her to be the heart and soul of the Aces. She had already taken them to the playoffs seven times since she’d joined the team, two of those resulting in championships. The hope was that they would repeat that this year since the team’s starters were the same as last year’s.
They tipped off, and her pregame nerves dissipated as always, a calm descending over her. She liked to think of it as her Zen zone.
By halftime, the Aces were up by four. The locker room was quiet, but she could still feel the energetic buzz surrounding the players present. She went over to Lisa Fowler, their center, and gave her a couple of notes. No one minded that Paisley did this. It was something she’d started doing since she’d played her first game in seventh grade. Her situational awareness was honed better than any other existing player’s, and she often saw things other players—and even coaches—didn’t.
The center took the advice in stride, and the team returned to the court.
By mid-fourth quarter, the game was tied, the Aces having lost the lead they’d held up until that point. Paisley took the ball down the court, running the offense like clockwork, and the Aces moved ahead of the Hurricanes again. With three minutes to go, they now led by three points.
Nikki Jones fouled her soon after the next time Paisley dribbled down the court, something which had gone on all game, though the refs had seemed to turn a blind eye to it. Jones was the new golden child of the WNBA, and it seemed she could do no wrong. Paisley had learned not to complain to refs. Instead, she kept her head down and played to the best of her ability.
She moved to the foul line and made both her free throws. Paisley was the most consistent free throw shooter in the league, and it surprised her that Jones had fouled her when she did. Then again, the refs hadn’t been calling anything against the rookie, and Jones probably thought she could get away with the foul.
The Hurricanes came back quickly, Jones hitting a three-pointer. The Aces only held the lead by a single basket. It wasn’t enough, especially with what time was left on the clock.
Coach Armstrong called a time-out, and the team huddled around her as she diagrammed the play to be run, looking to Paisley, who nodded in agreement. Paisley knew it was up to her to execute the play flawlessly. If she did, their shooting guard would be in a perfect position to attempt a three—and the Aces needed those three points desperately.
As she brought the ball down the court again, Nikki Jones was all over her. Fortunately, Paisley handled the ball with ease, running the play exactly as Armstrong had outlined. When Rashida Roundhouse sank the basket, the arena erupted. Paisley couldn’t help it. She shot a smug grin at Jones, who looked ready to explode.
And then all hell broke out.
Jones rushed her, something Paisley was unprepared for. She knew just how physical a basketball game could be. Most sports fans believed football, with all its hard hits and tackling, was the roughest American sport. She would love for those casual, armchair fans to play in one professional basketball game and suffer the elbows to ribs and temples alike. She knew some players played dirtier than others, but this rookie caught her off-guard, especially because Paisley didn’t even have the ball and the play was already over.
Just as Nikki Jones reached her, Paisley threw up an arm to protect herself, but Jones shoved her. Hard. Somehow, Paisley managed to keep her balance, stumbling back several steps. As the Aces fans jeered, she turned to see if the closest ref had witnessed the attack the entire arena had seen.
That’s when it went from bad to brutal.
Suddenly, Paisley was hit in her back, completely caught off-guard by the hands that slammed into her. The unexpected blow caused her to pitch forward. She fell to the court, both knees slamming the hard surface. Immediately, she knew something terrible had happened by the pain reverberating through her. Then someone was on her back, as if they were in a wrestling match, and a free-for-all brawl broke out on the court. She found herself buried, a pile of players atop her. By the time the weight of the others had been lifted from her, Paisley knew she was in serious trouble.
Lisa and Rashida lifted her to her feet, ready to help her back to the bench. The refs were ordering teams to opposite ends of the court as fans howled in displeasure. But Paisley couldn’t even manage a single step. She cried out, a loud gasp escaping her lips. Sagging, her teammates threw her arms around their shoulders and carried her off the court. While she finally was able to put weight on her left foot, her right knee screamed in agony.
The trio reached the Aces bench, and as tears filled her eyes, she shook her head at Armstrong.
“I’m in trouble,” she got out, biting back a scream because the pain was now magnified, radiating through her.
Her knee throbbed viciously. A wheelchair was brought, and Paisley was settled into it. She found she couldn’t even bend her knee and had to flex her foot, keeping the leg stiff as she was rolled away and taken immediately to the medical facility within the arena.
Everything after that became a blur.
An hour later, she had been taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital. The Aces team doctor had accompanied her, and she now listened to the head of the emergency room and a surgeon as they gave her the bad news. Through her haze of pain, Paisley understood that she had a fractured patella.
Dr. Patel, the ER guy, said, “This is an uncommon injury, Paisley. Only one percent of athletes’ knee injuries involves a fractured patella. Basically, this is a break in your kneecap, which is a small, flat bone which covers your knee joint and protects it, like a shield. Any fracture impacts your ability to bend your knee.”
He whipped out a pad and pen and began sketching to help her understand. All the while, the gnawing pain made it hard to concentrate on what he said.
“You have quadriceps and a patellar tendon that attach to your patella,” he told her. “This is how you can flex and extend your knee. The knee is covered with cartilage, and that acts as a cushion for your knee joint. The X-rays showed your excess swelling is from the hemarthrosis. Blood from the broken bone pieces which have collected in the knee joint.”
Dr. Patel smiled sympathetically at her. “I’m going to hand it over to Dr. Sinclair now. He’s in charge of your case now. I wish you a speedy recovery, Paisley.”
She couldn’t even muster the strength to say goodbye and turned to the surgeon. “What now?”
“We also had a CT scan done to help define the type of fracture you suffered,” Dr. Sinclair told her. “Your injury is called a comminuted patella fracture. Unlike a transverse one, where the patella breaks into two pieces, a comminuted is where your kneecap has shattered into three or more pieces. I won’t know if it’s stable or unstable until I open you up and take a look. If it’s unstable, some of the bone pieces might be too small to reconnect. If that’s the case, then I’ll remove them and work with what I have.”
Dully, she said, “So, I’m having surgery.”
“Right away. I’ll also clean up any cartilage damage that I find, but I need to warn you that there’s a strong possibility of post-traumatic arthritis.”
He shook his head, empathy in his eyes. “Your recovery will be long. Slow. Painful. But I’ve followed your career. You’re a dedicated, disciplined athlete. My gut tells me that you’ll do whatever it takes so that you’re able to walk again.”
His words were like a knife to her heart. If walking again was the goal, then she was really up a creek.
“I’ll have the surgery then.”
Papers were brought for her to sign. In the midst of it, she asked if the Aces had won the game.
The team doctor, who had remained with her, said, “Yes. But the game was called after the brawl. Since we were ahead, we’ll move on to the playoffs.”
“And Nikki Jones?” Paisley asked, not bothering to contain the bitterness in her voice.
“She’s been suspended indefinitely for her actions against you. The league’s brass plan to conduct an in-depth investigation into the incident.”
Jones may have been suspended, and she would most likely have to pay a hefty fine, but she would go on to play.
Paisley never would again.
She had been lucky her entire playing career. She’d suffered a few ankle sprains. A stress fracture in her left foot, which had healed during an off-season. A nagging case of plantar fasciitis had occurred in her right heel, but she had done PT for it. Even three years later, she continued doing the set of exercises the therapist had given her to perform each morning after she got out of bed to keep it at bay.
But she had never experienced serious injuries. No ACL tears. No hip, thigh, or wrist ailments. The fact that she could not bend her knee now let her know how bad her injury was, especially with Dr. Sinclair talking about the end goal was for her to be able to walk again.
A nurse came by and notified Paisley that she would be taken to the operating room in the next ten minutes.
Dr. Sinclair appeared again. “I know you have a few minutes to process things. Do you have any questions for me?
“What is the recovery time for a patella fracture?” she asked neutrally.
The surgeon’s face gave away more than she wanted to know, and he said, “Usually three to six months. Of course, it depends upon the severity of the injury. As I mentioned, I’ll know more once I get inside and clean things up and do the necessary repairs.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry, Paisley. Once you’re out of recovery and have a good night’s sleep under your belt, we’ll talk again.”
It was already September. Six months from now, TEAM USA women’s basketball roster would be announced. Paisley knew she wouldn’t be named as a player—and that thought sapped her spirits.
Even though she had already determined the answer, she asked, “Will I be able to come back from this injury, Dr. Sinclair? Play with the Aces again?’
“I don’t like to make predictions before surgery,” he told her. “I’ll be blunt, though, Paisley. At your age—and with the wear and tear on your knees after playing basketball for two decades—I would say the possibility of playing at the professional level again won’t occur. I know you’re a competitor and want to come back from this injury. Even in the best of circumstances, your mobility is going to be limited. You won’t be able to play world-class basketball anymore.”
She nodded, desperation seeping through her every pore. “Thanks for your honesty, Dr. Sinclair. Do you really think I’ll be able to walk normally again?”
“Absolutely. I guarantee it. It’s going to take a helluva lot of PT—and dedication on your part—but you’ll be able to live a normal life. It won’t be one running up and down a court because your knee will not be able to take that severe pounding, but you’ll be able to walk. Work out. Live a fairly active life.”
A shadow crossed his face. “It just won’t unfold on the basketball court. For that, I’m truly sorry.”
“I understand,” she said, despondency washing through her. “Let’s go get this done.”
Paisley saved her tears. She could hold a pity party when she was alone.
Hours later, she woke up in a hospital room, feeling a little sluggish. She vaguely remembered being in a post-op recovery room, coming in and out of consciousness, but she had charge of her faculties now. She noted the sunlight streaming through the window and knew it had to be the next day.
A nurse greeted her. “Good morning, Paisley. How are you feeling?” she asked brightly.
“Like a truck ran over me. Multiple times,” she admitted.
“I’ll go get Dr. Sinclair. He wanted to know the minute you were awake.”
The nurse returned with the surgeon a few minutes later.
“Everything was successful. I was able to make the repairs needed and only had to remove two bone fragments which were too small to be reattached.”
He told her how long she would be in the hospital and that he had already contacted a physical therapist who specialized in sports injuries, especially those to the knee.
“Rodney is going to take excellent care of you, Paisley. You’re going to come through this.”
He looked at her with kind eyes. “I also hope that you’ll be willing to see a mental health specialist. It’s going to be a lot, the physical exertion of rehab. What may be even tougher for you, though, is adjusting mentally and emotionally to your situation. I know how passionate you’ve been your entire life about basketball. It’s going to be a difficult adjustment to living a life off the court. I hope you will let me recommend someone specializing in talk therapy.”
Paisley knew he was right. The life she had led up until this point would be very different from the one which followed.
Nodding, she said, “Give me the name. I realize I’m going to need all the help I can get, Dr. Sinclair.”
The nurse returned. “Paisley has a waiting room full of coaches and teammates, Dr. Sinclair. What should I tell them?”
He looked to her. “You don’t have to see anyone now. You’re barely awake after major surgery.”
She knew this would most likely be the last time all these people would be gathered to see her. They would be practicing and then playing in playoff games around the country. Once the season ended, her teammates would scatter to various places, some heading to their homes in other states, while others would be going to play in Europe’s women’s basketball league, where the pay was much better than in the US. It was her last chance to say a proper goodbye to the family she loved and the sport which was in her blood.
“No, have them come in. All of them. But only let them stay a few minutes before you chase them out.”
Dr. Sinclair said, “I’ll go tell them they can stay ten minutes.”
The nurse helped place more pillows behind her and then raised the bed so that Paisley was sitting up.
“I’m Peggy. I’ll be taking care of you this shift. And I’m a pit bull when it comes to sending visitors on their way. I’ve followed your career since you were in college. I played basketball myself back in the day. AAU and high school, but I still love the game. You’ve been a great role model for girls. I won’t lie to you, Paisley. You’re in for a rough rehab, but if anyone can do it, it’s you. You’re physically and mentally tough.”
Peggy touched her hand to Paisley’s shoulder and squeezed. “And I’m Team Paisley all the way.”
The door opened, a flood of people entering the room. She saw the looks on the faces of her teammates. Hopeful. Worried. She glanced to the head coach and shook her head. Armstrong nodded to her in return.
Everyone crowded about the bed, wanting to hold her hand and wish her well, saying they were dedicating the remainder of their season to her.
She told them, “It took a lot of guts to claim yesterday’s victory over the Hurricanes. If you can do that, you can do anything,” she said. “And I’m going to be cheering you on all the way to the WNBA finals. Bring home that championship for me.”
The room erupted in cheers, and then Peggy shepherded everyone out.
When the last person had left, the nurse returned to Paisley’s side. “I know you’re probably still a bit groggy. You need to get some sleep now. Rest is restorative.”
The nurse left the room, leaving Paisley all alone. With all her teammates and coaches now gone, she finally gave in, hot tears spilling down her cheeks.
Paisley hoped she had the strength for what lay ahead as she moved toward the next chapter in her life.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
