The woman began walking across the court.
Heels echoed against cracked pavement. Her long, pale blonde hair swayed behind her and every movement of her hips came with a hypnotic rhythm that broke the court's air.
Her figure was absurd, not the sculpted, hard fitness of a Breakball player, but something older, juicier, mature.
Her curves jiggled slightly with every step, the sway of her generous chest barely contained beneath her blouse. Tight black pants hugged thighs that could crush egos, and her coat fluttered around her like the cape of a villainess. She wasn't built like the girls who played here, she was built like the reason they lost.
The teens unconsciously parted like a tide, letting her pass. Eyes wide, mouths closed.
She glanced left and right. For each player she passed, her gaze flicked down, scanned, then filed away.
"Quad dominance with no ankle support," she murmured, passing a tall boy with too-short socks. "Sprain risk in two weeks."
