Coach had set up a meet and greet for me at this youth rec center wedged between a shuttered pawn shop and a liquor store. He said something about public relations and putting a good face on the University's athletic department, but to me, it felt more personal than that. As if he’s chosen me specifically for this.
The building was beat-up, graffiti layered with history on the brick, but it was buzzing with life. Inside was no better. The air smelled of Gatorade and old rubber. The lights flickered, half of them gone. The court floor had been patched with duct tape like a wound that refused to close.
But the noise—God, the noise was alive. Kids everywhere, yelling, laughing, throwing elbows, and foam balls. The sound ricocheted off the high ceiling and straight through me.
A volunteer waved us in. “Help yourselves. Pick a corner.”
Tru drifted toward the craft tables, already roped in by a girl with neon pipe cleaners braided into her hair. I hung back, scanning the court. There was one kid—tall, awkward, maybe twelve—hovering near the edge like he didn’t know if he was invited. Hair in his face, shoulders caved in like he was trying to disappear.
The ball skidded toward him, and he fumbled it.
“Ugh, again?” one of the louder boys groaned. “Why’d you even pick him?”
“He never passes,” another muttered. “Just eats up court space.”
The kid’s face fell. His gaze dropped to his sneakers.
Before I could think, I stepped onto the court. “Yo,” I called, clapping my hands once. “You guys got teams or what?”
A few of them nodded. The loudmouth jerked his chin at the quieter side. “We’re winning. You can play withthem.”
“Cool,” I said, dropping my bag by the wall. “What’s your name?”
The kid stared at me, like he wasn’t sure if it was a trick.
“I’m Dare,” I said. “You?”
“Jamil.”
“Right on. You and me, Jamil.” I grinned and tossed him the ball. “Let’s show’em how it’s done.”
He blinked, caught off guard, but when the game started again, something in him clicked. We ran. Passed. Missed. Laughed. I cheered him on as if he were an all-star. He tripped once. Fumbled twice. But then—he shot. A quick jumper from the side, uncertain, like he didn’t expect it to land.
And itdid.
The whole gym erupted. Not because it was a miracle shot. Because it washis.
I whooped so loud my throat burned. “LET’S GO, SHOOTER!”
By the end of the next round, everyone was calling him that. They were high-fiving him. He was laughing, chest out, shoulders back. I felt something burst open inside me, loud and fierce and unstoppable. My pulse wouldn’t settle. My lungs felt too full.
This.
This was what it was supposed to feel like. Not just thegame. Not the win. The way he looked when someone finallybelievedin him.
It wasn’t about playing anymore. It was about building. Holding space. Making room for kids like him to stop apologizing for being alive.
I didn’t justcareabout it—Iachedfor it.
That’s when I felt a warm breath on my ear.
“Was that... you being humble?” Tru murmured, voice soft but teasing.
I smirked, still catching my breath. “You saw that layup. I’m practically a saint.”
He snorted. “You were good with him.”
I turned toward him. The noise of the gym faded for a second. “He reminded me of someone.”
