Like it matters.
And it does.
I’m adjusting in my seat when I feel eyes on me.
I glance down at my chest.
Right. The shirt.
A guy two rows up reads it, laughs, then elbows his friend. “Bro, that’s bold.”
I mutter under my breath, “Fuck me,” and rub the back of my neck like I can somehow erase myself.
“LOGAN BROOKS!”
The shout comes from the floor.
I look down.
Jade is standing near the bench, hands cupped around her mouth like she’s in the student section, not on the team.
Blakely is beside her, arms crossed, expression calm—until she smirks.
Jade points at my shirt and yells, “WE SEE YOU!”
A couple of people turn.
Heat crawls up my neck.
I lift a hand, half wave, half plea for mercy.
Jade starts catcalling. Actual catcalling.
“THAT’S OUR MAN!”
Blakely adds, deadpan but loud enough, “Respectfully…nice shirt.”
Jade cackles. “Respectfully, we love you!”
I sink lower in my seat, face burning. “I hate them,” I mutter.
Someone behind me laughs. “Dude, you’re famous.”
“Unfortunately,” I whisper.
Then Sloane runs out for warmups.
She’s focused, ponytail swinging, jaw set. She dribbles hard, takes a jump shot, sinks it clean.
Then she glances toward the stands.
Her gaze lands on me.
On the shirt.
Her expression freezes for half a second.
Then—so fast I almost miss it—her mouth twitches.
