Not a smile.
But close.
She looks away immediately, like she didn’t just almost soften in public.
My pulse kicks up anyway.
Okay.
We’re doing that.
The game starts.
I’m not going to pretend I’m a basketball expert, but I know pressure. I know momentum. I know what it looks like when someone is carrying a team on their back because there’s nowhere else to put the weight.
Sloane moves like she’s on a mission.
She calls plays with authority, directs traffic, cuts through defenders like she’s trying to outrun her own fear.
Every time she drives the lane, my stomach tightens.
Not because I think she’ll miss.
Because I’m watching her body take hits, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of how quickly things can be taken away.
The other team plays physical.
They’re hungry.
They know this could end our season.
Midway through the second quarter, Sloane takes a hard foul.
She hits the floor.
My heart stops.
She pops right back up like she’s made of steel.
But I see it—the flash in her eyes when she glances toward the stands again.
She’s looking for Pops.
Even when she pretends she isn’t.
I pull out my phone and text Pops without thinking.
she’s looking for you. i’m in your seat. she’s killing it.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Pops: Tell her I’m watching if you get a chance. And tell Jade to stop yelling before she gets a technical.
I huff a laugh, tight in my throat.
I type back:
can’t. she’s feral.
