Today I’m on autopilot.
My body knows what to do.
Drive. Pivot. Shoot.
Run the play.
Call the shot.
But every time I jump for a layup, I’m seeing her.
Jade sprinting down the soccer field.
Jade flipping her hair back and laughing.
Jade staring into the camera talking about grit and scars like she’s reading from my soul.
I brick a free throw.
Coach blows the whistle. “Holt! What the hell was that?”
“Sorry, Coach.”
“Be sorry by not sucking.”
I reset. Shoot again. It goes in this time.
But it doesn’t feel like a win.
Scrimmage starts. X is on my team. Tristan’s on the opposing side being a menace, as usual. The gym smells like rubber and sweat and the faint, permanent scent of old popcorn from concession stands.
I go hard.
Partially because I love the game.
Mostly because I need to burn something out of my system before I go nuclear.
By the end, my shirt is plastered to my back, my lungs are on fire, and Coach still looks like he’s trying to decide whether I’m his star or his problem.
“Hit the showers,” he says finally.
In the locker room, steam curls around us. The guys are talking about Jade — of course they are.
Not loudly. Not where they think I can hear. But I do.
“…did you see that second video?—”
“…she turned down six figures, bro?—”
“…my sister said she’s like, an icon now…”
“…lowkey, I’d ask her out if Leo didn’t…”
I slam my locker a little too hard. I’m crashing out.
X appears at my elbow, towel slung over his shoulder. Tristan slides in on the other side, still dripping, hair a mess.
“You good?” X asks.
