My fists clench at my sides. I roll my shoulders, force my breathing to even out, but it doesn’t help. Because I saw it—he took a selfie with her. Posted it. Tagged it.Claimed it.
And she let him.
“Yo,” Tristan claps me on the back. “Forget it. Eyes on the prize, King.”
Xavier nods from the other side, spinning his basketball in his palm. “Yeah, man. Let Kavanaugh play boyfriend on the sidelines. You’ve got a season to dominate.”
I nod, but I’m barely hearing them. My jaw tics as I watch her lean in, whisper something in Kannon’s ear that makes himlaugh. She’s glowing. Lit from within like someone finally turned her switch back on—and the worst part? It wasn’t me.
The gym erupts with cheers as our names flash across the digital scoreboard, fog machines hissing out smoke like we’re entering an NBA playoff game instead of a preppy varsity opener.
“Number 11, Leo Holt!”
The announcer’s voice is loud, but not louder than the blood rushing through my ears. I step onto the court like a storm barely held in check, the air electric around me. The girls scream louder. I swear someone tosses white flowers down from the bleachers like I’m some kind of royal being knighted.
But my eyes—my damn traitorous eyes—go right back to her.
She doesn’t look away.
She bites her lip.
AndI knowshe remembers. The way those muscles feel under her hands. The way I used to press my mouth to her throat and make her forget the whole world. She remembers. I can see it in the way she shifts in her seat, uncomfortable, maybe even aroused.
But then she blinks, looks back at Kannon, and laughs again.
I miss the first pass in warmups. Ball slips right past me and skids across the polished court.
“Bruh,” Xavier says under his breath, jogging after it. “You’re gonna throw this game if you don’t pull your head outta your?—”
“I’m good,” I growl.
But I’m not. I’m gonna torch this court. Rip through defenders like they’re paper dolls. And every point I score tonight? It's for her.
Even if she’s smiling at the wrong damn player.
Tonight, I remind her who the real king is.
The gym is vibrating.
Lights flashing, beats dropping—some Travis Scott remix shakes the walls. It’s chaos and worship rolled into one, and I feed off it like oxygen.
But I don’t see the scouts sitting up in the high seats with their notepads and lanyards and university polos.
I don’t care about the D1 offers or the draft watchlists or the two guys from ESPN filming reels for the “Future Faces” special.
I only see her.
Jade.
She’s leaning back now, arms crossed, trying to act chill. But she’s watching me. I know it. Every time I look up from the court, our eyes catch, and she flinches—like my stare singes.
Good.
Let it burn.
Let her remember who I am. Who Iwasto her.
The whistle shrieks and the ball is tipped, and I go off like a lit match.
