Drew elbows me in the ribs. “You’re sweating.”
“It’s hot in here,” I say.
“It’s forty-eight degrees outside, the AC’s pumping in here, and you’re in a leather jacket,” he says. “You’re sweating because Captain Discipline looked up and saw your face.”
I flip him off without looking. The student band crashes into another fight song, and the cheer squad launches someone into the air like physics is a rumor. Around us, fans chew popcorn, scroll on their phones, shout to friends across aisles. A guy behind us argues about stats he definitely does not understand. A dad explains pick-and-roll to a kid who looks like he’d rather be home playing his PlayStation.
The teams jog back out, and the noise resets from social to feral. I try to play it cool, slouch into my seat, but inside I’m atight wire. I want that look again. I want to know if it was a fluke, if he’ll pretend he didn’t see me, if he’ll pretendI’mthe fluke.
The whistle shrieks. The second half snaps open like a trap.
I learn quickly that this game is a pendulum. We’re up, we’re down, we’re up again. Every possession is a small drama, the crowd’s breath pulled tight and then released in waves. The visiting team is fast and mean; their point guard talks constant trash. One of our forwards snarls back and gets whistled for something that makes the student section boo like they paid for it.
“How is that a foul?” I demand, pointing. “They do the same shit every time.”
Drew shrugs. “Reffing is jazz. You just pretend it makes sense.”
I groan. “I hate you.”
But then Ollie calls something I can’t hear, and the whole team seems to shift one square forward on some invisible chessboard. Suddenly our shooters shake free in the corners, the ball whips around like it’s attached to a rail, and the shot drops pure. The place detonates. I’m on my feet with everyone else, yelling like I know what I’m doing.
“That was pretty,” Drew admits around a mouthful of pretzel. “He’s running them.”
“He’s conducting,” I say before I can stop myself.
Drew looks at me with a grin that saysyou’re doomed, but he lets it go. For now.
A time-out. Players clump around clipboards. The pep band bangs the snare in a cadence that worms into my spine. I find him—always him—at the edge of the huddle. Even with the towel around his neck and guys taller and wider flanking him, he’s the axis. He’s not barking. He’s choosing. I can see it in the way he watches, the way his hand cuts a short, precise line to send a teammate where he wants him.
I get it. The control. The quiet. The cost.
We come out of the time-out, and the other team throws a press at us that makes the crowd hiss like a kettle. Our guard nearly smacks the ball into the front row. Ollie flashes to the middle, grabs it strong, pivots once—clean, controlled—then fires a pass cross-court that makes my chest pop like a snare hit when it lands in the shooter’s hands. Net. The building lifts. I’m yelling without meaning to. It turns out this ridiculous sport is just timing and violence and math, and when it all lines up, it feels like music.
“Rumor number two,” Drew says. “He doesn’t party. Like, ever. Shows up for the photo ops, leaves before the second beer.”
I snort. “Shocking.”
“And his mom’s some charity queen who expects him at the fancy dinners.”
“Yeah, I saw the photos,” I say, then clamp my mouth shut before I admit to the late-night scroll.
Drew smirks. “You’re in deep.”
“I’m writing a song.”
“Uh-huh.”
The scoreboard ticks and lurches. The visiting team’s star gets hot and starts yamming jumpers that make our student section howl. A kid two rows down screams, “You suck,” at the ref like he’s auditioning for a lifetime ban. It’s close enough that every mistake feels fatal. Every time Ollie touches the ball, the noise shifts; people lean in. I do, too, without meaning to, like my body’s learned to track his orbit.
With three minutes left, tie game, he drives hard on a switch, takes a body to the chest, and still finishes off the glass. I swear I feel the hit through my ribs. He lands, grimaces—tiny, fast—and runs back like his legs are machines someone forgot to turn off. The other coach loses his mind on the sideline. Our student section turns feral. My heart speeds so violently I have to bracemy hand on the seat in front of me and breathe like I’m about to go onstage.
“You okay there, Romeo?” Drew says, gleeful.
“Shut up,” I say, but my voice comes out thin.
Tie again with ninety seconds left. The building is one giant throat clearing, breath held. Our possession. Shot clock low. The ball cycles, dies. It finds Ollie with five to go. He’s thirty feet out, which is apparently stupid. He measures. The crowd rises without knowing why. He steps into it and lets it fly.
Time does that thing music does when everything is perfect: It slows, it sharpens, it shines. I swear I hear the tick of the clock behind the canned pop pumping through the rafters, hear Drewnotbreathing next to me, hear the smear of a child’s laugh somewhere behind us like a ghost of normal life. The ball kisses nothing but net.
