It’s Sunday afternoon, and we drove a town over to a busted public park so the college captain could sneak in a game without half the student body watching. I figured we’d talk, maybe find some shady coffee shop. Instead, he brought me here.
“You gonna stand there like you’re scared of the paint, or you actually playing?” he calls.
“I’m pacing myself,” I shoot back, jogging toward him. “You’re the one who said you didn’t want this to count toward your stats.”
A flicker of a smile curves his mouth. He bounces the ball once, hard enough that it smacks into my palm when I stick my hand out. “Check.”
I’ve seen him on TV. In posters. On campus banners. But seeing him here, in a faded hoodie and sweats, his hair messy,his shoulders loose—it’s different. It’s him without the polish, without the crowd.
I dribble clumsily, and he doesn’t even pretend not to laugh.
“Shut up,” I mutter, charging toward the hoop. He shadows me so easily it’s embarrassing, then slaps the ball free with two fingers. “That’s illegal.”
“That’s defense.” He spins, drives toward the other basket, and sinks the layup without breaking a sweat.
I hate him. I love him. I hate that I love watching him like this.
We play for half an hour, maybe more, until my lungs are clawing for air and sweat chills under my shirt. He never goes full tilt, not with me, but he doesn’t baby me either. I get a couple of shots past him. He lets me think I’ve earned them.
Finally we collapse on the curb, passing the ball back and forth between our legs. My thighs burn, my chest heaves, but I can’t stop grinning.
“You’re a menace,” I say.
“And you’re a liability,” he counters, but his voice is lighter than I’m used to hearing. No pressure, no captaincy, just Ollie being… twenty-one.
The ball rests between my feet. I glance sideways at him. “So. How many teams?”
His head jerks. “What?”
“You’ve had scouts at your games, right? Don’t play dumb.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. The sun’s dropping behind the chain-link, painting everything in rust and gold. “Coach says the Warhawks were in the stands last week. Pelicans too. Couple of East Coast teams sniffing around. Eagles were one of them.”
My jaw drops. “You’re just saying that like it’s no big deal?”
“Itisa big deal,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”
I nudge his knee with mine. “Sounds like the dream to me.”
“Yeah, well, dreams come with strings. One wrong step, one bad month, one injury—poof.” He snaps his fingers. “Gone.”
There’s a sharpness in his voice, like he’s arguing with himself more than me.
“Broken strings,” I mumble. “Still better than never getting the shot.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze is on the cracked asphalt, the ball rolling slightly between us. “Maybe,” he says finally. “But it means they’re watching. Every game. Every move. And I can’t—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.
I wait, but he doesn’t finish.
His shoulders stiffen. “They want to know what I’m doing this summer. My parents. My dad’s already talking about me working at the company, shadowing him, shaking hands, like it’s a foregone conclusion. My mom’s talking about banquets and fundraisers, making sure I’m visible.” He exhales hard, like the weight’s pressing down already. “They want a plan. Certainty. And I can’t give them that—not when I don’t even know where I’ll be after March.”
I could push. Instead, I lean back on my elbows, staring up at the washed-out sky. “You don’t have to give me certainty either,” I tell him. “Just—if you want me in the stands, I’ll be there. That’s it.”
The silence stretches. I think maybe I’ve said too much. But then his hand comes down on my wrist—warm, firm, and grounding.
When I meet his eyes, it’s like standing too close to a speaker stack: overwhelming, vibrating straight through me. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t need to. That touch says enough.
We sit there until the shadows lengthen, until the air goes sharp with evening chill. He finally pushes himself up, brushing grit from his palms. “You hungry?”
