Marcus puts on his best thinking face. “Nice is good. Hot is better. Do you think she’s hot?”
I laugh, even though I don’t mean to. “Can we not do this right now?”
But Marcus won’t drop it. “You gonna ask her to the game this weekend?”
I stare at my ankle tape. “What, like a date?”
He shrugs. “Dude, you gotta live a little. You’re allowed.”
I don’t answer, because I don’t want to lie. Instead, I think about it, and for the first time, it doesn’t seem impossible.
The rest of the guys trickle into the locker room, and with each arrival, the energy in the room ramps up. I throw on my jersey, pull my hair back with a headband, and try to keep my face neutral as I follow the guys out onto the court.
Just focus. Forget about the meme for a while.
But Ican’t.
Coach starts with a speech as we line up. He does this thing where he paces the hardwood, talking slow and low, shaking his head. “Comets are about discipline. About focus. About trust in your guys.” His eyes do a sweep of the room and land on me for just a beat too long. “You play for each other, or you don’t play at all.”
All the guys get pretty hyped, and I have to admit, I’m feeling it, too. Even as we start running suicides, I feel stronger and more agile than ever.
It’s probably just the speech. Definitely not the meme.
My legs are burning, my chest feels tight, but I don’t care. The endorphins are hitting differently today.
And I’m loving it.
We move into a full-court scrimmage, and the teams get picked, just like in grade school. I’m blue, Marcus is white. I take my spot on the wing as the ball gets checked in, bouncing once against the hardwood before the whistle cuts through the gym.
I settle in.
The game slows down the way it does when I’m locked in. I stay wide, spacing the floor, cutting hard when my defender turns his head. Passes hit my hands in rhythm. I swing the ball without forcing anything, relocate to the corner, then flare back out to the arc.
“Hot hands—hit him!” Marcus shouts. “I’m coming for you, Texas!”
I hear him, feel the pressure when he switches onto me, but I don’t rush. I jab, drive two steps, kick it back out, then slide along the perimeter. When the ball comes back to me, I rise into a clean jumper.
Nothing but net.
“Somebody ate their Wheaties today,” Marcus calls, clapping as a few guys laugh.
Coach doesn’t say much—he never does—but I catch him watching from the sideline, eyes sharp, giving a small nod like he’s filing something away. It feels good to finally click with the Comets. To stop feeling like I’m trying to prove I belong.
Midway through the next run, I read a lazy pass and jump the lane. The ball pops loose, and I’m off in transition, sprinting to the right side. Marcus is chasing, closing fast.
Most guys would slow it down, pull up for the safe finish.
I don’t.
I take my gather in stride and go up strong, throwing it down with one hand. The rim rattles, the net snaps, and the sound echoes through the gym. For a split second, everything freezes—then the bench erupts. Even the other team is clapping.
I land clean, already backpedaling.
Marcus jogs up, hands on his hips, shaking his head. “Texas,” he says, half-grinning. “You’ve got some fire in you today. I’m shocked. You’re finally playing like I knew you could.”
I just nod, breath steady now.
Yeah.
