"What the FUCK, Milo!"
"Great, you're up." He tosses the can into my recycling bin with a perfect arc. "Now you have to shower. Might as well get ready for the game while you're at it."
I'm sputtering and soaked and furious and Quentin is still laughing. "I hate you," I tell him, peeling the wet shirt off over my head. "I hate you and I hate your brother and I hate that you're right and I'm going to remember this Dr Pepper for the rest of my life."
"Love you too," Milo sing-songs. "Shower. Ten minutes. Quentin and I will be in the hall."
EASTON
IseeKitinthe stands during warmups and my chest cracks open right there on the court. He's sitting in the middle of the bleachers with Milo on one side and Quentin on the other, the Omega wearing the same oversized hoodie he wore to my room every night for a week before I ruined everything by touching his arm in a hallway like I'd earned the right.
He's here.After four days of silence and unreturned texts and me staring at my phone during practice like a pathetic lovesick idiot, Kit Peralta is sitting in my gym watching me warm up.
Devon passes me the ball and I fumble it so badly it bounces off my shin and rolls toward the scorer's table. Marcus catches it and tosses it back. "Head in the game, East."
I nod and sink a warmup jumper that hits the back rim and bounces out. Devon jogs past me and picks up the rebound, spinning it back to me without comment, but his eyes linger a second too long.
The game starts and I am worse than I have ever been on a basketball court. The opposing team's point guard blows past me on the first possession because I'm a half-step late on the rotation, my feet stuck while my brain keeps drifting to the bleachers. Their shooting guard catches the kick-out and drains a three before I've even turned around.
"Cole, rotate!" Coach shouts from the sideline, smacking his clipboard against his thigh.
We give up two more baskets in ninety seconds. The opposing crowd picks up energy while ours goes quiet, that uneasy silence of a home team watching something go wrong. Coach calls timeout and gets in my face before I've even reached the huddle, his finger jabbing the air between us.
"Whatever this is, you leave it in the tunnel. I don't care if your house is on fire. When you're on my court you play my game. Are we clear?"
"Yes, Coach."
"Then act like it."
Devon hands me a water bottle as we break the huddle, his voice low enough that the rest of the guys don't hear. "You see him up there?"
He doesn't have to say who. "Yeah."
"Then either use it or put it away, because right now you're doing neither and it's killing us."
Second quarter I miss a wide-open three that I've hit a thousand times in practice, the ball clanging off the front rim so hard it bounces back to half court. Devon snags it and drives the lane himself, finishing with a layup and pointing at me as he runs back on defense. He’s not angry, more like a reminder that he's carrying what I'm dropping and he can't do it all night.
On the next possession Marcus feeds me the ball at the elbow and I pump-fake, drive the baseline, and get my shot swatted into the third row by a center who had no business getting there.Marcus pulls up beside me on the jog back. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
"Nothing. I'm just off."
"You're not off. Off is missing a couple jumpers. This is something else." He glances toward the stands and back. "Is this about Thursday? The hallway thing?"
"Marcus, drop it."
"I'm trying to help you."
"Help me by getting open."
On the next defensive possession I lose my man on a back-door cut and he gets an easy layup that puts us down twelve. The crowd groans and I can feel Kit's eyes on me from the bleachers, the weight of his gaze pressing between my shoulder blades, and knowing he's watching me fall apart makes every mistake louder.
I drive the lane on the next possession and get stripped by a guard six inches shorter than me, the ball bouncing off my knee and out of bounds. Our bench groans. Coach's clipboard hits the chair beside him with a crack that echoes through the gym.
On the next play I set a screen and forget to roll, standing flat-footed while Devon tries to find someone who's actually moving, and by the time I realize my mistake the shot clock is at three and Marcus has to throw up a contested fadeaway that misses everything.
Coach calls my name before the ball is even dead. "Cole. Out."
I walk to the bench with my head down and sit at the end, away from the assistant coaches, and away from the guys waiting to sub in. My towel goes over my head and I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and stare at the floor between my feet.
