We don’t touch—nothing obvious, anyway—but when I stop beside her, our shoulders brush. Her pinky sneaks into mine for half a second before she pulls away. Our little secret.
“You seeing this?” she murmurs, eyes scanning the crowd.
“I am,” I reply. “I think half the town canceled their Friday plans.”
She looks to the kids, proud and happy. “They deserve it.”
The other team arrives a few minutes later. Kids are piling out of vans, nerves and excitement written all over their faces, some cheeks still red from the warm August day. They’re from a town about forty-five minutes away, close enough to be familiar, far enough to make this feel like arealtournament game.
When the opposing team is all together, putting their shoes on, I go and introduce myself. Since the photo leaked, there have been more photos of me in Golden Harbor making their rounds. Things like me walking on the beach with Sadie, us at Cherry Pit, just living our normal life.
Anyone who cares knows I’m in Golden Harbor. I wanted to wish the other team luck but also saw some of them pointing at me, like they knew who I was, so I thought I’d go and make their day.
After I’m done saying hi, wishing them luck, and even taking a few photos, it’s time to get going. Warm ups start. Whistles blow. Sneakers squeak against the court.
And then the game is on.
From the opening tip, it’s clear both teams came ready. Passes are crisp. Defense is tight. The kids dig deep in that way only kids can—no pacing themselves, no holding back. Just heart and hustle and the kind of effort that leaves nothing on the floor. They’ll be getting good sleep tonight.
The score stays close the entire first half. Every basket gets a cheer like it’s the winning shot. I find myself clapping until my hands sting, shouting encouragement until my voice goes hoarse.
I’m so damn proud I can barely contain it.
Then it happens.
Late in the second quarter, one of the boys from the other team—a small kid with bright red shoes—gets the ball on a fast break. He trips over his own feet going up for the layup. The ball bounces off the rim, straight into the hands of one of our players, who takes off the other direction.
The kid freezes. Some of the kids, and even parents, snicker.
He doesn’t chase. Doesn’t turn. He stops in the middle of the court and brings both hands up to his face, covering his eyes like if he can’t see anyone, no one can see him.
My chest tightens.
He’s supposed to get back on defense, but he can’t. He’s shaking his head, shoulders hunched, standing there while the game moves around him.
I get the ref's attention and call a timeout.
Both teams jog to their benches, water bottles already being shoved into hands. While the other coaches start talking, I jog back out onto the court. The kid’s still there.
“Hey,” I say gently, crouching in front of him. “Sweet shoes.”
He peeks at me through his fingers, eyes wet and furious with himself.
“I messed up,” he blurts. “Everyone saw. I’m so stupid.”
My heart cracks a little.
“You know what I saw?” I ask.
He sniffs. “What?”
“I saw a kid who hustled down the court faster than anyone else. I saw courage.”
He frowns, processing that.
“The important part,” I continue, keeping my voice calm and steady, “is what you doafter the fall. You don’t stop playing. You don’t hide. You keep going. Because you’re more than one play. Right?”
His hands lower slowly.
