Stay present.
It sounds easy.
It isn’t.
The opening tip goes up, and we win it clean. The ball is ours, and the first possession is supposed to settle me. I run the set. I cut. I get open on the wing. The pass comes fast and sharp, right into my hands.
It should be automatic. I hesitate anyway. Just a fraction too long.
The defender closes the gap. I adjust late. The shot comes off awkward, a rushed release that clips the front rim and dies.
The crowd groans.
I jog back on defense with my jaw clenched, trying to swallow the embarrassment before it becomes something bigger.
“You’re fine,” Marco calls, reading my face. “Next one.”
I tell myself that too. Next one.
The other team pushes pace early, trying to rattle us. They hit a three in transition. Our coach barks from the sideline, voice cutting through the noise. “Match up! Talk!”
I talk. I point. I rotate.
It still feels like I’m moving half a beat behind the game. The ball comes back to me on the next offensive trip. I drive baseline. The lane collapses. I see the kick-out to the corner, wide open.
I fire the pass and it sails. Just slightly too high, too far. The guy in the corner jumps for it, fingertips grazing leather, but it hits the sideline and bounces out of bounds.
Turnover.
Our fans make that collective sound, frustration swelling. I stop at the top of the key for a second longer than I should, staring at my hands like they betrayed me.
Marco grabs my elbow as we jog back. “Hey,” he says sharply. “Eyes up.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. My pulse is loud in my ears.
I glance toward the stands again without meaning to. Rafe hasn’t moved. He’s watching, still, focused. Not judging. Not disappointed. Just there.
It should help. What it does is make me feel like I’m playing with my ribs exposed.
The first quarter becomes a blur of effort and small failures. I miss a rotation that leads to a layup. I overhelp on a drive and give up an open three. I take a midrange jumper that I normally hit in my sleep, and it rims out.
Coach calls time-out. We crowd around him, sweat already slick on our skin. His clipboard is in his hands, but his eyes are on me. “Marshall,” he says, voice tight.
I meet his gaze.
“You’re drifting,” he says. “You’re thinking instead of playing.”
“I’ve got it,” I say quickly.
“Do you?” he challenges. Not cruel. Not loud. Just direct.
I swallow. “Yes.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods once. “Then show me. Simplify. Make the easy read. Stop hunting the perfect play. Give me the right play.”
“Yes, Coach.”
We break.
