I feel it before he says my name. I feel it in my bones, in the way the game is tightening and I’m the loose bolt.
“Marshall!” Coach barks. “Get over here.”
My chest goes cold. I jog to the bench as the crowd murmurs. I sit. My hands shake slightly as I grab my towel again and wipe sweat from my face that isn’t just sweat.
Coach leans down in front of me, blocking my view of the court. “Talk to me,” he says, voice lower now. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “That’s bullshit.”
I swallow hard. “I’m just… off.”
“You’re off in an important game,” he says, controlled but furious. “You understand what that does to everyone else?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He holds my gaze. “If you can’t get it together, you don’t go back in.”
The words land heavy. I nod, because I deserve it.
From the bench, I watch the rest of the third quarter unravel into something ugly. We fight. We scratch back. We make it close, then give up an open three. We miss a layup. We turn it over.
The home crowd is loud, our own fans restless.
Kirk sits two seats down from me, smirking like he’s enjoying this. “Tough night,” he murmurs. “Maybe you should ask your friend to write you some confidence.”
My hands clench.
Marco hears him this time. He turns slowly, eyes hard. “Shut up, Kirk,” he says flatly.
Kirk’s grin widens. “Touchy.”
“I said shut up,” Marco repeats, voice quiet but dangerous.
Kirk lifts his hands in mock surrender, still smiling like he won something anyway. No one else says anything. No one backs Marco up. And that silence feels almost as bad as the comment.
Fourth quarter starts with us down eight.
We push. We claw. We get it to five. Our fans believe. I feel my body lean forward, desperate to be out there, desperate to fix what I broke.
Coach doesn’t look at me; instead, he keeps me on the bench.
We cut it to three with two minutes left. Then we give up a corner three that silences the arena for half a second before the other team’s fans roar. We miss on the next possession while they hit free throws. The gap widens again, and I feel the loss settling in before the buzzer even sounds.
When the horn finally goes off, the scoreboard is undeniable. We lose.
The home crowd noise turns loud, a wave of glee that washes over the court and leaves everything feeling grimy. My stomach drops through the floor.
Players start moving toward the tunnel. Hands on hips. Heads bowed. Sweat-drenched jerseys sticking to skin like shame.
I stand slowly, legs heavy. Coach doesn’t look at me as he walks past. Marco brushes my shoulder as he moves toward the tunnel, his expression tight, while Dan’s jaw is clenched like he might crack a tooth.
Kirk mutters something under his breath that sounds like satisfaction.
I swallow hard and follow them, keeping my eyes forward. I don’t look up into the stands, even though I can feel Rafe there, even though I know he saw all of it. I walk toward the tunnel with my chest burning and my hands shaking, knowing I have about ten seconds before we hit the locker room door and the real fallout begins.
The locker room is too loud when we walk in. Too many voices. Too much movement. The sharp hiss of showers turning on, the slap of towels, the scrape of benches being dragged back.
