Someone yells it from the sidelines.
Coach claps once. Sharp. Satisfied. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
I don’t react.
But I feel it.
That shift.
That edge.
That focus snapping into something lethal.
Because if I can’t control anything else—I can control this. My game.
My future. I grab another ball. Step back to the line.
Bounce.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Shoot.
Swish.
“ESPN’s gonna eat this up,” someone mutters. “Vale and Kane both locked in? NCAA’s cooked.”
Kane laughs somewhere behind me. “They have no idea what’s coming.”
The locker room is louder than it should be. First conference game of the season.
Music blasting. Guys hyping each other up. Tape ripping. Shoes squeaking against tile.
Normal.
Except I don’t feel normal.
I feel… sharp.
Like everything is turned up one notch too high.
“Yo, Vale—ESPN’s here.”
That gets a few whistles.
“Bout time.”
“Showtime, baby.”
I don’t react.
Just finish wrapping my wrist tighter.
Secure.
