CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Tristan
The arena felt alive in the ugliest way.
Not loud.
Predatory.
Forty thousand people under one roof, all waiting to see which team would blink first. The lights were too white. The floor looked polished enough to lie to you. Even warm-ups felt sharp—balls snapping through nets, sneakers cutting hard, camera crews gliding along the baseline like they already knew this game would leave blood somewhere.
Final Four.
No room for soft anything.
I came out of the tunnel with my warm-up top half-zipped, and the sound hit me full in the chest. Band in one corner. Student section already foaming at the mouth. The giant screen flashing faces too young to understand what it costs to put your whole life into a season and maybe still lose it in forty minutes.
Kane bounced beside me, chewing gum like it had insulted his family.
“You good?” I asked.
He rolled his neck once.
“I’m either gonna black out and become a legend or catch two fouls in six minutes.”
“Strong range.”
Jalen jogged backward in front of us and pointed at me.
“Thirty tonight, Vale.”
“Twenty and a win.”
“Boring,” Kane muttered.
Coach blew the whistle from the sideline.
“Enough. Line work. Move.”
So we moved.
Layup line.
Corner threes.
Elbow jumpers.
Transition reps.
All ritual.
All superstition disguised as mechanics.
I hit my first two clean from the left wing, then drifted top of key, let another go, and looked up without meaning to.
There.
Stella.
