One at the side of my neck.
One low on my ribs.
Anchoring.
Her eyes move over my face the way they always do after games, reading too much, seeing too clearly.
“It hurts,” I say.
Stupid sentence.
Obvious sentence.
Still the only true one I have.
Her thumb brushes once under my jaw.
“I know.”
I laugh once under my breath.
It sounds wrecked.
“Three points.”
“I know.”
“We had it.”
Her mouth tightens, not because she’s disagreeing.
Because she knows exactly how much worse it is when that’s true.
I look down for one second.
At the sleeve of my hoodie hanging over her knuckles.
At the bracelet glinting faintly on her wrist.
At the floor.
“I can still see the shot,” I say. “I can feel it leaving my hand.”
Her fingers slide into mine and squeeze.
“Yeah.”
That yes gets me more than any speech would have.
Because she understands the replay.
The phantom possession.
The body-memory loop.
The specific athlete torture of knowing exactly where the hinge was and not being able to unlatch it.
I look back up.
