PROLOGUEDONOVAN
I jog along the sideline, warming up as the crowd comes streaming into the arena. Our scrimmage is about to start, and even though nothing’s at stake, I’m locked in. Word is a handful of NBA scouts are in town to watch the game, and beyond that? I just love to play—plain and simple. Got it from my dad, who got it from his. Basketball is in our blood. Call it a Wolinski thing.
“Don! Catch!”
Something solid smacks the back of my head. I turn in slow motion to find Lewis grinning like the absolute menace he is. I suck in a breath, fighting the urge to strangle him with my bare hands.
“Dude. Do you even know how throwing works?”
“Uh, hello?” He points at his chest. “You know what a GOAT looks like, right?”
I pick up the water bottle responsible for my very probable concussion, twist the cap off, and take a long drink as I scan the bleachers. My eyes land on Lois and Lane.
“Look at those two.” I point with my chin.
They’re practically glued together.
My roommate shakes his head. “Absolute disgrace, dude.”
“Check out Kirky,” I snicker.
Our teammate is trying hard—and failing—not to stare, his eyes locked on his ex. I don’t even feel sorry for the guy. He wanted to play the single game in college, and he got exactly what he asked for. He made his bed, and now he’s stuck sleeping in it—solo.
Plus, I’m happy for Lane. He finally found the match for his big, twisted heart—someone who helps him get his shit together. Took him long enough to admit it, too. And, okay, there’s no denying Lois is kind of unhinged. Lucky for her, so is Lane, so it evens out.
The boys and I have spent the whole year watching them orbit each other—off, on, off again, and now—finally!—the two idiots are official. They’re amazingly,boringlyin love. Though in typical Lois Lane fashion, things aren’t that smooth. Lane managed to win Heartbreak back, but Lois has been driving him crazy. Case in point? They got back together four months ago, but she says she’s staying in Becca’s room until the end of the semester. Apparently, she needs to “set boundaries” and “lean into her independence” or some crap like that. If you ask me, she just gets a kick out of seeing Lane pissed. Girls are complicated like that. Thank God break is coming up—I can’t wait for them to move in together. Maybe then Lane will quit his bitching.
Lewis elbows me. “Jealous much?”
“Hell no!” I shoot back, like it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.
And honestly, it kind of is—they mightlooklike the poster couple for a relationship ad—granted, one designed by a seriously deranged creative director—but still. Hard pass.
What Lois Lane have may be cool and all, but there are way too many girls out there to flirt with. I glance back over at Lois Lane and roll my eyes. Someone save us, are they ever going to stop rubbing up on each other?
The whistle blows, snapping me out of my daydream, and suddenly all that matters is the court. I turn away from the bleachers and catch the coach’s eye. He winks at me before blowing on his whistle again. I trot over to join the others for a few last pointers. Sure, he’s my dad—but he treats me just the same as the rest of the team.
He’s running through the opposite team’s tactics when Lewis yanks on my jersey, frowning.
“Your dad looks kind of tired.”
“You know what he’s like.” I flash him a smile. “End of season, man!”
Dad pours as much energy into these games as we do—analyzing the play, sniffing out our weak spots, pumping us up in those all-important moments, keeping it together when everything’s falling apart. By the end of the season, he’s a wreck—and Lewis knows that.
One cheer routine and a mascot show later, the game kicks off.
I’m in the zone, completely losing track of time.
The other team’s got solid play. They’re scrappy, and I like it. Even when I sink another three-pointer, they’re relentless. They know this game is essentially a showcase and won’t change any standings in the league, but they’re giving it everything, all the same.
The first half is about to wrap when I sprint toward the basket, ready to catch Lewis’s pass. He’s spotted the perfect opening on my left and fires the ball. It hits my hands clean. I pick up speed.
The forward who’s been glued to me since tip-off narrows his eyes, getting ready to block my shot. I pause. He’s about to dive to the right. I’d bet my life on it.
Just as I’m setting up my shot, he glances over my shoulder, frowning. For a split second, I hesitate. The guy isn’t moving. He’s not even looking at me anymore. Instinct takes over, and I shoot, but something’s wrong. The crowd’s murmur swells to a roar, the journalists turning in their seats as the ball hits the board and Lewis yells my name.
My eyes lock on his, and realization hits me like a sucker punch to the gut.
