The national anthem plays, but I barely hear it. I’m focused on the game ahead, on the team across from us.
Tip-off comes, and the game explodes into action. I snag the ball, driving down the court with them on my heels.
I fake left, then spin right, leaving them stumbling as I launch into a perfect jump shot. Swish. Nothing but net.
The crowd erupts as I turn, my eyes immediately finding Seraphina. I point directly at her, making sure every camera in the arena catches the gesture. Her face lights up, that smug, possessive smile spreading across her lips as she preens under the attention.
That’s my fucking girl.
The Jaguars answer with a three-pointer, and the game settles into a brutal back-and-forth. They’re playing dirty—elbows flying, shoves that the refs conveniently miss. Clarkson gets in my face after a particularly hard foul, his breath hot against my ear.
“Your girl watching you get embarrassed tonight, Devereux?” he taunts, his eyes flicking toward Seraphina. “Maybe I should introduce myself after I wipe the floor with you.”
Something dark and violent unfurls in my chest. “Keep her name out of your fucking mouth,” I growl, shoving him away.
The ref blows his whistle, but I’m already moving, my blood boiling with rage. Nobody threatens what’s mine.
The next play, I steal the ball from his hands, driving hard to the basket. He tries to block me, but I power through his defense, slamming the ball through the hoop with enough force to make the backboard shudder.
Two points. And I’m just getting started.
I turn, finding Seraphina again. Point. Her eyes flash with that dangerous light I love, her lips forming words I can’t hear but can easily imagine.“That’s my man.”
The game intensifies, both teams refusing to back down. We’re tied at halftime, and Coach is losing his fucking mind in the locker room.
“Devereux! Where’s your head at?” he demands, pacing in front of me. “You’re playing like you’ve got something to prove.”
“I do,” I say simply, taking a long drink of water.
The second half is even more brutal than the first. Clarkson is targeting me now, looking for any opportunity to take me down. I return the favor, our bodies colliding with increasing violence as the clock ticks down.
With five minutes left, we’re down by four. Not insurmountable, but we need to move.
Cassian passes me the ball, and I drive hard to the basket. Clarkson steps in to block, but I spin past him, launching into a fadeaway that drops through the net.
Three points. One-point game.
I point to Seraphina again, watching her rise to her feet, her hands raised above her head as she cheers. The camera lights flash around her, capturing her in all her glory—my name across her back, my number on her face, my fucking heart in her hands whether she knows it or not.
The Jags score again, pushing their lead back to three. We answer with a quick two, but time is running out.
Forty seconds left. We’re down by one.
They have the ball, running down the clock. Clarkson dribbles at the top of the key, a smug smile on his face as he watches the seconds tick away.
Twenty seconds.
Fifteen.
Ten.
I see my opening. He gets cocky, showing off with a fancy crossover that leaves the ball exposed for just a split second. I lunge, my fingers closing around the leather.
Steal.
I’m already moving, pushing my body to its absolute limit as I race down the court. Clarkson is on my heels, desperate to recover, but I’m not stopping. Not for him, not for anyone.
The basket looms ahead. Five seconds.
