I curse under my breath, dragging my hands over my face.
Coach’s voice fades in and out like static. I nod and say, “Yeah, got it,” but my head’s not in it anymore.
I’m not even mad at missing the shot. I’m mad at myself for caring so much about who saw it.
When the quarter ends, I catch a glimpse of Miguel standing near the tunnel, talking to one of the ushers. He must feel my eyes because he glances over and gives me a look that says,“You’re fine. Don’t spiral.”
But the game’s slipping anyway.
Fourth quarter.One minute left.
Coach’s voice booms from the sideline. “Let’s go, Burton! Set it up!”
I dribble up the court, heart hammering. There’s a break in the defense, and for a second, I see it—open space, a perfect shot.
The ball leaves my hands clean.
It arcs high.
And clangs off the rim.
The crowd groans.
Anderson mutters, “Nice one, Burton,” under his breath as we sprint back on defense.
By the time the final buzzer hits, UC Davis takes it 72–64.
We lose.
The sound of the other team cheering feels like salt on a raw wound.
The locker room’schaos afterward with the guys slamming lockers, swearing, and the air thick with frustration. Anderson’s pacing like a caged animal, ranting to anyone who’ll listen.
Coach gives his post-game speech about focus and teamwork, then storms out.
As soon as the door closes, Anderson picks up where he left off.
“Fucking embarrassing,” he mutters. “Half of you played like you’ve never touched a ball in your life.”
Look who’s fucking talking.
I ignore him, peel my sweat-soaked jersey off, and sit hard on the bench. My phone buzzes in my bag. I pull it out.
Dad
Tough loss. We’ll talk after the game. I’m waiting by the car.
Of course he is.
Another buzz follows almost instantly.
Miguel
You did so good, baby.
I can’t wait to show you how a star athlete gets treated after a game.
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
