The Game

𝟐𝟏

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒚 𝑶𝒏𝒆 - 𝑭𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝑴𝒚 𝑭𝒖𝒆𝒅

I had my practice jersey on — white with CRESTWOOD in red, shorts tied at the hip, ankle taped — I came back out and did what I do. Set a tone. Make the air obey.

"Circle it," I called, and the lines formed because muscle memory is the truest kind. Layups to warm the legs. Spin-outs for balance. Pound dribbles to wake the wrists. The ball met my palm and something calmed in me — the way leather gives when your fingers catch the seam, the familiar snap off the glass, the sweet sound the rim makes when it accepts a ball like an apology.

Even like that, even inside the ball, I knew where she was at all times. Aliya moved the way she always did — useful, light, fast. Clipboard under one arm, pen tucked behind her ear, she cut small efficient arcs from storage to bench, bench to cooler, cooler to trainer's bag. The tank slid over her shoulders when she lifted the towel stack. The shorts were a problem under bright lights that did not care about my dignity. I was supposed to be cataloging angles and reads; instead my eyes tried to catalog the way the hem rode up when she crouched.

"Chris," Malachi chirped when a pass popped my chest and bounced off. "You seeing two rims or just one?"

"I'm seeing my foot in your ass if you don't hit the window," I shot back without heat.

We split for shell. I called the coverage, chopped my hand across the lane to cue the weak-side shift, tagged the roller, bumped to the corner, and stunted at the three without fouling. Clean. Crisp. How we want to look on film. How we practice when the gym is ours.

Kareem rolled in late, the way he always did — like the hour was a suggestion and his mouth was a main event. He lined up across from me, eyes cutting past my shoulder to the sideline, and I already knew something stupid was coming out of him before he breathed it.

"Is that Aliya?" he said loud enough for the nearby line to catch it. "Ain't no way that's the same clumsy little nerd I remember. Not the way she wearin' that little top."

"Watch your mouth," Ja'Colby snapped before I could, stepping into his space.

Kareem smirked, head tilted. He glanced again toward our sideline, where Aliya was lifting a case of water. Shorts lifting the slightest bit. "Bet she tastes like straight vanilla," he added crudely. "Probably sweet all over."

Blood flashed hot behind my eyes. I took one step, then August blew in from the tunnel, hair damp, hoodie gone, tension already set. He dropped beside Colby shoulder to shoulder.

"Say that again," August said with a smile that was not a smile. "I dare you."

Kareem's eyes cut to him and then back to me. "I'm just sayin' she built like a snack," he sneered. "I'd—"

Coach's whistle detonated. "We are not doing this today," he said, hands on hips. "Kareem, shut your mouth. Colby, back in the drill. August, stop being late and be early. Chris — ball."

Kareem rocked back like he wasn't finished. I let the ball roll under my palm and gave him six soft words that carried enough weight for twelve. "That's a lot of talk," I said, "for someone who got benched for todays game."

He puffed up — chest out, chin up — the kind of posture you learn in middle school when you think volume equals power. We were nose to nose. Coach waited — because he always wants to see if we are going to choose the bad thing — then barked, "Ball in."

We moved.

The next ten minutes belonged to me.

Jealousy is gasoline if you know how to use it. August brushed past Aliya and hooked two fingers into her belt loop like it was a handle, pulling her a half-inch closer so he could whisper something that made her smile. I saw it in the corner of my eye and everything in me narrowed to a point.