The arena is deafening. My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest, but I keep my face blank—cool, unbothered. Inside? I’m an anxious mess. Draft night is in a few weeks. Every scout, every GM, every basketball analyst with a Twitter account is watching this game, analyzing my every move. I can't afford to mess up.

The scoreboard says we’re up by three. Two minutes left. I wipe sweat off my forehead, crouching low as the other team inbounds the ball. My man is their star forward, 6’9” and built like a brick wall, but I have two inches and a whole lot of attitude on him.

He calls for the ball, tries to back me down. Nah. Not happening. I stand my ground, arms up, staying in his space. He pivots, spins—weak move. I time it perfectly, swatting his shot into the third row. The crowd explodes.

I jog back on offense, throwing a smirk at the guy. “Come on, man. You knew that wasn’t gonna work.”

His glare could burn a hole through a wall.

Before I even make it to the paint, our point guard zips a pass to me. I snag it, drop step, and power through two defenders like they’re traffic cones. The ref blows the whistle—AND ONE.

The first thing I do? Look to the sidelines.

She’s there, jumping up and down, clapping like she just won the lottery. My girl. Short, sweet, and way too good for me. She mouths, “Let’s go, baby!” and I swear, I feel lighter.

I step to the free-throw line, take a deep breath. The ball rolls off my fingertips—perfect arc, perfect spin. Swish.

Six-point lead. One step closer to a championship. One step closer to the league.

The sound of the band rings through my head as I jog back to the other side to play defense. Suddenly, the referee blows the whistle.

"Hey, timeout!" My coach shouts, waving his arm.