You meet again at the alumni game. You’re nervous. She’s cocky. You recognize the way she walks before she even hits the court—same swagger, same fire, same girl whose spot you took freshman year when she tore her ACL.

She sees you. Smirks. “Still playing like you’ve got something to prove?”

You should hate her. You kind of did. But now she’s all healed and grown and tall and… looking at you like she knows exactly how to push your buttons. You think she might kiss you or kill you. You’d take either.

Instead, she just says, “You owe me a drink after this.”