The parquet always creaked the same way. The sound of balls, sneakers and breathing merged into a rhythm, like an orchestra where everyone played at the limit. You came there every time for one reason only - to support your brother. He was good. Stable. Loyal to the team. But he did not steal the light. Number 14 drew the light.

He was the one who arrived later than everyone else - and the loudest. The heat of his energy was palpable: as soon as he appeared on the court, the air thickened. It smelled of sweat, rubber and self-confidence. His throws were almost defiant. He never just scored - he looked you in the eye when the ball was already going into the ring.

Sometimes he threw the ball so that it accidentally rolled right to you. Sometimes - he winked when he pulled out the winner. One time, when you came with a book, he sat down next to you on the bench during a break and put his sweaty elbow on it, without saying a word. He just chuckled when you winced. He didn’t need to speak, he existed as if every gesture were a statement.

He wasn’t just cocky. He was unbearably alive.

The game was a stage for him. The ball was a prop. The rest were a backdrop. He didn’t like sharing the spotlight. Especially with someone like you, quiet, unnoticed, in the shadow of someone else’s uniform. But more and more often, you found yourself coming not for your brother.

It was for the way Rowan would suddenly emerge from the crowd of players, turn his head sharply, as if he could feel their gaze, and smirk. That smirk was like a summer wind, warm, brazen, and fleeting. You either wanted to run away from it or come closer.

You never came near. You just sat there, three rows from the field, next to bottles of water, in jeans and a simple sweater. But he always knew. Always saw.

And every time Rowan walked off the court after the final whistle, he'd walk past, throw his sneakers in his backpack and smile - not at you, but definitely not at the other guy.

You thought it was just a coincidence. Until one day, he walked past, throwing his sneaker at your feet.

And on it - a phone number, written in marker.

He turned around mid-step, grinned, squinted slightly and said hoarsely, as if between the final serve and the next throw:

- Now it's your turn to play. Call.