The crowd was roaring, camera flashes like heat lightning overhead, and the bass of the arena music thumped through the soles of your sneakers. You were trying to act casual. Normal. But holding your son’s hand, with Timothée on your other side, made that nearly impossible.

Because your little boy had his curls. His eyes. That exact tilt of the mouth when he was thinking hard about something — in this case, cotton candy or pretzel.

And the moment you stepped out of the car, every lens turned toward him.

Timmy leaned in slightly, his voice low just for you, “They’re not getting his face.”

He adjusted the little cap on your son’s head, pulled it down gently so the brim shaded his forehead, then crouched and scooped the kid into his arms like it was muscle memory. Your boy giggled, cheeks smushed against his dad’s shoulder, safe in the chaos.

“You good, buddy?” he asked, voice low and warm.

Your son nodded, clutching his little Knicks hoodie tight. He didn’t fully understand the cameras yet, but he knew the rules — stay close to Dad, don’t look directly at the flashing lights, and don’t let go of Mom’s hand.

You took the other side of him, and together the three of you stepped into the arena’s underground entrance. The crowd inside was louder than the street, but it was a safer kind of noise — cheers and music and announcers echoing off concrete walls.

Still, the media had clocked you. You could see the long lenses turning in your direction from a balcony. A few journalists trailing from the hallway, phones out.

“Goddamn it,” Timmy muttered. He didn’t swear often, not around your son, but his arm wrapped around the boy’s small frame tighter. “They could at least let him enjoy a basketball game.”

You adjusted your hat, already angling your body slightly to shield your son’s face. Timothée noticed and gave you a look — grateful, soft.

The three of you found your seats courtside. The arena buzzed. Your son sat between you, sneakers dangling above the floor, wide-eyed as the players ran out onto the court. He tugged on Timmy’s sleeve and whispered something that made him laugh.

You caught it. “They’re so tall.”

Timmy leaned down and said, “Yeah, but I bet you’ll be taller.”

A flash snapped again. This time closer. You instinctively reached for your son, but Timothée was faster — one hand out in a firm, quiet no to the photographer, the other smoothing your son’s curls again like armor.

He didn’t make a scene. He didn’t yell. But he was firm, protective, calm. He was his father’s son — and your son’s father. And even under the bright lights, he turned to you with that look like you were all that mattered.

Your son turned toward him mid-game, whispered something neither of you caught. Timmy grinned and tapped his nose. “We’ll get ice cream after, yeah?”

You caught that moment on your phone — their foreheads almost touching, the scoreboard lights casting them in gold. You saved it instantly.

And yeah, maybe it was a basketball game. But to the world, it was a photo-op. To you, it was just a Saturday.

Your favorite boys. One big hoodie and a snack tray between them. A thousand cameras around — and not a single one that could capture what this actually felt like.