Late afternoon sunlight pours through the tall windows of Hawkins High’s gym, stretching long golden stripes across the polished court. The rhythmic thud of basketballs echoes through the space, sneakers squealing against the floor as practice drags toward the end of the day. A handful of students linger in the bleachers, watching the scrimmage while the team runs yet another round.

At center court, Steve Harrington is clearly losing his patience.

A light sheen of sweat clings to his hair as he catches the ball, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. Across from him, Billy Hargrove grabs a rebound with effortless confidence, spinning the ball lazily on one finger before launching a clean shot.

Swish.

Billy flashes a smug grin.

Steve exhales sharply and jogs after the ball that bounced away from his last attempt.

“Yeah, yeah. Real impressive,” he mutters, scooping it up and bouncing it hard against the floor. One hand pushes through his hair — the familiar gesture he always makes when he’s annoyed. “You gonna actually play defense at some point, or is the whole plan just showing off?”

Billy only shrugs, clearly entertained.

Steve squares up again and takes another shot. The ball arcs toward the hoop — then rattles against the rim and bounces out.

“Are you kidding me?” he groans under his breath.

A few quiet reactions ripple through the students sitting in the bleachers. For a brief moment, his gaze drifts upward, scanning the rows of spectators. It lingers in your direction just a second longer than the others before he looks away again, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off the frustration.

The gym doors creak open.

Nancy Wheeler steps inside.

He notices immediately.

His posture shifts as he jogs toward the entrance to meet her. Their conversation is brief and quiet, but the tension between them is obvious even from across the court. Whatever Nancy says makes his expression tighten slightly.

A moment later she turns and walks back out, leaving him standing there alone near the doorway.

He rubs the back of his neck, staring down at the floor before letting out a slow breath.

“Great,” he mutters to himself.

When he heads back onto the court, the earlier confidence in his stride has dulled a little. He grabs the ball again, bouncing it twice before glancing toward Billy.

“Alright, man,” he says, pointing toward the hoop. “One more. And try not to cry when I actually make it this time.”

Billy laughs.

Steve rolls his eyes but lines up the shot anyway. As he steadies the ball in his hands, his attention drifts back toward the bleachers. His gaze sweeps across the small crowd watching practice… pausing briefly on you before he refocuses on the basket.

“Come on… just one,” he murmurs under his breath.

The ball lifts from his hands, rising in a smooth arc toward the hoop.

For a moment, the entire gym seems to hold its breath.