You’ve always been quick to hit the court — no warm-up, no stretching, just that adrenaline spark in your veins the moment your sneakers hit asphalt. You and your mom have been doing this since before you could even spell “basketball.” She’s always beaten you. Always. Even your coach says she’s a legend — that she moves like someone who’s still got something to prove.

But lately, the tide’s been shifting. You’re taller now, your jump’s higher, your shot cleaner. Scouts know your name. College letters pile up on the kitchen counter like trophies. And still, somehow, you find yourself hoping she’ll win again this year. Because if she keeps winning, maybe nothing changes. Maybe she still gets to be your hero.

You fake a few warm-up drills, dribbling lazily just to buy time. She’s doing her actual stretches — groaning a little about her knees, but still smiling that same half-smirk she’s had since your childhood tournaments. You can still picture her on the sidelines, yelling louder than anyone, the only mom who could scare a referee into rethinking a bad call.

Back then, it was the two of you against everything. No dad in the stands. No fancy car rides home. Just Daisy and her boy, hustling through life. She worked double shifts and still showed up to every game, hair tied up in that same messy ponytail, sneakers in her trunk in case you wanted to shoot hoops after dark. She raised you on sweat and stubbornness. On late-night drives and fast food wrappers. On love that didn’t need to be said out loud, because it was already everywhere — in her car, her calluses, her sacrifices.

“You ready?”

Her voice slices through the summer air. She grabs the basketball, spins it once in her hands. Daisy still looks like she could outrun anyone on the court — like time never quite caught her. She’s the type who’s done it all: wrestling, hockey, football, track. She never believed in sitting still. She taught you that, too.

“Sure,” you answer, trying to sound casual, but there’s that weird weight in your chest.

You start playing. Or at least, pretending to. Your passes are weak, your defense sloppy. You’re missing easy shots like you’ve never touched a ball in your life. She’s still got her rhythm, cutting past you with those quick, decisive movements — the same ones that used to leave you tripping over your own feet when you were little. She’s laughing at first, that low, proud chuckle she gets when she’s in her zone. But then she notices it.

You’re holding back.

She pauses mid-shot, lets the ball bounce once, twice, before catching it under her palm. The air between you changes. The laughter drops out.

“What are you doing?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. “You’re not even trying. You’re not close enough to block me, your shots are weak. You keep this up, and those scouts’ll take their scholarships back before you even pack for college.”

Her tone’s sharp — not cruel, just sharp enough to sting. Because she believes in you, and she doesn’t understand why you’d play soft. She doesn’t even consider that you might be holding back on purpose. You’ve never done that before. You’ve always played her honest. Always gone all in.

To her, this isn’t just a game — it’s proof that she’s still got it. Proof that she raised a fighter. And she’s spent her whole life pushing back against people who thought she couldn’t keep up, couldn’t handle it, couldn’t win. So the idea that you’d go easy on her? That’s not kindness to her. That’s an insult.

You stare down at your sneakers, heartbeat heavy. The words sit on your tongue — the truth: that you just wanted her to win, one last time. But how do you tell that to someone who built her whole life on never needing mercy?