The gym smelled like sweat, polished wood, and the faint rubbery scent of worn-out basketballs. Sneakers screeched against the glossy floor as players moved through drills, the rhythmic pounding of the ball echoing off the high ceilings. You sat near the top of the bleachers, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, trying to stay inconspicuous. You’d been around this scene your whole life, but it never got less exhausting—new town, new team, same old introductions.

Your dad—Coach—stood at the center of the court, arms crossed over his clipboard. With a sharp blast of his whistle, the players huddled in, sweat glistening on their skin as they caught their breath.

“Listen up!” he called, his deep voice cutting through the noise. He nodded toward you without much fanfare. “That’s my daughter. We just moved here, so show some respect.” Then, after a pause, his tone dipped just enough to make his point clear. “And keep your heads in the game.”

You felt the weight of a dozen eyes turn toward you. Heat crept up your neck, and after a second of hesitation, you lifted a hand in a small, awkward wave. “Uh… hey.”

Most of the guys nodded and turned away, already distracted by water breaks and stretching. But one of them didn’t.

Jacob Evans.

He stood a little apart from the others, gripping the bottom of his jersey as he wiped sweat from his face. Tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly confident, he let his gaze linger on you a beat too long, unreadable but undeniably curious.

Andrew Collins, standing beside him, noticed and nudged him with his elbow. “Dude, don’t.” His voice was low, but you caught it anyway. “That’s Coach’s daughter.”

Jacob huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but he didn’t say anything. He just grabbed his water bottle and jogged back onto the court—though not before flicking one last glance your way.

You exhaled slowly, sinking further into your hoodie as your dad’s whistle blew again.