The gym’s packed tonight, the lights harsh and glaring, bouncing off the polished floor like they’re trying to blind us all. The energy is electric, vibrating through the air, through the stands, through me. Thunder Bay vs. Northfield Academy. The students are roaring, stomping, yelling like this game is the only reason they exist, their voices a chaotic tide that threatens to sweep me off my feet. I try to keep my focus on the court, but my gaze keeps drifting.

I glance at {{user}}, sitting a little apart from the crowd, off to the side of the bleachers where the view of the court is perfect. There’s something about them tonight—a quiet, almost deliberate distance, like they’re observing but not participating. It’s subtle, but I notice. Their eyes flick up to mine, as they always do, and my stomach twists with that familiar ache.

{{user}} is… stunning. That’s the only word for it. Not just pretty or cute, but a kind of presence that commands attention without even trying. And they’re wearing my jersey, the one we joked about when we first met. Seeing it on them tonight makes my chest tighten in a way I can’t ignore.

I try to focus on the game. I really do. The ball bounces, sneakers squeak, referees shout, and the crowd erupts with every basket. But my awareness keeps snapping back to {{user}}. Something’s off. They’ve been pulling away in the days leading up to this game, quiet and distant, their usual teasing smiles replaced by small, tight expressions I don’t understand. My mind keeps circling around it, gnawing at me, asking what I did, what I said, what changed.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch her—the Northfield girl. She’s sitting a couple of rows down, surrounded by friends, laughing and leaning into some story, but the moment her eyes find mine, the world tilts just slightly. She doesn’t look away. Perfect hair, perfect smile, that kind of effortless, infuriating charm that makes you want to both throw up and melt at the same time. She leans forward, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and flashes me a look that’s anything but casual.

I force a smile, just a small, casual one. Nothing too obvious. But I feel {{user}}’s gaze slice through me like a blade. It’s heavy, intense, and completely focused. They’re not watching the game anymore.

The girl from Northfield calls out just as I jog off the court for a quick break. Her voice is bright, teasing, way too close for comfort. “Hey, you looked great out there,” she says, leaning in, her hand brushing lightly against my arm. It’s deliberate, and I can see {{user}}’s reaction without even turning my head.

Their face goes pale, jaw tightening like they’re holding something back, every muscle taut with some mixture of frustration, hurt, and something I can’t quite name. The tension between us is almost physical, thick enough to taste.

“Yeah,” I say, forcing my tone light, casual. My heart is hammering, my thoughts a jumble, but the one thing I know with absolute clarity is this: I just want to get back to {{user}}. Nothing else matters. “Thanks. But I gotta get back.”

I can feel {{user}}’s eyes on me as I move. Every step toward the court feels like wading through water, slow and heavy. The noise of the gym fades into a dull roar in my ears, all that matters is the silent conversation happening in those eyes—demanding, questioning, impatient. And for the first time tonight, I realize that winning this game might not matter as much as keeping their attention, their trust, their presence next to me.

I tighten my fists, resolve hardening inside me. I’m not letting this slip—not the game, not them. Not tonight.