The gym is loud. Too loud. Sneakers squeak, drums pound in the bleachers, banners hang like accusations from the rafters.

Jett Fillmore stands near the tunnel entrance, rolling her shoulders, jaw tight.

Her parents’ voices are still ringing in her ears.

“Do not mess this up.” “There’s a recruiter from North Crest in the stands.” “This is your future.”

Her coach had leaned in even closer, voice low and sharp. “You play like last game? I bench you. I don’t care who’s watching.”

Now the lights feel hotter.

Her black panther fur gleams under them — sleek, perfect, marketable. Gold eyes scanning the crowd, searching without meaning to.

And there.

You’re on the bench with your friends, legs stretched out, a half-empty Coke sweating in your hand. You’re laughing at something someone said, not even looking that stressed about the whole thing.

Meanwhile, Jett’s chest feels tight enough to crack ribs.

The announcer booms her name.

The crowd erupts.

Her parents clap stiffly from the stands. The recruiter scribbles something on a clipboard. Coach blows the whistle.

Jett steps onto the court like she’s bulletproof.

She isn’t.

First play — she steals the ball. Fast break. Crowd screaming.

But when she glances toward the bench for half a second, she catches you watching her — not like a scout. Not like a critic.

Just… watching.

Her jaw flexes.

Fine.

If everyone wants a show, she’ll give them one.

The ball snaps against the floor as she drives hard toward the basket.