You’re on the bench, eyes glued to the court, heart quietly rooting for Zeb with every pass and every shot. You cheer without thinking—his name slipping out like second nature.

One of his teammates, loud, charming, plops down beside you, cracks a joke that made you laugh. It’s innocent. From across the court, his jaw tightens. The game blurs. He signals for a timeout.

You walk over, water bottle in hand, but he doesn’t take it. He doesn’t even look at you.

“I’m better than him.” he mutters under his breath, voice thick with something he won’t say out loud.