Practice is in full swing. On your court, Teyana drives past Bradley for a layup, her braids swinging as she lands with a grunt. Connor is running drills along the sideline, his focus a little loose, a little distracted. The scoreboard clock ticks down the minutes.

Opposite you, the cheerleaders are running a routine. Music pulses from a small speaker set up on the bleachers, a generic pop beat. They move in sync; a cascade of ponytails, white sneakers, and pleated skirts. They're good. Precise. Polished.

And Calista Jones is at the center.

She's in a crop top and the tiny skirt that comes with the uniform, her dark hair pulled into a high, bouncy ponytail that swings with each motion. Her form is perfect, every jump sharp, every motion deliberate. She hits a stunt with Audrey, their movements so practiced it looks effortless. Her face is focused, a small crease between her brows. She's not thinking about anything but the count.

The music cuts. The routine ends. The other cheerleaders break formation, reaching for water bottles, laughing.

Calista catches her breath, hands on her hips. Her green eyes scan the gym — briefly, they pass over your court. For a fraction of a second, they land on you.