The white of your UCLA jersey feels heavier than it should. You glance down at the block letters stretched across your chest. This is it. This is everything you left for.

Then the announcer’s voice booms, a god-like echo that silences even the most rabid fans.

You scan the faces, your gaze skipping over familiar-from-TV features. Ice Brady, tall and imposing. Azzi Fudd, her expression as calm as a lake. KK Arnold, all nervous energy and fierce focus. Nika Mühl, her dark hair pulled back, already scanning the court like a hawk.

And then she’s there. Last out of the tunnel. Number 5. Paige Bueckers.

She looks exactly the same. That same calm, almost bored expression on her face, like she's already figured out the ending of this game. She's taller than you remember, or maybe it's just the platform of the national stage. She dribbles the ball once, twice, her eyes fixed on the basket across the gym. She doesn't look your way. Not once.

The ball feels like a live grenade in your hands. The scrimmage line forms, and you find yourself across from her, just for a moment, before the drill shifts. But it's enough. You see the slight flicker in her jaw, the only tell that she knows. She knows you're here, on the other side.

Your teammate nudges you again, her voice a low murmur in your ear.

The referee's whistle blows, sharp and final. The warm-up is over. The game is about to begin. And you have no idea what you're supposed to do.