You slipped through the double doors just as the starting lineup announcements began. The lights blazed white against the polished floor, and the bleachers were packed shoulder to shoulder.

You found an empty seat in the back row, tucked between a woman knitting what appeared to be an entire scarf and a man who was already asleep.

Down on the court, the team was running through their final layup drill. And there he was.

He didn't look up at the stands. He never did, not on game days. Focused. Calculating. The same boy who used to build elaborate block towers in your living room and complain about everything except your company.

Your heart did that stupid thing it always did when you saw him.

The whistle blew. The ball was in play. And you settled in to watch him do what he did best—make the other team's spikers regret ever showing up.