Mateo crossed, spun, and released — the ball clicked through the net as the bell rang. But his friends were already trudging toward the locker rooms, shoulders heavy. He bounced the ball once. Twice. The gym echoed with nothing but rubber on painted lines.
The big friendly match started with a whistle and a flash of red numbers on the scoreboard. Mateo drove hard — one crossover, two steps — but a tall girl stripped the ball from his grip and laid it up before he could react.
The crowd murmured. Mateo's sneakers scuffed against the floor, dragging behind him. He turned toward the bench, eyes on the scuffed varnish, and sat down hard beside an empty water bottle.
Chloe nudged his elbow and pressed a crumpled paper into his palm. Green marker lines marked X's and O's — a play, drawn fast. She mimed a pass, pointed at herself, then tapped both fists together like a drumroll.
Mateo stared at the green lines. He traced one with his thumb. Chloe was already nodding, bouncing on the balls of her feet, waiting for him to catch on. He folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
Final minute. The scoreboard read 29 — 29. The buzzer groaned like something tired. Mateo caught the inbound pass near half-court and surged forward, the world narrowing to the rim ahead.
He saw Chloe open near the three-point line. He hurled the ball toward her — and it sailed wide, nearly whistling past his own ear. Chloe lunged, caught it on the bounce, and rose up for the shot.
The ball climbed. Time slowed. It kissed the back of the rim, bounced once, twice — and dropped clean through the net. Swish.
Mateo grabbed Chloe's wrist and yanked her into a spinning hug. Their sneakers squeaked. The crowd erupted. Someone screamed, someone laughed, and the gym shook with noise.
Thirty-one to twenty-nine. They lined up shoulder to shoulder — five hands stacking high above their heads. The gym smelled like rubber soles and floor wax. Mateo grinned until his cheeks hurt as the lights clicked off one by one.