Chapter Two: Beautiful Idiots and Basketball Tryouts

I don't talk much.

It's not because I'm mysterious or brooding or haunted by some tragic backstory where a pigeon stole my voice. I just… don't have the energy for small talk. Or medium talk. Or honestly, any talk.

Words are exhausting. People are exhausting.

Except one.

Young One.

Captain of the Pentagon University basketball team. Walks like the hallway is a runway. Shouts like he was born in a stadium. Smiles like his teeth have a loyalty card at the dentist.

And I am—tragically, hopelessly, invisibly—in love with him.

He's loud. He's chaotic. He once tried to chest-bump a teammate and knocked himself over. He smells like Gatorade and bad decisions. And I adore him with the intensity of a thousand unsent text messages.

Which is why, naturally, I've decided to ruin my life.

I'm joining the basketball team.

Now I know what you're thinking:

But Sky, you don't even speak—how are you going to call plays? What if someone passes you the ball and you just disintegrate?

And those are fair questions.

But here's the thing. I've been playing basketball since I was eight. My older brother taught me. I can shoot, pass, drive, defend—I just do it all quietly. Like a ninja. A gay ninja with a secret crush and surprisingly good court vision.

So.

Tryouts.

I showed up ten minutes early, because I like to panic in private before panicking in public. The gym smelled like waxed floors, testosterone, and overconfidence. At least two guys had Bluetooth speakers playing the same drill song out of sync. A third was already shirtless. Why? Unclear.

And then he walked in.

Young One.

Hair wet. Jersey loose. Grinning like a Disney Channel jock possessed by caffeine. He fist-bumped the coach, spun a ball on his finger for no reason, and made eye contact with literally everyone except me.

I almost tripped over my own foot just watching him walk.

We started drills. I kept my head down and my handles sharp. One of the guys tried to block me and missed so bad he nearly collided with the water cooler. Coach raised an eyebrow. Another dude muttered something about me "moving like a ghost."

Then came scrimmage time.

Guess who was on Young One's team?

Guess who had to guard him?

Guess who almost spontaneously combusted when he looked directly at me and said—

"Yo, you got handles, mystery guy. What's your name?"

I blinked. Forgot English. Forgot every language.

Then somehow mumbled, "Sky."

He grinned. "Sky, huh? Cool. You move like air, dude."

I looked away so he wouldn't see me physically melt into the court.

The rest of the game? A blur. I passed. I scored. I levitated. Possibly even teleported once. I definitely elbowed a guy named Jaxon on accident, but he lived, so.

And then it was over.

Coach blew the whistle, said, "Some of you got hustle. Some of you got lungs. And some of you—" he looked at me— "surprised the hell out of me."

Then.

Young One clapped me on the back.

"Dude, you're on the team for sure," he said. "Right, Sky?"

I nodded. Said nothing. But inside?

I was mentally writing our wedding vows in three languages.

And that was the day I joined the team.

And fell even deeper in love with the boy who'd never know it.

Or… maybe he would.

One day.

If I ever learn how to talk.