Chapter Three: Full-Court Feelings

First Half – Young One's POV

Okay. Focus. We're scrimmaging today. Team Blue vs. Team White. Bragging rights, pride, and Coach's approval are on the line.

Also: he's on my team.

Sky. The new guy. The beautiful disaster. The silent assassin.

I have no idea who let him wear that jersey with the sleeves slightly rolled, but I owe them flowers. Maybe a fruit basket. Maybe my soul.

We're standing in the huddle, and I'm giving out plays like a real captain. Out loud I'm all, "We rotate on the switch, crash the boards, Jaxon stay outside the paint—" but inside I'm like:

Sky's standing next to me.

Sky's shoulder brushed mine.

Sky smells like laundry detergent and heavenly mistakes.

We break the huddle. Sky jogs off to take position, calm and composed like a poetry book in human form. Meanwhile, I'm sweating before the game even starts and not from warm-ups.

Tip-off happens.

The match begins.

And I can't stop glancing at him.

He plays like he floats. No trash talk, no showboating, just these quiet, controlled movements. It's… elegant. Which is weird to say about a guy trying to cross someone over mid-dribble, but here we are.

"Yo, nice assist, Sky!" I yell after he whips a pass straight into my hands for a perfect layup.

He just nods.

Nods.

And my heart does a freaking backflip.

I want to say something clever. Like, "Hey, you're killing it out here," or "Nice hands," or "Wanna get smoothies later and accidentally fall in love?" But instead I trip over my own shoelace and almost faceplant in front of the entire team.

Smooth.

Halftime comes. We're leading by six. Coach gives us water and instructions. I pretend to stretch while lowkey glancing at Sky across the bench.

He's wiping his forehead with his shirt and—okay. Nope. I need a therapist.

I drink water. I drink too much water. I'm gonna drown.

He catches me staring.

I panic-smile. He blinks at me.

Then smiles back.

I black out internally.

Second Half – Sky's POV

So here's the thing.

Basketball? I get it. I understand the rhythm of the game. The geometry of motion. The way the court speaks in squeaks and thumps and breathless seconds.

People? Not so much.

Especially not Young One.

Captain Chaos. Human thunderclap. Laughs like the sun. And the reason I'm currently chewing through the inside of my cheek just to look normal.

I'm on his team. We're winning. I've already passed to him like four times. Every time, he smiles at me like I just solved world peace.

Every time, I almost drop dead.

He's fast. He's loud. He's shirt-tugging, arm-flexing, towel-whipping energy incarnate. He plays like he's dancing and fighting at the same time. It's stupidly hot.

But he's straight. Probably.

Definitely.

...Right?

Halftime ends. We huddle up again. I keep my eyes on the floor, because if I look at him now, I might do something dumb. Like speak. Or blush. Or propose.

We hit the court. The pace picks up. Opponents get rougher. I take a charge. He helps me up, hand strong and warm in mine for a second longer than necessary.

He says, "Damn, you okay, Sky?"

I nod. Swallow. Try to ignore the electric storm happening in my ribcage.

"You sure?" he says, his voice quieter. Just for me.

I nod again. Lie through my teeth. "Yeah."

Liar. You just fell in love harder.

We finish the game. Win by eleven. He fist-bumps me.

I go home with sore legs, a sore heart, and exactly seventeen new fantasies I'll never admit to.

Because he's loud. He's confident. He's everything I'm not.

And he'll never know how much I want him.

Or… at least, I think he won't.

But that smile?

That smile during halftime?

Maybe I'm wrong.