“Let’s all give a big round of applause for all the championship teams,” Jim Morrison, chairman of the Texas High School Basketball Association since forever, says as Carli and Jordan walk up the platform stairs. White dude has to be pushing ninety.

Most of the arena has emptied out. But the people left, mostly friends and family of the teams, give us their best—clapping, yelling, and stomping on the bleachers. My father and Angie are both clapping with their hands above their heads.

It almost makes me smile before I remember how terrible I played. How bad we lost. How much I embarrassed myself in front of everybody, including the college scouts. The look on Coach Bell’s face. I’ve never seen a coach so disappointed in me.

Jim recognizes the sponsors and moves on to the trophies. He starts with the small ones, for the losers. “Langham High,” he says, and picks up a small gold basketball with a wooden base off the folding table behind him.

The Langham team stands up off the visiting bench to the left. And the red-headed Langham girl, to my right, walks up on the platform to accept to the trophy.

“You all played a great game,” Jim says to the whole team. Then he hands the trophy to the girl and says, “I’m looking forward to seeing big things from you in the years to come, young lady.”

Meanwhile, Carli’s head is all the way down. She could at least look up and be a good sport. Shake the girl’s hand like Jordan and say something generic like Good game. Doesn’t matter if she means it or not. That’s what good athletes are supposed to do. But she’s standing there playing with the zipper on her warm-ups. So damn self-centered.

“And Woodside High,” Jim says.

I guess it’s my turn. I wait for the Langham girl to come down.

“Being runner-up at this level is no small feat. It takes a fierce dedication to your sport and a strong commitment to excellence,” Jim continues as I walk up the steps.

As I’m accepting the small-ass, loser-ass trophy, Carli, who’s standing to the left of Jim, looks up at me. I look back at her, wanting something from her I wish I didn’t want. I don’t even know what. Maybe a look that says, I’m sorry you lost . . . or I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you . . . or Are you okay?

But it’s like she’s looking right through me. Like I’m not even here. Like I don’t even matter. Man, I’m so fucking stupid. I don’t know when I’m going to get it through my thick head that this girl could care less about me. I look away and try to brush it off. But the hurt isn’t going anywhere.