And for the longest, I’ve been praying she’d send someone my way who could really see me. Not like these girls out here flashing cute smiles, trying to get at me because of how I ball. Or even the genuine ones I can’t make myself feel anything for.

The way Carli looked at me was like she could feel the deepest parts of me. The soft parts. The parts that nobody sees. Man, her look pushed up against me so hard that something inside me shook loose and started falling. I was scared. But the way Carli’s dark brown eyes stared into mine told me something inside her was falling, too. I’m telling you nothing has ever felt so good.

Focus, Rex. With everyone lined up around the key, the ref passes me the ball. I blow a kiss, dribble three times, and shoot, like always. But I can’t help looking beyond the rim, remembering Carli’s eyes dimming, her long body going limp.

The ball misses everything.

Damn.

And to make matters worse, the crowd starts chanting, “Air ball . . . air ball.”

Another chance, another kiss, another three dribbles, another air ball, and another stupid chant from the crowd.

From half-court, I watch Russell Price shoot the technical fouls. And make them. Great, just great.

Fifteen seconds left. Gaines gets the ball back. Their point guard inbounds to Russell. Can’t let this dude score on top of everything else. I get in my best defensive stance—legs and arms wide and ready. He fakes left and tries to drive to the basket, but I stay in front of him and stop him. He pulls up to shoot, but I put a hand in his face, and he misses. I block him out, grab the rebound, and dribble up the court.

Five seconds. Two points down.

I fake right and go left past two defenders. I’m at the three-point line, within shooting range.

Three seconds.

A couple more steps to get a higher probability shot.

One second.

With Russell’s hands in my face, trying to block the ball, I shoot.

Looks like it’s going in, but the ball hits the inside of the rim—fall, please fall—and bounces out.

The whole Gaines team and their fans descend upon center court, jumping and cheering.

We just lost the tournament. To Matthew Gaines High. And it’s my fault. I should be pissed. I should feel like taking the basketball and drop-kicking it across the gym. But instead, I’m standing here thinking about Carli . . . remembering her face . . . hoping she’s okay.

CARLI

The hospital room door flies open and my brother Cole rushes in with way too much excitement.

“Dude! Do you know who that was?”

I stare at him wide-eyed, like he’s gone crazy—my default expression for watching his fits of excitement. Boy is prone to having at least one a day.