My bottom jaw felt like it snapped off. I imagined it tumbling down the grandstand and landing at his feet. It might even land in the water with a splash and sink to the bottom of the pool. Because in all my years, I’d never seen anything like it. Abs so defined and perfect they looked like a six-pack of pudding cups you wanted to reach out and rip open. And then, in one swift, graceful move, the pudding cups disappeared as he dived into the pool. His dive was so flawless that it barely made a splash, and when he bobbed back up to the surface, he was smiling. The pool was clearly his happy place.

The game started, and despite myself, despite all the things I liked to tell myself about how I hated watching sports and that they held no interest for me . . . my interest was held. It was held as the ball flew through the air from one side of the pool to the other. As water crashed and bodies smashed, and how Jake would rise up out of the water, as if standing on something. It seemed impossible that someone could get so high out of the water. He threw the ball into the net so hard that water covered the people seated poolside. I was transfixed as he did this over and over again. He kept scoring and the school kept cheering, and Amber and the Ts kept jumping, and without warning, I found myself on my feet. I found myself clapping and jumping and getting swept up in the game until the final goal, the moment of silent awe afterward, and then the explosion of joy that swept over the stadium like a giant wave. And by the end of the match my hands were red from clapping, my throat was sore from shouting, and my legs had never had so much exercise in my life. And strangely—bizarrely—I felt a part of something that I’d never imagined I would ever feel a part of.

Jake and the team climbed out of the pool and fell into a group hug, and I couldn’t help but smile. I was just about to sit down again when Jake hit the ball into the air and everyone looked up. The ball traveled higher and higher and then unexpectedly, as if it had bumped into an invisible wall, it stopped. It hovered for a second or two and then . . . chaos.

The ball was falling. I looked around. Amber was scrambling up the grandstand with the determination of someone trying to catch the bouquet at a wedding. She was getting closer, coming toward me with such speed. I looked up.