Right now it feels like there is not and never was any ice water in her veins. Just regular blood.

The kind Daphne likes to spill.

“Did Kit masturbate to her game winner?”

Dana shoots and makes it.

The others are electric, laughing hard as they slap five. Their laughter should calm Kit down, but she’s already thinking about it. The Coming Doom. Panic Attackula. Those yellow birds, learning to fly. And the feeling that more happened at that line than just the shot of her life.

“Guys,” she says. She’s going to tell them. Let them know she did ask the rim a question, the one question she shouldn’t have asked.

How do you keep her away, then? Dana grilled Natasha, the night before the game, her voice hopped up with hopeful cynicism. They were all in their sleeping bags in the dark, lights out, supposed to be already asleep.

Only one way, Natasha told them, a theatrical whisper. You can’t think about Daphne. If you think about Daphne too much…she comes for you.

Fuck you, Emily Holt, their starting center, said.

I didn’t make the rules, Natasha said.

Are you for real? Beck Nelson asked. She sounded scared. Then she screamed out when a teammate grabbed her ankle in the dark.

You all worry too much, Natasha said. Just go to sleep. Then, after a half minute of quiet: And don’t think about Daphne.

Fuck you, Natasha!

You suck, Natasha!

And all the teammates tossed couch pillows and backpacks at her.

Now, outside, Kit doesn’t tell them. She’s too embarrassed. Or maybe: too scared. She doesn’t want to ruin today any more than she wants to ruin tomorrow. Eventually, she’ll be alone tonight. With her thoughts. These thoughts. And nothing more than a journal to grip in the dark.

She lifts the ball to shoot, no question in mind. A car honks. The sound is quieter than if one of their sneakers ground against the pavement. Still, Kit sees a car stopped at the intersection at least two hundred yards from where she stands.

Someone is crossing the street.

Someone tall.

The word “lumbering” crosses Kit’s mind. She remembers the way Mrs. Royce used the word in English class, describing a big, merciless man in a book.

Kit shoots. It rattles in.

“You didn’t ask anything,” Melanie says. She frowns a little. What a waste. Not asking the rim a question. When there are so many questions to ask.

Whoever crossed the street vanishes behind the buildings, the fences, civilization beyond Garland Park. Yet unseen or not…it feels like they’re still walking this way. Toward the park.

Toward Kit.

Will Daphne kill me?

She smacks herself upside the head. Tries not to think about Daphne.

“Ohhhkay,” Melanie says.

“Hey, what up?” Natasha asks.

Her three closest friends. All wondering why she just smacked her own head. Kit Lamb should be in hero mode. Kit Lamb should be a goddess.

Another car honks. This one so close and so loud all four ballers turn to face it. A silver Buick has pulled up onto the grass bordering the pavement. The windows are all rolled down. The car is full of boys. The driver, Stewart Lanse, shoots the girls a cocky smile and says, “You win one fucking big game and now you stand around all lazy?”