Me: Keeping tabs on me?

Kitty: No. It’s hard not to know the game schedule of the legendary Valley basketball team.

Me: I’ll sleep better after I’ve thoroughly kissed you. You’ll be doing the team and university a service.

Kitty: Good luck at your game tomorrow.

I growl at the phone and shove it in my pocket before rejoining the table. Looks like I’m back to square one with Katrina. Taking a drink of the water that’s appeared and picking up the menu, I try and push the girl out of my mind. I’ll just call someone else. Answer one of the many texts or DMs. Why am I not already doing that?

“Dude, you okay?” Wes asks. The whole table is staring at me. Perfect. Now they decide to notice me?

“I’m fine.” I feel their eyes still on me as I look over the menu. I set it down and stand. “Actually, I’m not hungry anymore. Mario, can you drop them off?” I point to Wes and Blair, and he nods. “See you guys back at the house.”

I drive to Ray Fieldhouse and walk inside. The women’s basketball team is just finishing up and I wait until they’re gone to grab a ball and dribble onto the court.

If you asked any of my teammates, they’d probably say I prefer game day to practice. I like the roar of the fans, the way that all eyes are on me and my team, and the rush knowing I can bring an entire stadium to their feet with the perfect shot. But being on the court alone, just me, the ball and the hoop – there’s something almost religious about it. No fanfare, no applause, no expectations.

I lose track of time as I shoot. The routine of it soothes me and I’ve nearly forgotten about the girl wreaking havoc on my sanity.

“Moreno, what are you doing here?” Coach’s voice booms across the court. I rebound the ball and turn to find him on the sidelines giving me a confused look. He walks toward me, and I can’t help but notice that from far away he looks like he might be part of the team. Tall, still built, wearing shorts and an old Baylor basketball shirt that’s cut at the sleeves. The year nineteen ninety-nine proudly displayed on the front is faded from being washed too many times. He’s not one of those coaches that looks like he enjoys a big steak dinner every night with boosters and alumni with big pockets. He doesn’t go as far as to scrimmage or workout with us, but I’m certain he could give us all a good run for our money on or off the court.

“Just getting in some shots. Big game tomorrow.”

He eyes me in that way that tells me he knows it’s bullshit, but he doesn’t call me out. “Should go home and get some rest.”

The phone he’s carrying in his hand pings and he grins as he reads whatever is on the screen. Coach lifts his phone in a salute. “Alright, get out of here. I’m gonna do the same.”