Fifteen thousand people pack the arena, their voices rising into a wall of sound that vibrates through my chest. ESPN cameras sweep across the crowd while the student section writhes like a living thing, painted faces and homemade signs creating chaos in the upper levels. The energy is electric, almost violent, the kind of atmosphere that makes or breaks seasons.
I'm not in my usual spot on the bench with my clipboard and my professional distance. Instead, I'm sitting in the girlfriend section—a cluster of seats near the tunnel reserved for players' families and significant others. Ethan's ticket, front row, center court, just like he promised.
The woman beside me introduces herself as Tyler's mom, then asks how long Ethan and I have been together. I mumble something vague about it being recent while my hands twist in my lap, hyperaware of how wrong this feels. These women have real relationships with the players—years of history, genuine love, actual futures. I have a contract with an expiration date and a growing inability to remember why that matters.
The game starts and any hope of relaxation evaporates immediately. State came to fight, their defense suffocating, their offense ruthless. Bodies collide on every possession, whistles blow every thirty seconds, and the refs look increasingly overwhelmed by the physicality on both sides.
Ethan plays like he has something to prove to every scout, every doubter, every person who ever questioned his transfer. He drives through contact that would flatten lesser players, hits contested shots over defenders who have four inches on him, and commands the court with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. Every time he touches the ball, my breath catches, and every time he scores, something warm blooms in my chest that I refuse to examine too closely.
The first half ends with us down by six, and I spend the break pretending to check my phone while Tyler's mom discusses her son's free throw percentage with concerning statistical detail. The second half is worse—more fouls, more tension, more moments where Ethan takes hits that make my stomach clench.
Third quarter, we claw back to within two. Fourth quarter opens with a State run that pushes their lead to seven, and the crowd's energy shifts from excitement to desperation. I can feel the anxiety rippling through the girlfriend section, these women who've watched hundreds of games and know exactly how quickly things can fall apart.
Then Ethan takes over completely.
He scores on three consecutive possessions—a driving layup through two defenders, a pull-up three that silences the State fans, and a spinning floater in the lane that shouldn't have gone in but did anyway. The arena explodes with each basket, the noise building until I can barely hear myself think.
Ninety seconds left, tie game.
State brings the ball up slowly, eating clock, looking for the perfect shot. Their point guard drives, dishes to the wing, and their best shooter rises for a three that rims out. Ethan snags the rebound and pushes the ball upcourt, the entire arena on its feet screaming.
He crosses halfcourt with forty seconds left and calls for isolation, waving off the screen his teammate tries to set. The defender crouches lower, ready for the drive everyone knows is coming. Ethan fakes left, goes right, and explodes toward the basket with that terrifying first step.
The State center rotates over to help, all six-foot-ten of him, and what happens next seems to unfold in slow motion. Ethan goes up for the layup, the center goes up to block it, and their bodies collide mid-air with a sound that echoes through the suddenly silent arena. The whistle screams—flagrant foul—and Ethan crumples to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat.
He doesn't get up immediately, just lies there on the hardwood while trainers rush onto the court and the referee reviews the play on the monitor. The girlfriend section has gone quiet, Tyler's mom gripping my arm without seeming to realize it. Fifteen thousand people hold their breath, waiting.
Slowly, painfully, Ethan pushes himself to sitting. The trainer asks him questions, tests his responses, and finally helps him stand. The arena erupts in relieved applause as he waves off the stretcher, shaking his head at the concerned coaches crowding around him.
Two free throws with twelve seconds left, and we're down by one.
Ethan steps to the line, bouncing the ball three times the way he always does. His face is calm, focused, completely unbothered by the fifteen thousand people screaming at maximum volume. I watch his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, watch his eyes fix on the rim, watch his form as the ball leaves his hands in a perfect arc.
Swish.
The arena explodes, but we're only tied now—one more to go. Ethan catches the ball from the ref, goes through his routine again, and I realize I'm holding my breath so hard my chest aches. Everything narrows to this moment—the ball, the rim, the boy I'm pretending to love and might actually be falling for.
The shot goes up, hangs in the air for an eternity, and drops through clean.
We're up by one with twelve seconds left, and the noise is so loud I can feel it in my bones. State calls timeout, but it doesn't matter—their final shot rims out as the buzzer sounds, and suddenly the court is flooded with players and coaches and fans who've jumped the barriers.
I stand frozen in the girlfriend section, watching the chaos unfold below me, not sure what I'm supposed to do now. The families around me are hugging, crying, screaming with joy, but I'm paralyzed by the unreality of it all.
Then I see him pushing through the crowd, still in his uniform, drenched in sweat and grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. His eyes scan the stands until they find me, and something in his expression shifts into pure, unguarded happiness.
He reaches the railing and doesn't stop, just reaches up, grabs my waist, and lifts me over the barrier like I weigh nothing. My feet hit the court and then I'm in his arms, crushed against his chest, his laughter vibrating through me while he spins me around.
"We did it," he breathes against my hair. "Did you see that? Did you see?"
I'm laughing despite myself, my arms around his neck, my face pressed against his shoulder. For one perfect moment, I forget this is fake, forget the contract, forget every reason I'm supposed to hate him. There's just this—his arms around me, his joy infectious, the roar of the crowd surrounding us like a cocoon.
Cameras flash everywhere, capturing the moment from every angle, and I know these photos will be all over social media within the hour. But I don't care, not right now, not with his heart pounding against mine and his smile so wide it transforms his whole face.
"You were incredible," I hear myself say, and I mean it completely.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes soft and searching and full of something that makes my breath catch. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone, and for a moment I think he might kiss me right here in front of everyone.
Then his expression flickers, focusing on something over my shoulder.
I turn, following his gaze toward the tunnel entrance, and my stomach drops through the floor. Marcus stands there in street clothes, no knee brace visible, watching us with an expression I can't read from this distance. Cleared to play—the realization hits me like cold water. He's been cleared, which means he'll be back on the court, back on the team, back in my daily life.
Back to watching me with Ethan every single day.
His eyes meet mine across the chaos of the celebration, and neither of us looks away.