Betty
My dad and I pulled into the school parking lot with five minutes to spare, and even from the outside, I could hear the energy spilling out of the gym. It was loud, intense—buzzing in the kind of way that only happens before a big game. I had never seen so many people crammed into one building that wasn’t a concert venue.
Students. Parents. Reporters. Everyone.
I followed my dad through the crowd, my steps awkward, my stomach tangled in tight, twisting knots. I clutched my jacket tighter around me even though it wasn’t cold. My hands were sweating. My heartbeat was doing the most.
The bleachers were full except for the small roped-off area marked “Family”—front row, center court. Reserved. Right there in the spotlight.
Marcus’s dad was already seated, legs crossed, dressed in a dark navy suit like he was here to close a business deal. His posture was perfect. His eyes were sharp. I’d only seen him once before, from a distance, but this time, he turned the second he heard us approach.
“Richard Branson,” he said, standing and extending a hand like it was a test. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
My dad, cool as ever, took it without hesitation. “Likewise.”
“I see your daughter’s been keeping my son on his toes,” Marcus’s dad added, eyes briefly flicking to me with that same evaluative edge.
My dad smiled, just slightly. “She’s good at that.”
I kept my gaze fixed on the court. The hardwood gleamed under the lights, and the team was already warming up. Marcus stood near the three-point line, passing and shooting like the entire gym wasn’t packed with noise. He looked focused. Fast. Fluid.
Then he turned—and saw me.
Our eyes locked for just a second, and I swear I saw it. The shift. His shoulders straightened, his movements sharpened. He passed the ball harder, ran faster, gave one of his teammates a solid chest bump. It was like my presence lit a fuse in him.
And something about that made my chest swell and ache at the same time.
The game started fast.
Eastbrook was tough—taller, sharper, maybe even dirtier in how they played—but Marcus was everywhere. He was on offense, defense, making impossible shots, calling plays, yelling encouragement, getting fouled and still landing the basket. People were chanting his name before the first quarter ended.
“Mitchell! Mitchell!”
Even my dad leaned forward. “Kid’s got vision,” he muttered under his breath.
Every time Marcus scored, I couldn’t help it—I screamed his name, clapped, cheered like I’d been born courtside. I forgot to be embarrassed. I forgot to worry about what people thought. In those moments, I wasn’t the fat girl in a too-tight top. I was someone who mattered.
Someone who belonged.
The game came down to the final seconds. The scoreboard was dead even. One shot left. Everyone knew who the ball would go to.
Marcus caught it with three seconds on the clock.
He jumped—clean, high, perfect form—and the ball sailed through the air like it was made for that arc.
Swish.
The gym erupted. People jumped out of their seats. Screaming. Whistles. Someone dropped their popcorn. The band started playing, off-beat and chaotic.
And then—
Before his team could swarm him, before the coach could get to him, before the photographers even lifted their cameras—
Marcus ran.
Straight at me.
Across the court. Past the bench. Past the boundary lines.
And without slowing, he grabbed me around the waist and lifted me off the ground like I weighed nothing. My arms flew around his neck on instinct. My glasses almost slipped off, but I didn’t care. My feet dangled above the bleachers. My heart felt like it might burst.
He was smiling, wide and unguarded, his cheeks flushed with sweat and adrenaline. His hands held me tightly, like he wasn’t going to let go anytime soon.
I didn’t know where to look. I didn’t know what to say.
He didn’t say anything either. He just held me there, and in front of what felt like half the town, I melted into him.
Even Stacey, from her seat two rows up, looked stunned. For once, she didn’t have a snarky quip. Just frozen, blinking, jaw clenched.
Eventually, he set me down slowly, gently, like I was made of something breakable.
I turned toward my dad, unsure of what he’d say.
He had one eyebrow raised, the corners of his mouth tugged up.
“You want to go say hi to your boyfriend?” he asked.
I nodded, breathless.
Then he added, “I think we should talk to him too.”
His tone wasn’t critical. It was curious.
Maybe even a little proud.