I can see the steady stream of people entering Ray Fieldhouse from the window in our living room. It’s weird to watch people come to a game decked out in blue and yellow. They hurry from their cars to the front door as excitement and hope that the home team will pull through radiates from them.

A contradiction to the way the bus of Utah players walked in two hours earlier. Slow, taking it all in and adjusting to being in someone else’s house. They walked into my house, but it isn’t really mine anymore, and it’s fucking weird and awful. I consider where I should be. Do I go to the game and sit on the bench like I somehow still belong? Sitting in the bleachers isn’t fucking happening. That’s my team but in a completely different way than the fans think it’s their team. I built that team, and spent the last four years busting my ass. Z and I crafted a team that is strong and quick and smart.

When the parking lot finally calms, I step out onto the front porch, and the sounds assault me. The rise and fall of the crowd cheering is my scoreboard, the refs whistle a shrill sound that brings silence that is more nerve wracking than the noise. I’m sweating, and my foot throbs as I pace back and forth, picturing it all.

I remove my hat, pull at my hair and then stop. Gonna make myself bald with the amount of tugging I’ve been doing. I put the hat back on and pull out my phone, giving in to my temptation to check the score online. I’ve missed two texts from Blair.

Well, fuck, now I’m even more curious about what the hell is going on. Do they need me like the game is going bad or it’s going well and she wants me to see the team finally meshing? I’m not even sure which would hurt less.

Or, Christ, maybe someone is messing with her. So far, people seem to have gotten the message that I’m not playing around when it comes to protecting Blair, but maybe my absence has brought out the bullies.

I cross the street and slow down as I approach.

“Wes! Wes!”

I catch a mass of brown hair in my peripheral and turn. Blair is running toward me, waving her arms. We’re the only two people out here, so it isn’t like I could miss her.

“Hey. You’re here.” Her breaths are shallow, and she puts a hand at her waist like she has a cramp from the fifty-yard jog.

My eyes fall to her chest, where the number twelve is proudly displayed. Her eyes follow mine.

“Everything okay? Why aren’t you inside?”

She’s still panting as she says, “I came to find you. Why aren’t you inside?”

“For what? I can’t play.” What about this is so fucking hard for her to understand?

“They need you. Z looks angrier than ever and Shaw is a mess. You may not be able to play, but they need you right now. You’re still their leader.”

“How bad is it?”

“Go see for yourself.”

The buzzer goes off, and there is a surge of movement inside the fieldhouse.

“Halftime,” she says. “I think they need a pep talk from you more than they do the coach. I can’t even pretend to understand your role and how much this has to suck, but I can see they are struggling and looking for someone to step up. Go be that person.”

“What the hell am I supposed to say?”

She grins widely, probably pleased I’m finally soliciting her words of wisdom. “I can’t pull something from my canned inspirational quotes for this one.”

“You could try,” I grit out. Figures . . . the one fucking time I need her is the one fucking time she tells me she has nothing.

“How about pulling from your own material, maybe something about heart and talent? It helped me when I needed it, maybe it’ll work for them too.”

She leaves me standing there gawking after her. Even in this moment, I can appreciate how damn good she looks wearing my jersey. My name plastered across her delicate shoulders and number stretching down to her tiny waist.

Well, looks like this is it. I either have to get in there or get the hell out of dodge before I’m spotted.

It’s doubtful anyone is going to recognize me without my jersey, but I’m not taking any chances. I’m here for Z. The idea that he might need me, that I let him down . . . again, is more than I can take. I should be out there making sure he gets the shots he needs. Making sure the team makes it to the tournament again and ensuring Z’s name is called in the first round of the draft. That was my job.

Coach’s voice booms down the hallway. A set of security guards blocking off entry to the locker room look me up and down, but before I have to do something embarrassing like explain who the fuck I am, the one on the right recognizes me.

“Sorry about the foot, Reynolds. Boys sure could use you out there tonight.”

I nod and open the door before I can talk myself out of it. It creaks shut, announcing my arrival just as Coach finishes his halftime yelling spree with the usual pep talk about coming back and working as a team.

“Reynolds.” Coach nods and places his clipboard at his side. “You gonna join us for the second half?”

My teammates eye me with a mixture of pity and hope.

“Yes, sir.”

He tosses me the clipboard. “Shaw, see Wes before you head out see if he has any notes on Utah’s defense.”

My hands shake as I grip the board in one hand and uncap the dry erase marker with the other. I stand in front of Shaw and make x’s to represent the defense that Utah typically runs.

“Utah runs a combination. Pressure up top and zone down low. The most important thing you need to know about their style is that they’re a bunch of selfish pricks. Talented, but selfish. They’re aggressive and they take risks, which tends to pay off because it rattles their opponents. You can’t let them rattle you. You play your game, not theirs. They want to pressure you to take the shot or make a quick pass, but that isn’t our style. Our game is slow and smart. If you find yourself feeling rushed, you’re giving in to their game.”

Shaw nods, but he looks as good as defeated. I sigh and give in to Blair’s advice.

“You can do this. We can beat them. We’re just as talented, and our team has more heart. We play as a cohesive unit and get the ball to whoever has the best look—no matter what. They don’t understand how not to be selfish, and that’s how you’re going to beat them. Take your time and move the ball around to get the best look.”

“Sounds so simple.”

I pat him on the back, a real smile threatening at the corners of my mouth. “It is.”

Everyone clears the locker room except for Z, who hangs back, waiting for the door to close behind Shaw.

“I’m glad you came. Know it must be hard being here.”

“I think it’s going to be hard either way. This way, at least I don’t feel like I’m letting you down again. I’ll do whatever I can to make sure Shaw plays the kind of ball that’ll get you in that first round.”

“Fuck the draft.”

My eyebrows shoot up high enough to reach the Valley hat on my head.

“You think I care about all that more than I care about you?”

“I . . .”

Well, fuck, yeah that’s what I think.

“Playing next to you these years has been an honor. God willing, I’ll get picked up in the first round, but right now I just want to know my friend is okay. Whatever you need, I’m here, just say the word.”

“What do you say we start with a win out there tonight?”

He smirks. “Guess that depends on the pep talk you gave rook. He ready?”

“I sure as shit hope so,” I mutter as we exit the locker room together.

Sitting on the sidelines during the second half is less weird than I imagined. Or maybe I’m just too glued to the action to feel anything but anxious. I’ve spent very little time on this bench during my college career and never really looked around and enjoyed the view. The way the stadium is filled with blue and yellow, the way the fans are always ready to jump to their feet to defend a bad call or cheer us on. The way one particular girl wrings her hands as she watches me instead of the guys on the floor.

I smirk at her and give her a small nod. Her shoulders visibly relax. I’d give anything to be out on that floor, but the view from the sidelines definitely has its perks. I wonder what she looked like when she watched me play. Did she jump up and down and cheer for me? Did she watch me more than the other guys?

We pull ahead and win the game by two points. Too close for anyone to feel like celebrating.

“What made you decide to come?” Joel asks as we make our way back to the house. Despite Z’s monologue earlier, he’s back to quiet, headphones on and the bass pumping.

“Blair,” I admit. “Chick’s relentless.”

“We owe her. Having you here made all the difference,” Joel says.

And I know just how to repay her.