“Shut up,” I call after him.
Coach calls us in for the final huddle before introductions, and I’m grateful when the conversation is entirely about matchups and rotations. No emotional speeches or performative declarations of solidarity. Just basketball.
That’s what I need.
When we line up for introductions, I glance toward the courtside section.
Rafe is there.
He’s seated beside Miles, dark coat, hands loosely clasped, posture relaxed but alert. There’s a subtle stir around them—phones angled discreetly, whispers passing between fans—but it doesn’t feel hostile. Curious, maybe.
He catches my eye. He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t blow a kiss or perform. He simply looks at me. And no lie, some of my churning anxiety I’ve been refusing to acknowledge settles.
The lights dim. The announcer’s voice booms through the arena. My name is called last.
The roar that follows is full-bodied. Supportive. Loud. Layered within it is a distinct wave of boos from the visiting section. They’ve committed.
Fine. Let them. I can hear Rafe’s voice in my head, making it clear that if anyone has a problem, they can simply go fuck themselves.
The game begins at a fast pace.
I bring the ball up on our first possession, scanning the defense, feeling for rhythm. My hands are steady. My breath is controlled.
We run our opening set cleanly. Cass cuts through the lane, pulling his defender with him. I fake right, step back left, rise from just inside the elbow.
The shot leaves my fingers with a confidence that feels almost meditative.
Net.
The building responds instantly. The visiting fans respond louder.
I don’t look at them. I don’t need to.
The opposing point guard smirks at me as he crosses half-court. “Gonna be noisy tonight,” he mutters.
“Hope so,” I reply evenly.
He drives hard on the next possession, but I slide with him and force him to kick out to the wing. We contest, grab the rebound, and push in transition.
The rhythm builds.
Every time I touch the ball, the volume spikes. The boos grow more pointed, more concentrated. They aren’t creative. They aren’t clever. They’re just louder than usual.
I’ve played in hostile arenas before. I’ve shot free throws while twenty thousand people tried to rattle me.
This isn’t new. What’s new is that the noise feels personal.
Midway through the second quarter, I attack the rim and draw contact. As I step to the free-throw line, the visiting section rises almost theatrically.
The boos cascade down in waves.
I bounce the ball once. Twice. Exhale.
The first free throw drops cleanly.
The second rims out.
I nod once to myself and jog back on defense.