Page 578 of Bad Prince
A few rows behind our bench in dark jeans and my black hoodie, hair down tonight, hands curled around the railing in front of her. No phone out. No waving. No performing support for the cameras.
Just watching.
Just there.
North.
The next shot left my hands before I’d fully reset.
Net.
Kane caught me looking and followed my line of sight.
“Oh,” he said. “There’s your compass.”
“Shut up.”
He barked a laugh and bounced the ball off my chest.
“Try not to propose at halftime.”
No promises.
Tip was violence.
Kane got fingertips to it. I pushed. Their guard picked me up high immediately, all twitch and chatter and defensive confidence.
First possession, horns set, I came off the screen, split the hedge, one long step into the lane, soft finish off the glass.
Tie game.
As I backpedaled, their point guard leaned in and said, “S&T in the building tonight?”
I looked at him once.
“Scoreboard.”
He grinned.
“Thought so.”
The next trip, Barnes picked me up on the wing. Big body. Long arms. Strong enough to make every cut feel like a fight.
“You really like initials, huh?” he muttered. “T&T. S&T. What’s next?”
I crossed hard left, took the space, rose from fifteen, and buried it.
On the way back I said, “Try guarding letters first.”
Kane laughed from the block.
Barnes didn’t.
The first ten minutes were all elbows and patience. Every rebound had hands in it. Every screen got checked. Every drive got bumped just enough to remind you this wasn’t conference play anymore.
At 13:02, Kane erased a layup off the glass so hard their whole bench came up screaming for a foul.
No whistle.
