Page 407 of Bad Prince
Dove on the floor for a loose ball and came up grinning when I flipped it backward to Jalen for a dunk.
The bench lost its mind.
The road crowd started booing me every time I touched it.
Late in the fourth, tie game, under two minutes, Coach called a set for me at the top.
Clear side.
One defender.
Everything breathing hard.
I dribbled left.
Crossed back.
Saw him shift too high.
Rose.
The jumper felt perfect the second it left my hand.
Net.
Nothing else.
The sound that came out of our section was animal.
On the next possession I forced a bad pass, Kane got the steal, and we ended it at the line.
When the buzzer sounded, the whole arena turned into noise and flashing cameras and teammates pounding into my shoulders.
Somebody grabbed my jersey and yelled, “Thirty-two!”
Kane got both hands on my head and shouted, “This is what romance novels do to a man!”
I shoved him off, laughing now because I couldn’t help it.
Maybe he was right again.
Maybe that was the joke.
I’d spent so much time trying to wall off the parts of me that wanted too hard, loved too hard, felt too much.
And the second I stopped treating that as a flaw?
I became harder to beat.
In the handshake line, I caught a glimpse of myself on the arena jumbotron.
Sweat-soaked.
Breathing hard.
Eyes bright.
Alive.
