Page 90 of Ruthless Court

The stats are hiding it.

I rub a hand over my face.

She has thick glasses, frizzy hair, and boots better suited for drinking cocoa than crossing campus in a storm. She looks like she spends Friday nights correcting punctuation in library books.

Yet she broke down my game in less than two minutes.

Not generally either.

She named the possessions.

The defenses.

The exact point where my mechanics shift.

Then she looked at me like I was the one who didn’t understand basketball.

My phone buzzes.

Eli: Film in ten. You alive?

I type back while heading toward the athletic complex.

Unfortunately.

His response comes before I clear the archway.

Vale update?

I shove the phone into my pocket.

Wrong obsession.

* * *

Coach runs the Cal game first.

The lights are off in the film room. Twelve players sit across three rows while the projector freezes my body halfway through a left-side drive.

My right shoulder is already turning.

I stare at the screen.

Coach draws a circle around the weak-side defender.

“What do you see, Haverhill?”

Footnote’s voice answers in my head.

You decide where you’re escaping before the trap closes.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees.

“I showed him the ball too early.”

Coach clicks the remote.

The play continues.