Chapter 43

It's raining out—enough that the droplets completely blur the view beyond the windshield before the wipers kick in. I'd be worried… if we weren't sitting idle in the parking lot. Dad had found a space big enough to park his truck, minus the trailer, and behind us, in the distance is the basketball arena. He'd spent the entire drive talking about Jace and how excited he was to watch a ball game again.

Me? I spent it in silence, wondering if I could even walk through the doors.

"What's wrong?" Dad asks, turning his entire body to me. He'd been raring to go as soon as he parked, but I stopped him before he could even kill the engine. "Talk to me, kiddo."

I slowly face him. "So… Jace has these weekly open practices at school…"

"Okay?"

"And the first time I walked into the gym, I…" It feels so ridiculous saying the words out loud, but he should know in case it happens again. "I kind of, um… something triggered inside of me, I guess, and I just ran out of there and waited outside, and I think I may have had a panic attack, or at least that's what it felt like, but I don't know…"

"Honey," he coos, reaching over to rub my arm. "Why didn't you say something earlier?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I didn't want to bring up memories of Harley for you, and it kind of felt silly, you know?"

He nods, as if understanding, and I wonder if he's ever had moments like mine. Not just outside the school gym, but in general. I wonder if he misses Harley the way I do, how even the slightest of memories of his death can cause me to tailspin. "Have you been able to go back since?"

"Yeah, I have." It's been a few weeks since that day, since Jace declared me "his girl," and I've attended all the open practices since, each one easier than the last. "I've been okay since, but that's the school gym…" It's tiny compared to the arena we're about to walk into, which, according to Jace, is where all future games will be played. This one is more like the gym at my old school, but this one has multiple courts and bleachers surrounding each one. There are large overhead lights, digital scoreboards. The works. And today, the first Saturday of the pre-season, the league will utilize all five courts. Twelve teams. Two ten-minute halves. Elimination. Last team standing wins.

Twelve teams means a large, loud crowd, and I don't know if I'm ready for it.

It's one thing to have your brother die during a game, but it's another thing to witness it along with a thousand other people.

The ball was in his hand when it happened, and the crowd was on their feet, cheering him on as his feet left the ground for a simple jump shot, and then…

And then it was silent. For seconds that felt like minutes, Harley just lay there…

"What happened after?" Dad asks, bringing me back to the present. I blink over at him, confused. "After you left the gym and had a panic attack?"

"Jace came out and found me. Then held my hand when we went back in."

His eyebrows rise, just a tad, a slight smile playing on his lips. "He left practice for you?"

"Yeah," I say, the muscles in my shoulders slowly unfurling. "He did."

"So he knows about how you felt walking in there?"

I nod.

"And so he'll understand if you don't show tonight?"

"Yeah, we've talked about it."

Dad looks behind us at the arena, then back at me. "You want me to hold your hand when we walk in there?"

I laugh under my breath. "Maybe."

The volume inside the arena compared to the outside is insane, and the games haven't even started yet. I release Dad's hand to check my phone for the text Jace had sent me, letting me know which court to go to for his first game. Before I can find the text, Dad nudges my side. "Are they your friends?"

I look up to see where he's pointing and smile when I find Sammy and Jeannie waving at me. I wave back, and they point to the empty seats beside them. "They saved us some seats," I tell Dad, walking over to them.

"You don't have to sit with me, Harlow. I understand if it's embarrassing. Go sit with your friends."

I stop in my tracks, turn to him. "Don't be ridiculous. You're here to watch my boyfriend play. I want to sit with you."

"So he's your boyfriend now?" he teases, and I roll my eyes at him. He responds by throwing his hands up in surrender. "Just asking a question."

I introduce Dad to my friends, who saved us front-row seats right at half-court. Sammy doesn't hide how smitten she is with him, which is gross, but also completely Sammy.

I'd love to say that being with them eases the tension coiling inside me, but it doesn't. I'm on edge. My knee bounces uncontrollably, and I struggle for every inhale. Every exhale. At one point, I can physically feel the blood simmering beneath my flesh and have to remove my sweater, use it to wipe the sweat off my brow. My dad's the only one who notices, and he places a gentle hand on my back, whispering in my ear, "Do you want to go?"

I almost tell him yes, that it's too much, but then cheers erupt from beside me, and I look up to see the team walking to the sideline with Jace front and center. He strips off his team jacket, revealing his tanned, muscular arms, and it's not as if I hadn't seen him like this before, but it's somehow different now. And I don't know if it's the lights, or the buzz surrounding me, or even if it's because I know I'm only minutes away from watching him actually play.

The team forms a huddle, their heads bowed to the center—everyone but Jace. His head pops up, looking around while his coach speaks, and beside me, Dad cups his hand around his mouth and yells, "Let's go, Jace!"

Jace's eyes dart to Dad, then to me, and he smiles. The tiniest of smiles… with the largest of meanings.

It means something to him—to have me here.

Just like he means something to me—to be able to watch him like this.

Maybe we could mean something to each other.

The ref blows his whistle, and it's game time.

Jace is steadfast, focused from the moment the ball's thrown in the air for the first time. He moves on the court the same way he does in my yard—fast, intentional, and effortless. Every step, every play, every move of his muscles is timed to perfection. He doesn't take a break. Neither does Jonah. All while the rest of their teammates rotate on and off the bench. It's clear that the two boys carry their team, and the opposition knows it too. Their defense strategy is proof. Jace never has less than two people on him, always, and yet, we win the first game with Jace as leading scorer, and all that anxiety I felt before the game started? All those nerves that were crawling inside me? Completely gone by the time the final buzzer sounds.

"Holy shit," Dad huffs as soon as it's over. "I knew the kid was good, Harlow, but man…"

"I know, right?"

There's a fifteen-minute break between games, but the teams spend that time in the locker rooms, so I don't have a chance to see Jace again until game two. We move to the next court to wait for it to start, and I relay the information Jace gave me to my dad. "He said that most kids in his caliber move to more populated areas or higher-ranking schools, so he doesn't have a lot of competition in the region." I lower my voice so others around me don't hear. "He predicts they'll make it to the final game against Fremont and lose by ten to fifteen. Not because they have anyone better than him, but because they have more above-average players."

"He told you all this?" Dad asks, pulling back an inch.

I nod. "He studies each and every team. Not just the team as a whole, but each individual player. Game tape. Stats. All of it."

"When does he have time for all that, between work, school, and basketball?"

"Usually at work, when it's quiet." He's asked me to quiz him on things, and I swear, the boy's mind is a sponge. "He told me he can practice as much as he wants, but he can't do shit with it if he doesn't know the defense."

"It's true," Dad agrees with him. "But usually, at high school level, you're just looking to show off, make the best plays, and then celebrate after. Jace doesn't even do that."

I recall all the times he scored in the previous games, and Dad's right. His supporters cheer. His teammates celebrate. Jace—he just goes back to where he's needed and waits for the next play.

Over and over.

Again and again.

The Vikings breeze through the next two rounds, and just as Jace predicted, they take on Fremont in the fourth and final game. Sammy and Jeannie have a solid strategy on how to always get us seats, front and center, for every game.

Fremont starts off strong, scoring six to nothing, and it remains that way throughout the game. The fundamental difference between Fremont and the other teams is that their defense is strong, so when Jace is double-teamed the entire time, he struggles to break free. It's frustrating as hell to watch, but Jace—just like when he scores—gives nothing away. He remains passive. Focused on the next move. The next play. With five minutes to go in the first half, we're down by eight, and Jace is attempting to score from a foot outside the three-point line. He jumps for the shot, but before the ball even leaves his hand, he's fouled—body checked by one of his defenders, and he falls to the ground.

I'm on my feet, hand to my mouth, my lungs void of oxygen while Jace lies on the floor, completely unmoving.

It's silent.

All but for the beating of my heart.

Not again.

Not again.

Not again.

I feel Dad's hand on my shoulder, but I can't move. Can't breathe.

Not until Jace does. Initially, he moves his hand to his ribs, right where he'd been shouldered. And then he lifts his head, his eyes instantly finding mine. "I'm okay," he mouths, and the crowd is on their feet, stomping, cheering, clapping.

I swallow, but my throat's too dry, and Dad's pulling me down. "It's okay, sweetheart," he soothes once I'm seated. "Jace is okay."

Jonah helps Jace to his feet, while the other players line the key, but Jace doesn't go to the free-throw line.

He comes to me.

Squatting down in front of me, he reaches up, moves my hair behind my ear. "I'm okay," he repeats, and I nod, try to calm my breathing. "It's going to happen again with this team, and you know why?"

"Rivera!" his couch yells. "We got a game to win!"

Jace doesn't respond to him, just keeps his eyes on me.

"Why?" I ask.

"Because I'm the best." There's no cockiness in his words, and there's no lie in them either.

"Yeah, well, I don't like it," I mumble, my eyebrows furrowed. I motion to his opposition. "And I don't like them."

Jace smiles at my words, one wide enough to show his teeth. "I'll be sure to let them know," he says before standing to full height. He takes his two free throws, sinks them both.

Within minutes of the second half, there's a switch in the air, and Jace begins his domination. His two defenders often become three, and still, he manages to score against them and push us into the lead by two. Sammy and Jeannie are wild with excitement, and with thirty seconds left on the clock, it's a standing crowd. It's obvious that Jace's opponents are gassed, physically fatigued from defending Jace for the past twenty minutes, and Jace—he looks like he could go another thousand minutes more.

Jonah throws a behind-the-back pass to Jace, and Jace slowly dribbles the ball toward me. Within arm's reach of me, he stops, lazily bounces the ball between his legs, as if putting on a show just for me. The same two opponents he's had all night guard him, their legs spread, hands out in front of them. "Hey, guess what?" Jace asks them, and they look from each other, back to Jace, confused. "My girlfriend said she doesn't like you." And then he shoots, from half-court, and… nothing but net.

The buzzer sounds, and he turns to me. "Told you I'm the best," he says, and then he smirks as he runs away, joining the rest of his team.