Page 46 of Caden & Theo
Still, it’s tied 9–9 when I find my next opening. Leroy swings it out to me on the wing, and I don’t think—I just move. One dribble, hard left. My defender hesitates. I pull up.
The ball leaves my fingertips in a clean, perfect arc.
Swish.
The net snaps with that pure, satisfying sound that makes every hour in the gym worth it.
Twelve to nine.
I jog back on defense, adrenaline humming in my veins, every nerve lit up with energy. I’ve never felt more locked in. Every movement is crisp. Every rotation smooth. I see the court like it’s slowed down, every screen and shift unfolding like choreography.
I belong here.
This isn’t just a dream anymore. It’s real. It’s mine.
Coach doesn’t say much when I get subbed out for the first time, but the hard slap to my shoulder and the nod of approval tells me everything I need to know. I sink onto the bench, my jersey clinging to my sweat, chest heaving. I suck in a deep breath, heart pounding like it’s trying to break through my ribs.
I glance into the crowd once more. There he is.
Theo hasn’t moved from his seat. He’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, watching me like I’m the only player on the court. My hoodie swamps his frame, sleeves bunched up, his curls soft and loose. He’s all big eyes and hidden smiles, doing his best to look casual while failing spectacularly.
No one around him knows he’s watching his boyfriend.
But I do.
And it makes my heart thud even harder.
When I get back in, I find another gear.
I push through off-ball screens, reading plays before they form. I pick off a lazy pass at the top of the key and launch a break. I don’t take it all the way—I dish it to Jamari, who drains the corner three. We slap hands on the way back up court, and he grins like a proud older brother.
A few possessions later, I drive hard, drawing contact. I hit the floor, but the foul is called, and I grin up at the ref through the sting in my elbow. This is what I trained for. This is what I love.
At the line, I take a second to focus.
One bounce. Breathe. Shoot.
The first free throw is smooth. The second follows it with ease.
By the time the halftime buzzer sounds, we’re up by six.
My stat line isn’t jaw-dropping—eight points, three assists, one steal, two boards—but I’ve made an impact. I’ve kept the tempo up. I’ve held my ground. I’ve played smart. And above all, I’ve earned every second I’ve spent on that court.
As I jog toward the bench, I feel that ache in my legs, that tight pull of muscle across my back, and it feelsright. Like proof of effort. Proof that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Leroy slaps my hand with a laugh. “You’ve got juice today, North.”
“Trying not to let you carry us for once.”
“Too late,” Jamari mutters, throwing a towel at me. “You owe me an assist.”
“I got you in the second.”
Coach gathers us, running through adjustments while we sip water and towel off. He’s calm but direct. Bellarmine’s not going to back down. They’ll tighten their defense, test our second looks, try to force us into jump shots.
We nod, listen, commit.
And even as I’m taking in every word, there’s still a flicker of warmth in the back of my mind—one I don’t try to shake. Because Theo’s up there, watching me from the stands, wearing my clothes and my smile, and I swear I can still feel his fingers in my hair from last night.
