The ball is ours.
I bring it up the court.
Hands steady.
Heartbeat anything but.
Same court. Same paint. Same three-point line. Same glossy hardwood that reflects the overhead lights like glass—but somehow, it all feels different. Like the floor might crack under the weight of what's coming.
Like gravity's been dialed up just for us.
The air is thick. Not hot, not cold—dense. It clings to your skin. Presses against your chest like an invisible hand. The kind of air that makes you sweat before you've even started moving.
The crowd isn't just watching.
They're leaning in.
They're expecting.
They're waiting—not for a play.
For a statement.
The ball bounces under my palm with a rhythm that should calm me. It doesn't. Every bounce echoes like a war drum. I hear it, feel it in my teeth. My sneakers squeak as I shift left, test my defender, eyes flicking across the floor.
Everyone's in motion.
But it's not chaos.
It's choreography.
