POV: Hamari
I didn’t sleep that night.
Just laid there, arms behind my head, staring at the ceiling like it owed me answers. Her face wouldn’t leave. Not loud or dramatic — just there. Quiet. Stubborn.
The bump.
The look she gave me — not long, not fast. Just enough to stay.
Every time I blinked, it came back. And the worst part?
I never got her name.
I meant to message her. Meant to check the app. Just… didn’t. Between practice, school, Council work, and Malik calling to rant about MMA rankings again — I let it slip.
Then morning hit like a brick.
Alarm blaring. Late.
Couldn’t afford that. Not with the last game before the finals just a month away. Not when I was the captain.
I threw on my gear, tied my shoes so tight I lost feeling in my toes, and ran.
Coach didn’t say a word. Just gave me that “I expected better” stare.
“You good, Cap?” one of the rookies asked, tossing me a ball.
“Didn’t hear the alarm,” I muttered. Half-lie.
I buried myself in drills. Step, bounce, shoot. Tried to sweat her out of my system.
Didn’t work.
She came back anyway.
In the bleachers. In the still moments. In the haze between reps.
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Maybe she wasn’t even real.
Maybe I built too much off a moment that wasn’t meant to mean anything.
But if that was true… why did it still feel like something?
So I trained harder.
I wasn’t born with height or freak genetics. Just hours. Just burn.
That was enough.
I liked the pressure. The ache. The sharpness of proving yourself daily.
Still — her face hovered.
Would I see her again?
During scrimmage, I missed a pass.
Coach barked. “Hamari! Head in or out?”
“In,” I said. “Just foggy.”
Liam smacked my back like always. “You good, bro? Want me to carry you again?”
Elijah passed me a bottle, didn’t say anything — just stared like he already knew.
“I’m fine,” I muttered.
“Tired don’t make you sloppy,” he said, low. “You still thinking about her?”
Leonardo whistled. “Someone got my boy dreaming.”
Oliver danced past us. “Love struck. Tragic.”
I flipped them all off. Laughing. Real this time — not fake.
They were my people. I didn’t have to pretend around them. Not fully. Not ever.
But Elijah? He looked at me a second longer.
And I didn’t have to say a word.
Game day.
Crowd high. Lights hot. Court ready.
We walked out of the tunnel — sharp, locked in.
Then I saw her.
Front row.
Same amazing hair — thick curls tied back, loose at the edges like they refused to be tamed.
Golden-colored skin that caught the lights and made her look like she’d been painted there.
A warm smile — not loud, not flirty, just calm. Quietly bold.
Her.
Not a memory. Not a maybe.
She came.
I froze for half a second. Looked away before I gave too much away. Part of me didn’t even want her to know I noticed.
But I noticed.
So I played.
First quarter: solid.
Second: sharper.
Third: electric. I was locked in.
Then the fourth came.
They started pressing harder. Dirty screens. Too much contact.
They knew about my shoulder.
One bad drive. A shove in transition.
Then it happened — clipped from behind.
Right shoulder twisted mid-air.
Pop.
Pain shot through me like lightning.
I hit the floor. Didn’t move.
Crowd went silent.
I didn’t scream. Didn’t grab it. Just felt the sting settle deep.
Coach’s voice was muffled. The lights above looked too far away.
I already knew.
The doc warned me last season — one more hard hit, and I could be out. Six months. Maybe more.
My team. My shot. The plan.
Gone.
We had a real chance — not just playoffs. Finals. My last real season before school took over everything.
And now?
I clenched my jaw.
Went from the guy leading the charge…
to the guy on the floor.
My family saw. Malik. My brother. My boys.
And her.
I looked once.
She hadn’t moved.
Still front row. Still watching.
Her warm eyes didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away.
One second.
One hit.
And just like that —
it all slipped.
