"So where should we start?" Josh asked.
"I don't know, you're the expert here," I shrugged. "I'm just the damsel in basketball distress."
"Did you warm up at all?"
"Technically, yes. Before the groupings, I did a few stretches and jumped around near the bleachers. Then I realized I looked like a confused NPC and stopped."
He laughed. "Fair enough. That counts. Let's start with some skill drills."
I nodded. I mean, how bad could it be?
"We'll work on your dribbling and footwork. I'll walk you through the basics."
Josh started demonstrating while explaining, looking like a real coach but with cooler hair and less screaming.
"When you get the ball, you've got choices; dribble, shoot, or pass. You can go for two-pointers, threes, or get fouled and shoot from the line. Passes come in types too—bounce, chest, or air."
I blinked. "That's... a lot of pass."
"Yeah, but once you get the hang of it, it flows. And you can mix and match if you're feeling fancy."
"Maybe... if I don't trip over or embarrass myself first."
"You won't. Trust me," he said with a soft smile. "Wanna give it a shot?"
"Why do you guys always say that? 'Try it! Go on!' Like I'm about to transform into Michael Jordan overnight."
"You don't have to be perfect. It's like math—you can understand it when it's on the board, but when it's your turn to solve it, it hits different."
Touché.
I sighed dramatically. "Fine. But don't laugh. I swear if you laugh—"
"Cross my heart," he said, grinning.
I took the ball, bounced it awkwardly, and began doing the footwork he taught. My legs felt like baby giraffes in slow motion. But surprisingly... I didn't trip. I passed the ball to him, he passed it back. I switched styles. Bounce. Chest. Fumble. Recover. Try again.
I nearly fell twice but managed to stay upright.
"Okay, how was that?" I asked, hands on my knees, trying not to pant like a dying pug.
"Not bad. You're catching on."
"Probably 'cause I've got a decent coach."
Josh gave me a boyish smile. "I've had worse compliments."
Before he could say more, Ryan's voice echoed from across the court. "Yo, Josh! Practice? Ring a bell?"
"And that's my cue," Josh sighed. He started to walk off, then turned around. "You good on your own?"
"Totally. Independent woman, remember?"
He chuckled and gave me a playful salute before jogging away.
After, I gathered my stuff and headed to the showers.
And yes, the girls' shower room exists. In an all-boys school. Don't ask, I've given up trying to make sense of this place.
I double-checked each of the stalls (because I've seen enough horror movies) and took a fast five-minute rinse.
As I dressed—black joggers, plain white shirt, hair slightly damp—I walked out and saw the guys still practicing. No way I was interrupting that. So I turned toward the dorm. As I pushed open the gym door, I saw Minho leaning against the wall, scrolling his phone like a bored bodyguard.
When the door slammed behind me, he looked up.
"Took you long enough. Let's go." He motioned me over, still glued to his phone.
I blinked. "I was already heading to the dorm, you didn't have to—"
"Yeah? And maybe you'd bring another guy in again while you're at it?" he snapped.
"Wow, possessive much?" I muttered. "And shouldn't you be resting?"
Silence.
I looked at him, expecting a response, but he just kept walking.
"But thank you," I mumbled, trailing behind. We walked side-by-side in silence. The kind of silence that felt heavier than necessary. When we stopped at the crosswalk, I braved the awkward and asked, "Did you happen to go to a party last week?"
VROOOOM! Three sports bikes screamed past us at jet engine volume.
Minho glanced at me. "What was that?"
"...Nothing."
The light turned green and he walked ahead. I followed behind, rolling my eyes. "Every. Freaking. Time."
Back at the dorm, Minho collapsed onto the couch like it owed him money, flicked on the TV, and started scrolling on his phone like he was reviewing stock reports. I checked the time—5:30 p.m.
I figured I'd be productive for once and do my homework. (Key word: figured.) I trudged upstairs. "Thanks again for walking with me," I tossed over my shoulder. Yet no response. Classic.
Inside my room, I opened the window for some fresh air and leaned against the sill, watching Minho downstairs through the gap in the curtains. He was sprawled across the couch like a king who conquered a couch kingdom—remote in one hand, banana milk in the other, his face completely unreadable.
He hadn't said a single word after that "let's go" earlier. Just marched ahead like I was some stray cat following him home. And yet... he waited. I pressed my lips together and turned away, kicking off my shoes and plopping onto my chair like gravity hated me.
Ugh. This boy. I don't know if he's the villain of my story or just a really sarcastic guardian angel with a limp. I opened my bag and dug through the disaster that was my life, pulling out my battered math notebook. It practically groaned in protest.
Then came the textbook. Thick. Heavy. Smelled like ink, stress, and regret. I flipped it open. "Visualizing linear functions," I read aloud, like I was summoning something from the depths of hell. There was a long pause as I stared at the equation.
...Why does this feel illegal? Why does looking at a slope-intercept formula feel like I've committed a war crime? I sighed, grabbing my pencil and tapping it on my notebook while chewing on my lip.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice whispered: Minho probably knows this stuff. Travis definitely knows this stuff. Josh might even know this stuff...
But asking any of them felt like social suicide. I'd rather wrestle this math demon with my bare hands than risk looking dumb in front of the five most intimidatingly chaotic men on campus. Still, my mind drifted to earlier.
The way Minho looked at me when I asked about the party. The way he said "Let's go," like it was an order, not a suggestion.
The way Josh smiled when I got the pass right.
And then, the way my brain still couldn't process slope formulas.
I groaned and thunked my forehead against the page.
"Maybe I should fake my own death," I mumbled. "Or transfer to a school that only teaches karaoke and baking." I sighed dramatically, picked up my pencil... and flipped to a blank page, trying to redraw the graph.
...
...
...
30 minutes later...
My head was still buried in the same damn page.
"Freaking math, I hate you," I groaned, face-planted into the book.
Then came a knock.
"Come in!" I said
The door creaked open, and there stood Twan, towel-drying his hair.
"Oh, hi. You done with practice?" I asked.
"Yeah. Just wanted to know what you want for dinner." Twan replied.
I blinked. "Oh. Anything's fine."
"You sure?" he asked, while eyeing the mountain of crumpled notes on my desk.
"Yup. Not picky."
He nodded and turned to leave but paused. "Need help studying?"
I looked up at him, eyes sparkling. "You'd help?"
"Of course! What subject?" He replied enthusiastically.
"Math."
"...Actually, I should start dinner. Good luck, though!" And he shut the door behind him.
I flopped forward on my book again. "Traitor."
Then—chaos from downstairs.
"WHO TOOK MY BANANA MILK?!" I hear Minho shout outside.
I blinked. Oh no. Wasn't that the one James gave me? I peeked into my trash bin. The guilty bottle stared up at me. I dove into bed like it could save me from milk-based wrath.
"I hate everything."
Then James yelled from the hall, "IT HAD MY NAME ON IT!"
"YOU DREW A SMILEY FACE!" Minho barked back.
"WHO ELSE DRAWS A SMILEY WITH DEVIL HORNS?!"
I buried my face in my pillow, stifling a laugh. This dorm is chaos. Absolute chaos. For a second, I considered messaging Travis for help with math. But... knowing him, he'd probably sigh, type me a six-paragraph solution, then block me for disturbing his peace. So, I dropped that thought.
Just as I was about to shut my eyes, my phone dinged. Ugh. Another alert? I picked it up lazily and blinked.
Unknown number. One message.
"Hey, it's teach. What's up?"