The gym was thunderous...
Crowd cheering, sneakers squeaking against hardwood, chants echoing like war drums.
Coach Saejima stood near the court with his clipboard, barking out adjustments. I was seated just beside him, front and center like some kind of unofficial VIP. Water bottles lined the bench beside me, towels folded, timer ticking on the scoreboard above.
Josh was next to me, elbows on his knees, eyes sharp on the court.
"Not bad seats, huh?" he muttered, nudging me with his shoulder.
I grinned. "Right? I feel like an assistant coach."
"You've got the clipboard energy." Josh replied.
I snorted. "What does that even mean?"
"You know. Organized. Bossy. Cute when you yell."
I laughed. "Shut up." But my cheeks were definitely warmer than they should've been.
Josh leaned back, stretching his legs. "Still... sucks just sitting here, though. But I get it."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I just looked back at the court. That was when Minho ran by, stealing the ball from Sagano's point guard like his leg hadn't been stabbed a week ago.
I flinched. "Is he seriously-?!"
"He forced his way in," Coach Saejima muttered, not even looking up from his clipboard. "Told me if I didn't let him play, he'd run laps until he passed out."
"Sounds like him," Josh muttered.
The game was tight—a back-and-forth exchange of baskets and blocks. Sagano scored. Heiran answered. Defense on both sides was cutthroat. The crowd was eating it up.
First quarter ended 24–24. Second quarter: 52–51, Heiran's favor. The guys were sweating bullets. When they called for a sub, I instinctively turned to Josh—but they waved over two other players instead. Josh didn't react. Not a frown. Not a twitch.
But I saw his grip on the water bottle tighten just a little.
He caught me staring. "I'm okay," he said with a crooked smile. "It's just... the game matters. For all of us."
Before I could say anything back, the buzzer screamed.
Halftime.
20-minute break. And it's exactly 12:30 NN. The students took this opportunity to get some refreshments before the game starts.
Back in the locker room hallway, the mood was wiped-out but wired. The boys plopped on benches, chugged water, some slumped against lockers while Coach discussed strategy with the assistant. And me? I had a paper bag of onigiri and sports drinks.
"Travis, tuna or salmon?" I asked, already holding one out.
"Whatever has less judgment in it," he muttered, rubbing his temples.
"Tuna it is." I replied and gave him the onigiri, to which he happily accepted.
James reached for a melon pan. "Do you have any of those orange vitamin drinks?"
I handed him one wordlessly.
Twan walked by, towel around his neck. "You're spoiling us."
"That's the job, right?" I replied, tossing him a banana.
Ryan gave me a low whistle. "And here I thought we just dragged you here for hydration."
"You drag me everywhere," I said with a smirk.
Then came Minho. He didn't ask for anything, just sat on the floor, back against the lockers, his breathing heavier than the rest. I knelt beside him, unscrewed the cap of a sports drink, and gently tapped it against his knee. "Hydrate. Before Coach bans you from the court for good."
He took it, didn't say anything—but our eyes met for half a second. Something in them softened. Just a flicker. A truce in motion.
"You're doing good," I said.
"I know," he replied with his trade-mark smirk.
Of course he did.
...
Second half. The moment the whistle blew, tension snapped back like a rubber band. Heiran led by five. Fifteen minutes in, everything unraveled. Minho went in for a rebound, but a Sagano player "accidentally" clipped his leg. Not the healthy one. The stabbed one.
He crumpled. Everyone screamed. The ref blew the whistle. The gym went quiet. Minho tried to get up.
Coach was already waving for the medic. "You're done," he said, voice final. "I'm not risking a re-opened wound."
Minho cursed under his breath but didn't argue this time. He limped off the courtwhile glaring at the Sagano player who clipped him.
Josh stood up. "I'll go."
Coach looked at him. "You sure?"
"Just trust me." Josh replied.
And just like that, he stripped off his warm-up jacket and stepped into the light of the court. The crowd roared. And I? I held my breath.
...
The game resumed. The gym was vibrating with tension. Sagano had closed the gap. Now it was 71–71, with only seven seconds left on the clock. Josh had the ball.
He glanced back at the bench. Minho, wrapped in ice packs, nodded once, silent approval. Coach Saejima barked something about playing it safe, going for overtime if needed. But Josh? He didn't hear it. He was already running.
The ball bounced like thunder against the polished wood as he sprinted down the sideline, ducked a screen, spun around a defender.
Four seconds.
My knuckles turned white on the towel I was holding. Everyone was on their feet. I could barely hear anything over the screaming crowd.
Three seconds.
He was behind the arc.
Two.
One.
Josh leapt. His form was smooth, like it had been practiced a thousand times in the dead of night. The ball soared. Time slowed. It felt like the entire world was holding its breath with me. Then— Swish.
The net snapped with clean perfection.
The buzzer blared.
74–71.
Silence. Then... Chaos.
Heiran's side of the gym erupted. People screamed. Players tackled each other. Coach Saejima actually smiled, which might've been scarier than his usual scowl.
Josh landed and just stood there for a second, breathing hard, eyes wide. And then James and Twan tackled him in a hug so hard they nearly broke him in half. From the bench, Minho clapped slowly. Once. Twice. Then leaned back and looked away.
I was still frozen. My heart wouldn't stop hammering. Not from the game. Not just from the win.
But from the boy at the center of it.
Josh looked up.
And our eyes met...
I didn't think. I didn't even know what I was doing. I just ran. Past Coach Saejima. Past the towels and water bottles. Past the sea of people pouring out of the bleachers. Straight to him.
He barely had time to react before I threw my arms around him in a hug—tight, clumsy, breathless. My heart pounded against his chest.
"You did it," I breathed.
His hand hovered like he wasn't sure where to put it, but then it landed lightly between my shoulder blades. "We did it."
I laughed, and it came out more like a gasp. "Okay, you did it."
From the side of the court, the guys were approaching through the crowd. Travis was grinning and bumping fists with another teammate. Twan was yelling something about celebratory ramen. James was surrounded by girls. Ryan was already giving a short interview to the school paper.
And Minho? He slowed down when he saw us. When he saw me still wrapped around Josh. His expression didn't change. Didn't flinch. Didn't say a word. But he saw. And I saw him see. I stepped back from Josh a beat too late.
The crowd swallowed the moment. The team swept Josh away, hoisting him into the air like a hero. Everyone cheered. I cheered too, clapping while smiling brightly. A win was a win. No one would let tension ruin that. But later, when I turned my head just a little, I saw Minho again.
He wasn't celebrating like the others, but he wasn't sulking either. Just standing near the bench, towel slung around his neck, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He wasn't looking at Josh. He was looking at me.
And then, slowly, he looked away. Like nothing had registered. Like the hug, like I—meant nothing. A smirk even tugged at the edge of his mouth as he fist-bumped Travis and said something I couldn't hear. He hid it well. Too well. But something in my chest twisted anyway.
Because I knew better now. Minho didn't wear his emotions on his sleeve. He buried them.
Deep.
And something about the way he didn't react at all?
Somehow... that hurt even more.