One bounce. Two bounces. Three. Bend the knees and close the eyes. Open the eyes, bounce the ball one more time, and shoot.

Swish.

Thank goodness. I have the highest free-throw percentage in Loudoun County and the second-highest in the state of Virginia, but we’re only eight minutes into Saturday’s game, and already I’ve missed two. About time I hit one.

Keisha gives me a fist bump as we race down to the other end of the court. “You good, Lex?”

I nod. “Caffeine’s starting to kick in.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “You’re a trip.”

Energy’s not my problem. Focus is. I’m trying to keep my mind in the game, but it insists on wandering over to the bleachers. I’m a boss at ignoring the crowd—when you have parents like mine, that’s crucial—but today I can’t help but peer over every thirty seconds to check on Chris and Lindsay.

It’s not a pretty sight. She’s gripping his arm like a spider wrapping up its prey. Somehow her plastic giggle manages to rise above the shouts of the entire freaking crowd, even my parents. The way she gazes at Chris, the way she flings her hair into his chest, I can tell they’ve kissed. They’ve definitely kissed.

Whack. A forward from the other team slams into my left shoulder and passes me on her way to the basket.

“Malloy! What was that?” Coach calls a time out. Before I even reach the sidelines, she’s in my face, blasting me for giving up the shot. “Take a seat.”

I bite my lip. I’ve never been benched like this, not in the middle of a close game and certainly not with the state championship on the line. Fortunately, my parents are now sitting behind me, so I don’t have to see the expressions on their faces.

I cheer as Carmella scores a lay-up, but after that, it’s turnover after turnover and the other team goes up by two points, four points, seven points. Okay, Reilly, put me in. You’ve made your point.

Coach ignores me as she paces back and forth in front of my seat. Fine. I deserve it. I sucked out there, but is she seriously going to give up state?

Across the court, the other team’s fans smell blood. They begin chanting. “Spar-tans! Spar-tans! Spar-tans!”

I look back at Lindsay and Chris to find her running her hands through his hair. My stomach twists. I can tell she’s teasing him because his face is bright red. Must be asking about the cowlick. I get that. It’s so adorable. My fingers have itched to touch it many, many times over the past few months.

I risk a glance at my parents, who are sitting stone-faced and still. For years I’d have given anything for them to sit and watch my games quietly, but now their silence seems somehow louder than their shouting ever did.

Keisha scores two free throws, but then one of the Spartan guards immediately takes the ball down the court and sinks a three-pointer, making the score 23-15. If we don’t turn things around soon, it’ll be over. I stand up in the hopes that Coach will give up this stupid life lesson crap and put me in, but she never even acknowledges me.

Tears spring to my eyes. For real? I’m going to start crying? Maybe Coach and Chris and my mom are right. Maybe something is wrong with me. There’s no crying in basketball. It’s just … I’m not sure what to do, how to act.

For the past six years, I’ve started every game I’ve ever played. Off season, I’ve attended basketball camps every summer and practice clinics every fall. When not playing organized ball, I’ve spent half my free time on the courts at the park. Always trying to perfect my free throw, increase the range of my outside shot, take my layup a little higher.

Basketball isn’t a game I play; it’s who I am.

Or at least, it’s who I used to be.