the game

The gym reeked of varnished wood, sweat, and popcorn, the Friday-night chaos vibrating off the bleachers in a constant roar. Tom’s sneakers squealed across the court as he drove the ball past his defender, the leather hot and alive under his palm. His body moved almost without him—years of drills snapping into instinct as he cut inside, rose, and laid the ball up off the glass.

The crowd erupted. The cheerleaders jumped, their skirts flashing white and red, ponytails snapping like banners.

Somewhere in the first row, Donna stood with her pom-poms at her sides, not even pretending to go through the motions of the routine. She was staring at him the way she always did when he was in motion—like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream his name or drag him off the court. Their eyes met for a split second, and Tom felt the spark, raw and undeniable. But it was faint compared to the deeper burn in his chest, the one that whispered of the woman who was not in this gym, who was out in a restaurant with Robert.

He clenched his jaw, pushed harder, played like every shot might split him open. By halftime, he’d already dropped fifteen points. By the fourth quarter, the other team looked worn and battered, their shoulders slumped every time he drove past them.

When the final buzzer went, the scoreboard glowed with their victory. The gym thundered with chants, fists pounding on the bleachers. Teammates mobbed him at center court, clapping his back, mussing his hair, shouting his name.

“Hell of a game, Tom!” Marcus bellowed, yanking him into a half-hug.

“Man was on fire!” someone else shouted.

They streamed into the locker room, sweat slicking their arms, the air humid with steam and adrenaline. Tom peeled off his jersey, muscles buzzing with the aftermath, his body restless.

And when the showers ran hot, when his teammates laughed and talked about the girls who’d winked from the stands, Tom just kept his head down, running the towel over his face, his mind flashing between two worlds. Sarah’s damp hair as she leaned over the bathroom counter. Sarah’s perfume in the hallway. Sarah’s laugh over wine glasses somewhere else, maybe right now while he sat here dripping sweat.

After the locker room, the night exploded outward. Someone’s car stereo blasted bass so heavy it rattled the windows as they piled into trucks and sedans, heading for the pizza joint that always served them after a win. The place was jammed, the booths overflowing, the cheerleaders already in line at the counter, lipstick bright under the fluorescent lights.

Donna slid into the booth opposite him without asking, pom-poms tossed on the seat beside her. Her hair was damp with sweat from the routines, strands clinging to her temple, but she looked at him like he was the only one in the room.

“You played out of your mind tonight,” she said, chin in her hand.

Tom gave her a smile he didn’t feel, his stomach still twisted, his blood still warm with that other, secret fire. Around them the noise surged—teammates slapping high-fives, girls leaning close to whisper, grease-slicked pizzas landing on the tables with clattering plates.

A cheerleader at the end of the booth leaned over, brushing her arm against his as she passed a plate. Donna noticed; her eyes narrowed.

But Tom wasn’t thinking of either of them.

He nodded at their chatter, ate a slice of pizza he barely tasted, laughed when Marcus told a story loud enough to draw half the room’s attention. On the surface, he was just another kid celebrating a win, basking in the attention.

Inside, though, his mind was elsewhere. The whole time, he saw Sarah’s smile in the candlelight of a restaurant, Sarah’s legs crossing beneath the tablecloth, Sarah’s hand resting lightly on Robert’s wrist.

The cheers of the night washed over him, but none of it reached the hollow, burning center where his mother lived.