Chapter 10
TEN
CADEN
Mid-October went in a quiet blur. I traveled home during fall break since there were no games on the schedule and barely any team obligations.
I spent most of those few days glued to Theo—metaphorically and, when we could swing it, literally.
Thanksgiving wasn’t much different. Sure, I did the family dinners and made an appearance for all the important photo ops, but any time I wasn’t stuffing my face or being grilled by my aunts about how college life’s treating me, I was right next to Theo.
Long-distance sucks, but somehow, we’re making it work.
Between long phone calls, mixed CDs we mail back and forth, AIM chats that stretch past midnight, and the occasional questionable photo sent via email (blurry and low-res, but still effective), we’re holding it together.
It’s not perfect. But neither of us expected perfect—we just wanted honest. And we’ve got that, in spades.
And now he’s here.
Theo drove up yesterday, fresh out of school for Christmas break, looking way too good to be legal in those damn black jeans and his favorite hoodie—the one that rides up when he stretches.
And because my roommate dipped for the holidays, we had the dorm room to ourselves.
Let’s just say… we made the most of that privacy.
But now? Now I have to focus. Because today, for the first time, I’m starting.
Home game. Packed stadium. Bellarmine University across the court. And I’m in the starting five.
I bounce a little on the balls of my feet as we line up in the tunnel, the thud of bass-heavy hype music rumbling through the floorboards, fans chanting above us like a wall of noise.
My jersey feels tighter today. Not in a bad way.
In a “this is real” way. Like the cotton’s holding in something more than just adrenaline—maybe every dream I’ve had since I was eight and pretending a garbage can was a hoop in the driveway.
Coach has been slowly giving me more minutes this season, testing me in tougher matchups, pushing me past my comfort zone.
And I’ve earned this spot. He didn’t say that out loud, but I could tell by the way he clapped my shoulder during practice yesterday and said, “You ready to show them what you’re made of? ”
Hell yes, I am.
I take a deep breath and glance up into the stands.
My eyes find him immediately. Theo’s in a UK hoodie—my hoodie—and his curls are soft and loose again.
After months of trying to grow it out into an afro, he finally gave up.
His hair’s too soft to hold the shape, and honestly?
I’m not mad about it. I like it like this.
It’s easier to run my fingers through. Not that I’d ever do that in public.
He’s sitting in the student section near the front, flanked by two of my teammates’ girlfriends.
To everyone else, he’s just my best friend, here to support me like always.
That’s the story, and we’re sticking to it.
But I know better. I know that half smile on his face, the way his eyes track my every movement like I’m the only thing in the gym.
He’s trying to play it cool. He’s failing.
Our eyes meet, and he gives me the smallest nod. Like I see you. I’m here. You’ve got this.
It hits me harder than I expect.
“Yo, North,” someone calls from my left—Jamari, who’s taken me under his wing from day one. “You gonna float off, or you sticking with us for tip-off?”
I grin, snapping back to the now. “I’m good, man.”
“You better be,” Leroy says, grinning as he adjusts his headband. He’s our point guard and a walking highlight reel. “We’ve been waiting for this day. Don’t make me look bad.”
“I’d never,” I say, bumping shoulders with him.
Price, our center, leans in with a low chuckle. “Just don’t trip on your way out. Cameras are rolling.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Dirk, our power forward, slaps the ball against his palm and offers a smirk. “You got this, rook. You’ve been putting in the work.”
And I have. Hours in the gym. Film sessions. Running drills until I couldn’t feel my legs. All leading to this moment.
The lights flicker in a pregame strobe, and the announcer’s voice booms through the arena. “Starting at shooting guard… number 11… Caden North!”
The roar that hits me as I jog out of the tunnel is overwhelming. Blinding. Euphoric. But it’s nothing compared to the way I feel when I glance up again and catch Theo jumping to his feet, clapping like a maniac, smiling so wide I can practically hear it.
I swear I feel lighter. Faster. Like I could fly.
As we huddle at half-court before the jump ball, Leroy throws an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s eat, boys.”
Price smirks. “Starters, baby. Time to remind them why we bleed blue.”
Jamari slaps my back. “Just breathe, North. Run your game. You’re not here by luck.”
I nod, pulse racing, heart pounding.
And when the buzzer sounds, it’s go time.
I’m ready. Because he’s watching. And because I’ve got something to prove—to myself, to the team, to everyone who thought a Black kid from a small town no one’s heard of couldn’t make it.
But most of all, I want Theo to be proud.
I want him to know I see him up there. That every minute I’ve worked for this, I’ve done it with him in mind.
And today, I get to play the game I love with him in the crowd, wearing my hoodie, smiling like I’m already winning—because honestly? I kind of am.
The tip goes up.
We lose it—barely—but my body is already electric with focus.
The guy I’m marking is quick and twitchy—the kind of guard who keeps you guessing with sudden bursts of speed.
Bellarmine’s players always bring that edge, but I stay close, shadowing him like my sneakers are stitched to his.
My feet stay light, my stance low. I’ve got my arms out, reading his hips, anticipating every shift in direction before it happens.
On the first possession, he tries to drive baseline.
I’m ready, cut him off and force him back toward the help defense.
Leroy claps once—sharp, precise—and it’s the signal.
Our trap comes hard and fast. Jamari slides in, cutting off his passing lane, and the ball’s ours.
Leroy’s already in motion, darting up the sideline with the speed of a bullet, and I follow instinctively.
He tosses a no-look behind-the-back pass—bold, but clean—and it finds me like it was magnetized to my hands.
One bounce. Up off the glass.
Layup.
The crowd erupts behind me in a wall of sound, thunderous and immediate, but I don’t break focus. I don’t pump my fist or shout. Not yet. My eyes scan, almost automatically, and they find Theo. He’s already standing, arms half raised like he wants to cheer but doesn’t want to be obvious.
It’s quick, that glance, but it fuels me and warms my chest. I look away and keep moving.
This game? It’s fast and chippy. The first ten minutes are a full-on grind.
Bellarmine runs a tight system—constant motion, high pick-and-rolls, staggered screens.
They’re trying to wear us out, confuse our switches, force mismatches.
But we studied them all week. Coach drilled every angle, every cut, and every fake.
We know their rhythm, and we disrupt it like we were built for this.
Still, it’s tied 9–9 when I find my next opening. Leroy swings it out to me on the wing, and I don’t think—I just move. One dribble, hard left. My defender hesitates. I pull up.
The ball leaves my fingertips in a clean, perfect arc.
Swish.
The net snaps with that pure, satisfying sound that makes every hour in the gym worth it.
Twelve to nine.
I jog back on defense, adrenaline humming in my veins, every nerve lit up with energy. I’ve never felt more locked in. Every movement is crisp. Every rotation smooth. I see the court like it’s slowed down, every screen and shift unfolding like choreography.
I belong here.
This isn’t just a dream anymore. It’s real. It’s mine.
Coach doesn’t say much when I get subbed out for the first time, but the hard slap to my shoulder and the nod of approval tells me everything I need to know.
I sink onto the bench, my jersey clinging to my sweat, chest heaving.
I suck in a deep breath, heart pounding like it’s trying to break through my ribs.
I glance into the crowd once more. There he is.
Theo hasn’t moved from his seat. He’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, watching me like I’m the only player on the court.
My hoodie swamps his frame, sleeves bunched up, his curls soft and loose.
He’s all big eyes and hidden smiles, doing his best to look casual while failing spectacularly.
No one around him knows he’s watching his boyfriend.
But I do.
And it makes my heart thud even harder.
When I get back in, I find another gear.
I push through off-ball screens, reading plays before they form. I pick off a lazy pass at the top of the key and launch a break. I don’t take it all the way—I dish it to Jamari, who drains the corner three. We slap hands on the way back up court, and he grins like a proud older brother.
A few possessions later, I drive hard, drawing contact. I hit the floor, but the foul is called, and I grin up at the ref through the sting in my elbow. This is what I trained for. This is what I love.
At the line, I take a second to focus.
One bounce. Breathe. Shoot.
The first free throw is smooth. The second follows it with ease.
By the time the halftime buzzer sounds, we’re up by six.
My stat line isn’t jaw-dropping—eight points, three assists, one steal, two boards—but I’ve made an impact. I’ve kept the tempo up. I’ve held my ground. I’ve played smart. And above all, I’ve earned every second I’ve spent on that court.
As I jog toward the bench, I feel that ache in my legs, that tight pull of muscle across my back, and it feels right. Like proof of effort. Proof that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Leroy slaps my hand with a laugh. “You’ve got juice today, North.”