Chapter 35
DARE
I’ve learned to see myself in his reflection, because that’s the best version of me.
I snagged one of the sketch flyers on my way past the bulletin board outside the library. My hand moved before I could think about it, like it had been waiting for an excuse.
It was a comic-style drawing of two soccer players colliding midair, the ball suspended between them.
Every line was sharp, deliberate, too good for some random flyer.
Even the creases in their jerseys looked alive.
I tilted it toward the sunlight filtering through the hallway window, tracing the ink with my eyes. “Damn,” I muttered under my breath.
I already knew who drew it. He didn’t have to sign his name; it was written in every detail.
Back in my room, I pinned it above my desk, right next to the one of me with the cracked shield, the one I never asked him to draw but hadn’t been able to stop looking at since I found it. His work always ended up here, whether I meant to collect it or not.
Every sketch was a version of us—a different angle, a different truth. And I couldn’t stop myself from chasing them, from hoarding every glimpse into Tru’s head.
Through his eyes, I wasn’t the guy who screwed up, or lashed out, or doubted every decision he made. I was someone worth drawing. Someone who didn’t break as easily as he felt.
Tru made me want to be that guy. Made me wonder if I could be.
I touched the edge of the drawing, tracing the lines of someone I barely recognized. “Who the hell is that?” I murmured. And for a second, I almost believed he could be real.
I told myself I’d stop after this one, but I knew I was lying. Tomorrow, if another sketch showed up, I’d take that too. And the next. Until my whole wall was nothing but Tru’s versions of me. All the people I wished I were.
I was still staring at the flyer when a fist thumped against my door.
“Yo, Dare! You coming to practice, or just planning to get benched?”
I jolted, instinctively tucking the flyer under a stack of books. Not to hide it, just to keep it from anyone else’s hands. It wasn’t for them. It was for me.
I grabbed my cleats and headed out, trying to convince myself my heart wasn’t still hammering over a goddamn drawing.
Later that week, Tru and I headed across town together.
Coach had set up a meet and greet for me at this youth rec center wedged between a shuttered pawn shop and a liquor store.
He said something about public relations and putting a good face on the University's athletic department, but to me, it felt more personal than that. As if he’s chosen me specifically for this.
The building was beat-up, graffiti layered with history on the brick, but it was buzzing with life. Inside was no better. The air smelled of Gatorade and old rubber. The lights flickered, half of them gone. The court floor had been patched with duct tape like a wound that refused to close.
But the noise—God, the noise was alive. Kids everywhere, yelling, laughing, throwing elbows, and foam balls. The sound ricocheted off the high ceiling and straight through me.
A volunteer waved us in. “Help yourselves. Pick a corner.”
Tru drifted toward the craft tables, already roped in by a girl with neon pipe cleaners braided into her hair.
I hung back, scanning the court. There was one kid—tall, awkward, maybe twelve—hovering near the edge like he didn’t know if he was invited.
Hair in his face, shoulders caved in like he was trying to disappear.
The ball skidded toward him, and he fumbled it.
“Ugh, again?” one of the louder boys groaned. “Why’d you even pick him?”
“He never passes,” another muttered. “Just eats up court space.”
The kid’s face fell. His gaze dropped to his sneakers.
Before I could think, I stepped onto the court. “Yo,” I called, clapping my hands once. “You guys got teams or what?”
A few of them nodded. The loudmouth jerked his chin at the quieter side. “We’re winning. You can play with them.”
“Cool,” I said, dropping my bag by the wall. “What’s your name?”
The kid stared at me, like he wasn’t sure if it was a trick.
“I’m Dare,” I said. “You?”
“Jamil.”
“Right on. You and me, Jamil.” I grinned and tossed him the ball. “Let’s show’em how it’s done.”
He blinked, caught off guard, but when the game started again, something in him clicked. We ran. Passed. Missed. Laughed. I cheered him on as if he were an all-star. He tripped once. Fumbled twice. But then—he shot. A quick jumper from the side, uncertain, like he didn’t expect it to land.
And it did.
The whole gym erupted. Not because it was a miracle shot. Because it was his.
I whooped so loud my throat burned. “LET’S GO, SHOOTER!”
By the end of the next round, everyone was calling him that. They were high-fiving him. He was laughing, chest out, shoulders back. I felt something burst open inside me, loud and fierce and unstoppable. My pulse wouldn’t settle. My lungs felt too full.
This.
This was what it was supposed to feel like. Not just the game. Not the win. The way he looked when someone finally believed in him.
It wasn’t about playing anymore. It was about building. Holding space. Making room for kids like him to stop apologizing for being alive.
I didn’t just care about it—I ached for it.
That’s when I felt a warm breath on my ear.
“Was that... you being humble?” Tru murmured, voice soft but teasing.
I smirked, still catching my breath. “You saw that layup. I’m practically a saint.”
He snorted. “You were good with him.”
I turned toward him. The noise of the gym faded for a second. “He reminded me of someone.”
“Yeah?” Tru’s brow arched, curious.
“Scrawny kid. Quiet. Hella talented, but always looked like he didn’t think he deserved to be there.”
Tru’s lips twitched. “Oh?”
“Used to sit on the edge of the court at recess with a sketchbook,” I said quietly. “Looked like he’d vanish if you stared too hard. Always got picked last.”
He blinked. I could see the moment it hit him. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do.”
He hesitated, gaze softening. “I didn’t think you noticed back then.”
“I did,” I said, my voice rougher than I meant. “I just didn’t know what to do about it.”
He nudged my shoulder, his smile shy. “You’re not who you used to be.”
I met his eyes. “I’m trying not to be. Trying to live my truth. Like you. Guess I’m done hiding behind the game.”
He ducked his head, cheeks flushed pink, and for a second, my whole chest went tight.
We left just after sunset. Tru had glitter on his shirt and one of those pipe-cleaner bracelets looped around his wrist. He didn’t seem in any hurry to take it off.
I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets, trying to look casual. “Coach pulled me aside yesterday.”
Tru looked over. “What for?”
“Said he’s proud of how far I’ve come this season. But more than that…” I exhaled. “He told me I’ve got a way with people. That I light up around the younger players. Said if I ever wanted to make a career out of something that matters, I should think bigger than just playing.”
Tru’s eyebrows rose. “Bigger how?”
“Program director, inner-city youth orgs, writing grants, reclaiming old courts, and building new ones. Real change, not just pep talks.” I kicked a rock with my sneaker. “He even said he’d connect me with a mentor if I was serious.”
Tru was quiet for a moment. When I looked over, he was watching me like I’d just undone some part of him with a single sentence.
“You’d be good at that,” he said softly. “Really good.”
I swallowed hard. “You think?”
“I know.”
It was the first time I’d seen Tru look at me as if I might become something bigger than he imagined. That spark of hope gave me the courage to believe.