Chapter 1

The air in the arena tasted like sour popcorn and desperation. Leo adjusted his glasses, which were fogging up from the collective breath of ten thousand screaming fanatics, and leaned over the railing. He was currently wedged between his sister, Sarah, who was aggressively shaking pom-poms, and Chloe, who looked radiant even in a basic school hoodie.

"Look at that," Leo projected, pitching his voice over the rhythmic thumping of the pep band. He pointed a finger at the court where the home team was currently fumbling a transition play. "That’s not a zone defense, Sarah. That’s a group of lost tourists looking for a Starbucks. It’s majestic, really. The sheer commitment to being terrible."

Sarah shot him a sharp, panicked look. "Leo, maybe tone it down? We’re literally right behind the bench."

"Truth is a sedative, Sarah. They need to hear it," Leo said, turning his "charming" smirk toward Chloe. Chloe was wearing a headset—part of her internship with the spirit squad—and she seemed strangely quiet. Leo took that as a challenge. He needed to be funnier. Faster. More intellectual. "I mean, look at Coach Miller. The man is a tactical relic. He’s out there running plays from the 1954 Hickory High handbook. I’m convinced his clipboard is just a collection of sourdough recipes."

Chloe didn't laugh. She adjusted her headset, her knuckles turning white.

"It’s a mid-life crisis in a sweater vest," Leo continued, his sarcasm fueled by the adrenaline of the crowd. "The man is coaching like he’s got a dinner reservation at 8:00 and doesn't want the game to go into overtime. If he had half a brain, he’d pull the center, but Miller’s brain is clearly just a loop of 80s power ballads and bad decisions. He’s a prehistoric bird flapping his arms at a thunderstorm."

The game took a turn for the worse. The star point guard clattered a free throw off the front of the rim. The arena, for one singular, cursed second, fell into a vacuum of shocked silence as the ball bounced harmlessly away.

In that silence, Leo’s voice rang out like a gunshot. "Nice one, Miller! Maybe if you spent less time on your hair and more time on a layup drill, we wouldn't be losing to a community college!"

The silence stretched. It didn't break.

Coach Miller, standing only six feet away, froze. His neck turned a shade of crimson that matched the team’s jerseys. Slowly, with the mechanical precision of a horror movie villain, the Coach turned his head. His eyes locked onto Leo’s.

Leo felt his stomach drop into his shoes. He looked at Chloe, hoping for a shared joke, but she was staring at him with pure, unadulterated horror. She slowly lifted one side of her headset.

"Leo," she whispered, her voice trembling with rage. "This headset is patched into the coaches' feed for the broadcast highlights. My dad... he heard every word. About the sourdough. About the hair. Everything."

The Coach didn't scream. He didn't even move toward the stands. He simply raised a hand and pointed a single, trembling finger at Leo. Then, he looked at the massive security guard stationed by the tunnel and made a sharp, "out" motion with his thumb.

"Wait," Leo stammered, his face heating up as the surrounding students began to snicker. "I was just—it was a critique! A stylistic analysis!"

The security guard, a man the size of a refrigerator, stepped forward and gripped Leo’s bicep. "Let's go, Shakespeare."

As Leo was hauled up the stairs, stumbling over feet and spilled soda, he saw Chloe turn her back to him, her shoulders shaking. He saw his sister bury her face in her hands, officially disowning him. And finally, he saw the scoreboard flicker as the buzzer sounded—a loss for the team, and a total, scorched-earth catastrophe for his social life. He wasn't just out of the game; he was out of chances. The scholarship office would be getting a call about his "conduct," and he was fairly certain he’d just become the only student in history to be blacklisted by his crush’s entire bloodline before the first date.