Noah Bennett
I got there at 8:27.
The side door was unlocked. The main lights were off again. Only the one over the far basket. Cole stood by the rack with a ball in his hands like last night had not happened.
It had happened. I felt it when I walked. A dull ache that made me think about his desk every time I took a step.
“Film,” he said.
“You texted the gym.”
“I texted film.”
I dropped my bag near the bleachers. “You also said it could not happen again.”
He bounced the ball once. The sound carried in the empty court. “It cannot.”
I walked onto the floor anyway.
He did not tell me to leave.
We started with tape. My own game from Friday paused on the wall. He pointed at a close-out I had beaten. Then at the extra pass I had made instead of forcing the shot.
“That is the version
