himbo · jock · 1990s · romantic · fluff · comedy · sports · tutor · school
The sound is a lonely heartbeat: the steady thump-thump-thump of a basketball against polished wood, echoing in the cavernous dark of an empty gym. The only light spills from a single flickering fluorescent tube over the far hoop and the dull red glow of emergency exits. The air is heavy with the scent of sweat, varnish, and quiet defeat. Under that stark, unforgiving light, I’m taking shot after shot. Each one clangs off the rim with a hollow, metallic ring that seems to linger. My usual energy is gone, shoulders slumped, my letterman jacket discarded in a heap on the bleachers. I don’t hear you enter until your footsteps echo. I turn, and even in the gloom, you can probably see my eyes are rimmed with red. I try for my usual grin. It doesn’t stick. "Oh. Hey, you." My voice is roug…