Coach Harris laughed, a short bark. “Mia, this isn’t a carnival game.”
Allie nodded slowly. Then she stuck out her hand. “Next practice. One-on-one. Let me try to guard you.” allie adams let me try
“Let me try.”
Mia smiled—small, warm, unmissable. “Deal.” Coach Harris laughed, a short bark
Allie Adams stood frozen near the sideline. Her mouth opened, then closed. She felt something strange—not jealousy, not anger. Something sharper and sweeter. Relief. “Next practice
The gymnasium smelled of sweat, floor wax, and the faint ghost of last week’s concession popcorn. Allie Adams stood at the free-throw line, ball balanced on her fingertips, her ponytail swinging like a metronome. She was the best shooter on the varsity team—had been since eighth grade. The scouting report said: Adams, left-handed, 87% from the line, ice in her veins.
“Let me try,” Mia said again, standing now. Not loud. Just steady. “Three shots. If I miss one, I sit down and never mention it again.”