Page 45 of Caden & Theo
He’s sitting in the student section near the front, flanked by two of my teammates’ girlfriends. To everyone else, he’s just my best friend, here to support me like always. That’s the story, and we’re sticking to it. But I know better. I know that half smile on his face, the way his eyes track my every movement like I’m the only thing in the gym. He’s trying to play it cool. He’s failing.
Our eyes meet, and he gives me the smallest nod. LikeI see you. I’m here. You’ve got this.
It hits me harder than I expect.
“Yo, North,” someone calls from my left—Jamari, who’s taken me under his wing from day one. “You gonna float off, or you sticking with us for tip-off?”
I grin, snapping back to the now. “I’m good, man.”
“You better be,” Leroy says, grinning as he adjusts his headband. He’s our point guard and a walking highlight reel. “We’ve been waiting for this day. Don’t make me look bad.”
“I’d never,” I say, bumping shoulders with him.
Price, our center, leans in with a low chuckle. “Just don’t trip on your way out. Cameras are rolling.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Dirk, our power forward, slaps the ball against his palm and offers a smirk. “You got this, rook. You’ve been putting in the work.”
And I have. Hours in the gym. Film sessions. Running drills until I couldn’t feel my legs. All leading to this moment.
The lights flicker in a pregame strobe, and the announcer’s voice booms through the arena. “Starting at shooting guard… number 11…Caden North!”
The roar that hits me as I jog out of the tunnel is overwhelming. Blinding. Euphoric. But it’s nothing compared to the way I feel when I glance up again and catch Theo jumping to his feet, clapping like a maniac, smiling so wide I can practically hear it.
I swear I feel lighter. Faster. Like I could fly.
As we huddle at half-court before the jump ball, Leroy throws an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s eat, boys.”
Price smirks. “Starters, baby. Time to remind them why we bleed blue.”
Jamari slaps my back. “Just breathe, North. Run your game. You’re not here by luck.”
I nod, pulse racing, heart pounding.
And when the buzzer sounds, it’s go time.
I’m ready. Because he’s watching. And because I’ve got something to prove—to myself, to the team, to everyone who thought a Black kid from a small town no one’s heard of couldn’t make it. But most of all, I want Theo to be proud. I want him to know I see him up there. That every minute I’ve worked for this, I’ve done it with him in mind.
And today, I get to play the game I love with him in the crowd, wearing my hoodie, smiling like I’m already winning—because honestly? I kind of am.
The tip goes up.
We lose it—barely—but my body is already electric with focus. The guy I’m marking is quick and twitchy—the kind of guard who keeps you guessing with sudden bursts of speed. Bellarmine’s players always bring that edge, but I stay close, shadowing him like my sneakers are stitched to his. My feet stay light, my stance low. I’ve got my arms out, reading his hips, anticipating every shift in direction before it happens.
On the first possession, he tries to drive baseline. I’m ready, cut him off and force him back toward the help defense. Leroy claps once—sharp, precise—and it’s the signal. Our trap comes hard and fast. Jamari slides in, cutting off his passing lane, and the ball’s ours. Leroy’s already in motion, darting up the sideline with the speed of a bullet, and I follow instinctively.
He tosses a no-look behind-the-back pass—bold, but clean—and it finds me like it was magnetized to my hands.
One bounce. Up off the glass.
Layup.
The crowd erupts behind me in a wall of sound, thunderous and immediate, but I don’t break focus. I don’t pump my fist orshout. Not yet. My eyes scan, almost automatically, and they find Theo. He’s already standing, arms half raised like he wants to cheer but doesn’t want to be obvious.
It’s quick, that glance, but it fuels me and warms my chest. I look away and keep moving.
This game? It’s fast and chippy. The first ten minutes are a full-on grind. Bellarmine runs a tight system—constant motion, high pick-and-rolls, staggered screens. They’re trying to wear us out, confuse our switches, force mismatches. But we studied them all week. Coach drilled every angle, every cut, and every fake. We know their rhythm, and we disrupt it like we were built for this.
