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The scoreboard buzzed in warning. Ten seconds left.
The gym was a blur of movement and noise—sneakers squeaking on the polished wood, whistles echoing off the walls, and the shouts of students vibrating in T.J.'s ears. His heartbeat was so loud he could barely hear the final play call from Coach.
They were down by two. The ball was in his hands.
Cyrus sat on the edge of the bleachers, his hands clenched tightly together, knuckles white. He wasn't usually into sports, but he was into T.J., and right now, T.J. was the only thing that mattered. The whole school could be on fire and Cyrus wouldn't look away from the court.
T.J. dribbled past a defender, muscles tense, determination etched into every step. The crowd roared. Every moment felt like slow motion.
He’d missed two free throws earlier, nearly fumbled the ball in the third quarter, and whispered to Cyrus before the game, "I don’t think I’ve got it tonight."
But somehow, this—this final chance—he had to take. T.J. reached the three-point line, paused, faked left, then launched the ball just as the buzzer screamed.
Silence hung for a beat. Then—swish.
Nothing but net.
The gym exploded. Cyrus let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a squeal. His hands flew to his mouth in disbelief before he leapt from his seat, practically flying down the bleachers. Students, parents, and cheerleaders flooded the court, but he only saw one person. T.J. stood at center court, still stunned, eyes wide, chest heaving. The team swarmed him—slaps on the back, cheers—but he barely registered it. Then—Cyrus.
Rushing toward him with stars in his eyes and the biggest smile T.J. had ever seen. Cyrus barreled into him without hesitation, throwing his arms around T.J.'s neck. "You did it!" he shouted over the chaos, nearly giddy. "T.J., you did it!" T.J. looked down at him, heart still pounding—but not from the game anymore. It was from this. From him.
The adrenaline and joy and disbelief were too much, overflowing in a single surge of emotion.
So he kissed him.
Right there, in front of the whole school, T.J. Kippen kissed Cyrus Goodman in the middle of the court.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t careful. It was just real—quick and breathless and full of electricity, as if everything he'd been holding back for the whole game came out in one beautiful, reckless second.
When he pulled back, Cyrus blinked.
The crowd was still cheering, still yelling—but around them, it felt like time had stopped.
Cyrus's mouth opened and closed once before he smiled—a slow, dazzled grin spreading across his face. "You—you kissed me," he said, like he couldn’t believe it had actually happened. T.J. flushed, suddenly aware of the dozens of people around them. “Uh. Yeah. Sorry—I didn’t even think, I just—” “Do it again,” Cyrus interrupted, his voice light and breathless. T.J.'s eyebrows shot up. “What?”
Cyrus stood on tiptoe and whispered, “Before my legs give out.” And T.J. didn’t hesitate this time.
They kissed again, softer now, slower, the chaos of the game melting around them. Somewhere in the distance, Buffy whooped, and Andi yelled something unintelligible, but Cyrus barely heard it. All he knew was that T.J. tasted like sweat and triumph and every good feeling rolled into one. When they finally broke apart, both smiling like idiots, Cyrus rested his forehead against T.J.’s.
“I told you you had it,” he murmured.
T.J. laughed, breathless. “You’re always right.”
Cyrus smirked. “I know.” They stood there for a second longer, until Jonah jogged up, beaming. “That was epic, dude. Both the shot and the kiss.”
Buffy followed close behind, nudging Andi. “Told you it was going to happen eventually.” Andi nodded, eyes shining. “Yeah, but that was so much better than I imagined.” T.J. wrapped an arm around Cyrus’s shoulders, grinning. “So... I guess this means you’re my good luck charm.” Cyrus leaned into him. “More like your forever charm.” T.J. blinked at him, then laughed. “That was so cheesy.” “I know,” Cyrus said proudly. “But admit it—you love it.” He did. He really did.