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MAYA

I tapped my closed highlighter against my textbook, restless after staring at it for so long. I felt like I’d been sitting in the same spot for at least twelve hours—it’d been closer to three—and my eyes were seconds away from falling out of my head.

I picked up my phone, craving some kind of distraction, and then immediately put it down. Once I got sucked into its vortex, it was impossible for me to put it down. My study session would be effectively over, and I couldn’t let that happen—not yet, at least.

I looked at the clock on my open laptop, willing the time to go by faster.

I still had another half of a textbook chapter to go before I was done, but I’d also promised myself I’d get back home no later than seven-thirty because I had an early class in the morning.

The longer I stared at my computer, the more time passed and the less time I spent studying.

But that also meant I’d just have to come back here tomorrow and finish what I didn’t do tonight.

I groaned, the sound blending in with the bustle of students sitting in every corner of the eatery. I’d found a spot in my favorite section of the student center and camped out, a tradition I’d held onto since I was a first-year here.

This—the Feinberg Student Center, or just the Berg to most of us—was my favorite place to study on campus.

I’d tried my room (too risky, I was prone to falling asleep), the library (far too quiet), and a coffee shop near campus (too busy with no seating).

This place—filled with its aroma of fried foods and salad bar toppings and one very shitty grab-and-go coffee counter—had become somewhat of a study safe haven for me.

I loved the obnoxiously bright green leather booths and the sound of laughter blending in with the sounds of people talking and typing.

The windows allowed in so much natural light, and there was ample seating and a sense of time never really feeling real, like I was at a casino.

I forced myself to dive back into my textbook, the noise around me allowing my brain the room to actually focus on the words in front of me.

I’d always been naturally good at school—good at testing, good at studying, good at writing papers—and I’d always liked it.

Despite the vibe I tended to bring to any room I was in, I didn’t mind structure and routine; I was just particular about it.

My routine for getting my coursework done was a little intense, even by Iris’s standards.

But it felt good; every finished assignment, every stellar grade, tapped into my internal reward system in a way nothing else ever had.

It was the reason I was looking into graduate school.

I didn’t necessarily come to school with a dream job, but I’d discovered it over the time I’ d been here.

My dream job was this —writing papers and teaching and reading and learning all the time, for the rest of my life.

I hadn’t talked about it much with anyone, only ever thrown it around with Iris a few times to see if she thought it was the right path for me.

She’d always been unequivocally supportive, but it was scary to admit my future was riding on my ability to complete yet another degree before I’d even finished this one.

Part of me didn’t feel like I was smart enough to pursue a PhD.

Social science felt so obvious to me that it barely felt like school.

I didn’t feel like a budding expert in my field; I felt like someone with common sense.

But as Iris had told me at one point when I mentioned it to her, it probably just felt like common sense because I was naturally good at it.

There were people out there who also felt the same way about things like chemistry, a trait I unfortunately did not inherit.

I was excited and ready to apply, but I was also nervous about it.

PhD programs were typically small and competitive, and I wasn’t sure I would make the cut.

I sometimes felt too silly, my personality too big, for something like that—like I’d be the Elle Woods of whatever school I went to but in a less charming, more smudged mascara way.

Fortunately, my professors believed in me, seemingly even more than I believed in myself.

They allowed me opportunities as a research assistant—usually just cleaning data for graduate students, but it was something—and talked me through how they structured their lectures.

Meeting with professors during office hours and working on research projects with them was a dirty little secret that I shared with the entire sociology department. And Iris. But that was it.

After working through one section of the chapter in front of me, I gave myself a second to drink water and reset.

I’d already begun drafting an essay and worked through a textbook chapter for another class today, so I was at the tail end of my ability to be productive.

My breaks were no longer helpful and were instead only delaying the inevitable, which was my brain short-circuiting.

I suddenly stopped, my heart jumping into my throat and my water bottle nearly falling from my hands, when I caught a flash of what looked like a familiar face. I looked away as quickly as I could and then turned back to see if my gut feeling had been right.

In the week and a half since I met Lakeside Green’s star point guard Theo McCall, I’d been seeing her face everywhere.

I’d see tall people, people with her same long sandy hair, people in fucking sweatpants —she hadn’t even worn those to the party, I’d only ever seen her wear them in photos online—and think it was her. I felt like I was losing my mind.

But no one ever actually looked like her.

No one had her honey blonde hair, her natural sun-soaked highlights catching even in dim light.

No one had her warm, deep brown eyes that crinkled when she smiled.

No one had her full lips that seemed to reveal every emotion she was feeling and every thought she was having with just the tiniest upturn.

I accepted that some of the obsession was my fault. The night after the party, I went home and googled her. I’d searched her name using an incognito window and everything, as if she was somehow going to know otherwise.

I’d stayed up for hours obsessively combing through her social media and online presence, ending up on stats pages I couldn’t completely make sense of and basketball fan pages that spoke in sports terminology that might as well have been German.

Through that, I’d definitely developed a strange and borderline problematic fascination with her.

It felt almost parasocial, even though we’d met before.

The entire walk home that night from the party, all Iris had been able to talk about was how cool it was she’d finally managed to meet Theo.

We’d both heard she’d occasionally go to the parties at The 151, but we’d never actually crossed paths with her.

I’d always known of her because everyone did, but I’d never confidently put a face to the name because of that.

But now, apparently, she was all I could see. In everyone. Everywhere.

I tried to focus on my textbook, but it was impossible.

I’d unlocked the Theo part of my brain, something that had been firmly planted and did not seem to have any interest in being uprooted.

Theo would slip in there, and I’d find myself completely zoned out in class, losing track of time during my walk home.

Despite thinking I was seeing her everywhere, not one person could compete—no one had the same arms, the same build, the same warm brown eyes and curious smile.

It’d become a huge hindrance to my day-to-day life.

I had to get it out of my system somehow.

The best solution I could think of was finding someone else for my brain to latch onto, but I’d had zero luck so far.

Not one person on a dating app or around campus seemed even remotely interesting compared to Theo.

I bit my lip, thinking back to the fan edits and photos I’d been looking at of Theo just last night.

I didn’t know what my fascination was; I’d never been into sports.

My mom didn’t watch sports, and none of her boyfriends were ever allowed to bring sports near me because of my own rules that I’d set.

I didn’t think I’d ever sat through an entire game of any sport in my entire life.

But Theo suddenly had me watching basketball clips, learning about whatever the fuck a triple-double was.

Admittedly, watching the clips did paint a picture as to why everyone seemed to like watching her play so much.

GJ hadn’t just been hyping her up to get her laid; Theo really was that good.

She was quick and smart on the court, obvious to even the untrained eye.

And according to my research, she’d already had several major shots go viral.

One half-court three-pointer—language I freshly learned at about two a.m. that night—got a feature as one of the best plays of the week across all sports—men’s and women’s, college and professional.

I couldn’t help it—I was fascinated. I’d spent what felt like every second since we’d met wrestling with if it was really worth it to go to the first game of the season or not.

When I was feeling really bold, it seemed like a great idea.

I could go and have fun. It would be casual, cool, easy.

I wasn’t going for Theo; I was going because Iris wanted to go.

And it didn’t matter if Theo didn’t follow through on looking for me.

But late at night, as I was looking at all of the attention Theo drew online and all of the talk around her going pro, all I could think about was how I was setting myself up for embarrassment.

I wasn’t so naive to believe I could go and not be at least a little bit hurt if Theo didn’t acknowledge me.