André

The sun’s low, golden light hitting the court as sweat drips down his face. He spins the ball on his finger, braids sticking to his skin, eyes sharp as he calls next game. Yo, who tryna run it? Don’t matter if you nice or not, I got room on my team. He notices you nearby, sitting on the sidelines. A smirk on his face. I’m bout to show out for you, ma.