The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine

Jason POV:

Okay, let’s just put it out there—today has been the most embarrassing day of my life. If I could go back in time, I’d tell my past self to shut up and not goad Ella into coming to watch me. But hindsight’s a jerk like that.

Let me start from the beginning.

I woke up with the kind of energy people write motivational quotes about. This was it—game day. The day I’d leave my mark and go down in campus history. I even managed to get out of bed without hitting snooze, which is saying something.

First thing I did? Text Ella.

Morning, sunshine! Big day today—hope I’ll see you there. I’ll be watching for you 😉.

Yeah, okay, maybe the winky face was overkill, but I was riding a wave of bravado. No harm in that, right?

Wrong. Because she didn’t reply right away.

So there I was, trying not to feel like a loser while I packed up my gear. I kept telling myself she was probably busy or still sleeping. Totally fine, no big deal.

Max and Dylan called me to coordinate our ride to the field, and just as I was throwing my bag into the car, my phone pinged.

Ella.

I swear my heart did a stupid little flip. I opened the message:

Good morning. Good luck today, Jason.

Short. Sweet. Classic Ella.

She didn’t confirm if she was coming, but she wished me good luck. That had to count for something, right?

I grinned like an idiot all the way to the field, much to Max and Dylan’s amusement. "Ella texted, didn’t she?" Dylan asked, smirking. I didn’t answer, which only made them laugh harder.

Fast forward to the game. The stands were packed, the energy electric. Coach gave his usual speech about focus and strategy, and the team was hyped.

But me? I was scanning the crowd, looking for one person.

Ella.

Did I see her? Well... let’s just say the rest of the day didn’t exactly go as planned.

The game was intense, the kind that had your adrenaline pumping and the crowd roaring with every move. Our team’s coordination was spot-on. The passes were sharp, the defense tight, and I’d already managed to score three times. Each time the ball left my hands and swished through the net, the crowd’s cheers made my chest swell with pride.

But then came the fourth quarter. We were tied, and the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Every move counted now, every pass a potential game-changer. Coach was shouting plays from the sidelines, but I was barely hearing him. My focus was split—part on the game and part on scanning the crowd.

And then I saw her.

Ella.

She was perched high up in the stands, her hoodie drawn low over her face, but I knew it was her. Something about the way she sat, almost trying to disappear into the background, gave her away. I waved at her, and like the idiot I am, Max noticed too.

"Ella!" Max yelled, his voice booming over the court noise.

Ella’s response? Classic. She pulled her hood lower, adjusted her mask, and tried to act like we weren’t shouting her name in front of a packed arena.

Knowing she was watching, something in me ignited. I had to impress her. I was going to win this game for the team and, yeah, maybe a little for Ella too.

The clock ticked down—thirty seconds left. The ball was passed to me, and I dribbled down the court, my eyes flicking between the basket and where Ella sat. My heart raced. This was it—the winning shot. The one that would seal our victory and make this game unforgettable.

I jumped, aimed, and shot.

It was perfect. Too perfect.

Because it sailed right into the opponent’s basket.

For a split second, the crowd was silent, as if they couldn’t believe what they’d just seen. Then came the groans, the gasps, and the stunned murmurs.

I’d scored. For the wrong team.

To make matters worse, I landed awkwardly, my ankle twisting beneath me. Pain shot through my leg like a lightning bolt, and I hit the court hard.

The paramedics rushed over, but nothing could save me from the humiliation. My team stared at me in shock, fans in disbelief. Coach? Oh, Coach looked like he was ready to commit murder on the spot.

And Ella? I couldn’t see her reaction through the mask and hood, but I was sure she was either laughing or cringing.

As I was carried off the court, I tried to convince myself that the pain in my ankle was worse than the embarrassment. But let’s be real—it wasn’t.

If the ground could’ve swallowed me whole, I’d have welcomed it.

Lying on the gurney in the locker room, I felt the full weight of what had just happened. My ankle throbbed, the sharp pain a constant reminder of my spectacular failure. But honestly? The physical pain was nothing compared to the embarrassment that was slowly crushing me.

I’d done the unthinkable. I, Jason King, captain of the team, had scored for the wrong freaking team.

And in the last moments of the game, no less.

I could still hear the crowd’s collective gasp echoing in my head, followed by the groans of disappointment. My teammates didn’t say anything as the paramedics wheeled me off, but their faces said it all—shock, disappointment, and a little bit of anger.

Coach didn’t even bother looking at me as he barked at the rest of the team to finish strong. Probably for the best because if his glare had landed on me, I might’ve combusted on the spot.

I replayed the moment in my mind over and over. The jump, the shot, the realization as the ball swished through the wrong net. My stomach churned every time I thought about it. What the hell had I been doing? Oh, right—trying to impress Ella.

Ella.

That made it even worse. She’d been there. She’d seen it all—the triumphant build-up, the dramatic failure, and my graceless tumble to the floor. The one person I wanted to impress the most had witnessed my most humiliating moment.

As the paramedic checked my ankle and muttered something about a possible sprain, I barely paid attention. All I could think about was how I’d let everyone down—my team, the coach, the fans, and myself.

And Ella.

I groaned and threw my arm over my face. I couldn’t believe I’d texted her earlier, telling her I’d look for her in the crowd. What a joke. If she’d replied to my good luck text, she was probably regretting it now.

The locker room door creaked open, and Max walked in, followed by Dylan. They didn’t say anything at first, just stood there awkwardly as the paramedic finished taping my ankle.

"You okay?" Max finally asked, his voice unusually soft.

"Physically? Sure. Mentally? Not even close," I muttered, not bothering to look at him.

Dylan let out a low whistle. "Man, that was... rough."

"Gee, thanks, Dylan. That helps."

Max sighed and sat on the bench next to me. "Look, dude, it sucks, okay? But it’s not the end of the world. We’ve got other games—"

"No, we don’t," I snapped, cutting him off. "That was the last game, Max. The last one. We’re graduating, remember? There’s no do-over."

The room fell silent, the weight of my words settling over us.

I leaned back and closed my eyes, wishing I could rewind the day and do it all over again. Without the screw-up. Without the twisted ankle. Without making a fool of myself in front of Ella.

How the hell was I supposed to face anyone after this?

The game ended, and the buzzer sounded, signaling our opponents’ victory—thanks to my epic blunder. I stayed on the bench, my ankle wrapped and throbbing, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The real pain was knowing I had single-handedly handed them the win.

When my team shuffled into the locker room, I braced myself for the inevitable—blame, anger, accusations. I deserved every bit of it. But instead, they said nothing. Not one word about my screw-up.

It was almost worse than being yelled at.

Max plopped down beside me, slapping my shoulder with a grin. "You’re lucky I’m too tired to yell at you, captain."

Dylan snorted. "Yeah, and you’re lucky coach didn’t bench you for life."

I managed a weak smile, but I couldn’t meet their eyes. My chest felt heavy with guilt. These guys had worked so hard all season, and I’d thrown it away in a moment of stupidity.

The door creaked open, and Coach stepped in, his expression unreadable. The room fell silent as everyone straightened up, waiting for the storm we all knew was coming.

He looked at me, and I swear his glare could’ve set me on fire. I dropped my gaze to the floor, too ashamed to hold his gaze.

Then he spoke, his voice surprisingly calm but no less intense. "You all played well out there. You left it on the court, and that’s all I can ask for. Next year, we come back stronger and smarter."

I blinked in surprise. That was it? No yelling? No lecture?

Coach turned to leave but paused at the door. He glanced over his shoulder, and I could feel his eyes boring into me. "And Jason," he said, his voice laced with a hint of amusement, "I hope you win that girl you were trying to impress. Because if you don’t, that game you lost us would’ve been for nothing."

The room erupted into laughter and hoots, my teammates clapping and jeering as my face turned ten shades of red. Max was practically falling off the bench, laughing, while Dylan smirked and shook his head.

"Smooth, Jason. Real smooth," Max teased, wiping a tear from his eye.

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. "Kill me now."

Dylan slapped my back. "Nah, man. You’ve got a redemption arc coming. Just don’t screw it up this time."

They laughed again, and despite my embarrassment, I couldn’t help but chuckle.

Maybe I hadn’t completely lost them after all.