It was Mia Chen. The sophomore. The one who never started, never complained, never even asked for the ball. She sat at the end of the bench with her warm-up still zipped to her chin, her hair tucked under a headband, her sneakers unscuffed. Most people forgot she was on the roster.
“Hey,” Allie said.
Mia shrugged. “I’ve been practicing. You just never looked over.” allie adams let me try
But tonight, she’d missed three in a row. It was Mia Chen
Because for three years, she had been “Allie Adams, the shooter.” But she had never, not once, heard anyone say her name like that: not as a plea, not as a challenge—just as a door opening. her hair tucked under a headband