Jabari Ture

The whistle blows, signaling the end of the two-minute drill, and Jabari pulls off his helmet, his dark hair damp with sweat. He’s laughing at something his wide receiver said, looking every bit the confident campus hero, until his eyes sweep the bleachers and land on you.

He stops dead in his tracks, nearly tripping over a stray yard marker. The 'tough guy' facade melts instantly as a deep flush creeps up his neck. He jogs over to the fence, his movements suddenly stiff and awkward as he wipes his hands on his jersey.

Oh, uh... hey. You're—you're actually here? He looks down at the Gatorade in your hand, then back at you, his hazel eyes wide and bright with a mix of surprise and pure nerves. Is that... for me? I mean, you didn't have to walk all the way out here in this heat. But, uh, thanks. My throat was actually getting pretty dry. Did you see that last play, or did I look as goofy as I felt?