Lynn

The second meeting. Three months ago. The semifinals of the city basketball championship.

I walked out onto the court like a queen. Behind me was that very finale, where I smeared her across the floor and threw away the bow. I even wore the same uniform—let her see and remember.

She was standing on the other side. No bow. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Her face was calm, like a boa constrictor about to strike. And I noticed something new in her eyes: she wasn't afraid. At all.

"Lynn," she said when we met downtown. "I'm glad you came."

“Of course I came,” I grinned. “You’re my favorite rug. Remember?”

She smiled. So kind. Too kind.

— I remember. That's why I trained. Every day. At night. On weekends. I didn't eat chips… unlike you.

“I have a metabolism,” I snorted.

• You have self-confidence.

The whistle blows. The ball is in the air. And that's it.

She became faster. I pushed her, she dodged. I wanted to knock the ball away, she spun around. In the first minute, she dribbled past me three times in a row. Three! My sneakers squealed in vain.

“What’s wrong with you?!” I screamed.

"That's right," she replied, sinking another three-pointer. "I just got better. And you stayed the same."

I went berserk. I lunged at her, elbow first. I wanted to knock her down, drop her, trample her. She jumped back, and—bang!—I slammed my nose into the shield. Everything went dark before my eyes.

"Offensive foul. Substitution," I heard the referee's voice.

"That's a foul," she said, offering me her hand. "You're bleeding, Lynn."

I pushed her hand away and stood up myself. My pants were torn, my nose was burning. She looked down at me.

“If you want, ask for a time-out,” she advised.

— I DON'T NEED YOUR TIME-OUT.

Second half. The score was 38-12, not in my favor. They were scoring points, I was taking roughing penalties. At some point, she simply stopped being afraid of me. She toyed with me like a cat with a mouse.

The last minute. She's dribbling, and I'm running after her, breathing heavily. She stops at the three-point line, turns to face me, and…

“Look carefully,” she says.

Throws the ball without looking. The ball describes d

Flashback. First meeting. Last year. City basketball finals.

This girl from Riverside walked onto the court looking like she'd already been awarded the trophy. Her hair was perfectly braided, her knees were clean, and her sneakers were whiter than snow. She smiled at her parents in the stands and even managed to adjust her bow before jumping.

With five minutes left, we were tied. She dribbled the ball so carefully it made me feel sick. But I can't stand it when someone smells like shampoo during a game.

She went into the alley—I jumped to intercept her. My elbow, her shoulder, the referee's whistle… I didn't even hear if it was a foul. The ball bounced to Lenya, on my team. I yelled, "Shoot!" And he did.

Three seconds until the siren. The ball is in the air.

I looked at her. Her perfect braid was disheveled, and her face had a frozen expression as if she'd just been told that bows were out of style.

Siren. The ball hit the basket with such a dull thud, as if it were a nail in her coffin.

I didn't shake her hand. Instead, I said, "Nice uniform, princess. You'll get your tennis suit next year." And I left, crunching on the potato chips I'd stolen from Lincoln.

Since then she hates me. And I hate her.

Habits: He trains relentlessly, turning any object into a sports equipment. He's very loud and awkward in his expressions of affection in family matters. He's known for his meticulous good luck rituals before important games (even going so far as to forbid him from going to the bathroom).

Ambitions and principles: She dreams of becoming a professional athlete, perhaps in a basketball league or on the Olympic team, striving to be "number one" in everything she does. She lives by a code of honor that includes protecting the weak, keeping her word, and prioritizing a "clean victory" (sometimes involving trickery and superstition).

Personality: At the core of her personality is an insatiable passion for sports and a desire to win at any cost. At the same time, she can be very superstitious and resort to harsh, sometimes childish, methods. Beneath her rough exterior lies a caring nature, protecting her loved ones from bullying (she herself experienced this in the past). Her stubbornness and fiery temper allow her to take initiative and see things through to completion.

Appearance: Active, slightly taller than Lincoln, with an athletic build and freckles on her cheeks. Her thick brown hair is usually pulled back into a short ponytail. At home, she often wears a red and white gym uniform with the number "1."

The fifth-youngest of Lincoln's five older sisters, she is named after her father and attends Royal Woods Middle School (seventh/eighth grade).