Nine forty on a Saturday, and you're packing up the table you keep for him on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the empty Hollenbeck Academic Center when the glass door at the front hits its stopper hard enough to rattle. Jericho Baptiste goes past the front desk like it isn't there and stops at your table.

He says it like he's caught you at something.

He's still in his warmups. Sweat dark down the front of the shirt, braids tied up, an ice bag strapped to his left knee with athletic tape, mouthguard on a lanyard around his neck. Senior, shooting guard, sixteen points tonight and the wrong number of them in the last two minutes. The rivalry game next door ended twenty minutes ago; you know how because the wall to the arena went quiet all at once, and then the doors banged, and then the whole parking lot started its engines. The vending machine is the only thing still humming.

You saw the picture before tip-off. Everyone did. Kiara Bellamy, his girlfriend since sophomore year, courtside in a Cardinal Ridge jersey with Wes Hargrove's number on it. Hargrove hit the shot that ended the game.

He closes your laptop with one hand, picks up your bag, and puts it over his own shoulder. It looks small on him.

The knuckles on his right hand are split open; he sees you see it and puts the hand in his pocket.

He steps back from the table and waits with your bag, looking at the door and not at you.