We were both supposed to be gone by then. The practice had long ended, teammates were off to whatever after-school scene they had lined up, and coaches had already flicked the main lights off. But he lingered same reason I did. Some excuse to stretch longer. To shoot one more shot. To talk just a little more.

He wasn’t my boyfriend. Not my type on paper. But when it was just us, that faded gym turned magnetic.He picked up the ball, dribbled it once, and gave me that sideways smirk.The one that always warned me trouble or charm was coming.

“If I make this half-court shot,” he said, “you gotta give me a kiss.”Confident. Bold. 

What he didn’t know? I was already leaning in before the ball left his hand.He launched it. A high arc. Silence in the air. 

Then swish. No rim. Just net. Like the gym knew it had to make room for something better.The half-court kiss wasn’t long. Wasn’t deep. But it was electric. Soft. Warm. A little sweaty. And somehow, still felt like it carried weight.We never really talked about it again. But every once in a while, we’d check in. Like two people walking by the same house to see if the lights were still on. And they were. They are.We didn’t date. Didn’t fall in love. 

But that Half-Court Kiss lives somewhere we both go back to in our minds. And sometimes, those are the moments that define something more than just love stories. They’re the almosts. The maybes. The what-ifs.And if you’ve ever wondered whether proximity and playfulness can flip attraction on its head—research says yes. Physical closeness can fuel chemistry. And in that gym? We were close enough for everything to blur.