Beyond The Jersey | Jett

Ridgeview University practically revolved around one name: Jett Sinclair. Starting shooting guard. Future pro prospect. The face of the basketball program. Every home game sold out, every social media post flooded with edits, and every hallway filled with whispers whenever he walked through it. People either wanted to be him or be around him, but Jett didn’t seem to care about any of it.

He kept his hood up whenever he could, headphones resting over platinum hair, his expression permanently unreadable. He wasn’t the loud, cocky athlete people expected. If anything, he was worse—quiet, blunt, and impossible to read. He answered questions with as few words as possible, skipped interviews whenever he could, and disappeared the second practice ended. The only place he ever seemed remotely alive was on the court.

At the beginning of the semester, the athletic department assigned a new student media coordinator to the men’s basketball team. Their responsibilities were simple enough on paper: photograph practices, film promotional content, attend away games, edit highlight reels, conduct interviews, and make sure the team’s social media actually looked like it belonged to a Division I program. It should’ve been an easy assignment.

Then Jett Sinclair became part of it.

Unlike everyone else on campus, they weren’t impressed by him. They didn’t hover around him hoping for a picture or a conversation. If he was late to media day, they marked him late. If he skipped an interview, they reported it. If Coach needed behind-the-scenes footage after practice, they followed instructions—even if it meant trailing behind the team’s least cooperative player while he pretended they didn’t exist.

Needless to say, they got under Jett’s skin faster than anyone else ever had, and the feeling was entirely mutual. The team noticed almost immediately, and it quickly became an inside joke that the campus golden boy had finally met someone who genuinely couldn’t care less who he was. Whenever Jett answered questions with a single word, they reminded him the footage wouldn’t be usable if he refused to cooperate. Whenever he tried walking away before filming was finished, they simply followed, camera still rolling, making it perfectly clear they weren’t leaving until they got what Coach asked for.

Neither of them yelled. Neither of them caused scenes. It was just an endless battle of stubbornness that somehow managed to entertain everyone around them. Before long, the players started placing bets on which one would finally lose their patience first, while Coach could only shake his head every time he spotted them within ten feet of each other.

This afternoon was no different. Practice had ended nearly twenty minutes ago, and most of the gym had already emptied out. Sneakers squeaked less and less as players disappeared into the locker rooms while a few assistants gathered stray basketballs beneath the dimming lights. Jett, however, was still on the court.

Of course he was.

Sweat darkened the collar of the black compression shirt beneath his practice jersey as he continued putting up shot after shot, completely ignoring the fact that the team’s promotional video still hadn’t been finished. His headphones blocked out everything around him, each clean swish followed almost instantly by another ball leaving his fingertips with the same effortless precision. The camera remained trained on him because Coach had made one thing painfully clear before everyone else left.

“You’re not leaving until Sinclair finishes that promotional shoot.”

Jett finally missed. The ball struck the rim, bounced away, and rolled toward the three-point line before he caught it under one arm. With a quiet exhale, he slid one side of his headphones off and turned just enough for pale eyes to settle on the camera before lifting to meet their gaze. He didn’t say anything at first, though the faint twitch of his jaw made it obvious he already knew exactly why they were still standing there.

Everyone else on campus either chased after him or stayed out of his way.

They did neither.

A quiet scoff escaped him as he bounced the basketball once against the hardwood and caught it again, his gaze never leaving them.

“...You’re still here?”

He already knew the answer. Tilting his head slightly, a trace of irritation slipped into his otherwise calm expression as he adjusted the basketball beneath his arm.

“What is it gonna take to get you to stop following me around?”

Ridgeview University treated Media Day like a full production. The arena had been transformed overnight, the court surrounded by bright studio lights, cameras, microphones, and backdrops covered in the university’s colors. Every player on the basketball team was expected to pose for photos, record promotional videos, answer interview questions, and film enough content to carry the athletic department through the entire season. Most of the team complained about it, but they still cooperated. It was one long day of smiling for the camera before getting back to basketball.

For you, however, it was everything. After weeks of competing against dozens of applicants, you’d finally landed the internship every film student wanted. Your first assignment was directing and producing Media Day from start to finish, and your supervisor made it painfully clear that this project would determine whether you stayed on the athletic department’s production team. If the footage came out well, it could open doors you’d been chasing for years. If it didn’t, there were plenty of students waiting to take your place.

Things had gone surprisingly well... until Jett Sinclair walked through the doors.

The team’s star player arrived over twenty minutes late, ignored the carefully planned schedule, and somehow managed to make every recording take twice as long as it should have. Every question you asked was answered with a shrug or a one-word response. Team introductions that should’ve taken thirty seconds dragged on for several minutes because he either stared blankly at the camera or wandered off before anyone could yell “cut.” It wasn’t just frustrating—it was costing valuable time, and everyone around him acted as if this happened every year.

The rest of the team seemed to find the situation far more entertaining than you did. A few players exchanged amused looks whenever your name was called across the court, already knowing Jett had probably disappeared again. Even Coach looked more tired than annoyed, rubbing the bridge of his nose every time someone reminded him another segment still needed Jett. Every assistant you asked gave you the same answer: “Just work around him.” As though the most important player on the team refusing to cooperate was somehow normal.

You had no intention of working around him.

Nearly six hours later, only one segment remained. It was a short promotional interview that would’ve taken less than five minutes if Jett answered normally. The lights were already positioned, the cameras were rolling, and the crew stood quietly behind their equipment, waiting for him to step into frame. Instead, after one glance toward the setup, Jett slung his gym bag over his shoulder and headed straight for the exit as if the day had already ended.

A quiet groan spread through the crew. One of the cameramen muttered, “There he goes again,” while another lowered his camera with a defeated sigh. Coach didn’t even bother calling after him, clearly expecting everyone to let him leave like they always did. Your supervisor, however, looked directly at you, silently waiting to see whether you’d let your biggest subject walk out before the documentary had even begun.

Before Jett could reach the doors, you called his name.

He stopped just long enough to let out a quiet sigh before turning around. Sliding one side of his headphones off, he looked between you, the cameras, and the crew with an expression that landed somewhere between bored and irritated. His pale eyes settled on you for a moment before he shifted the strap of his bag higher onto his shoulder.

“...What?”

His voice was calm, almost indifferent, like this interruption was nothing more than another inconvenience in an already long day.

“You’ve been following me around all damn day,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Make this quick. I’ve got somewhere else to be.”

The away game had ended nearly five hours ago. It had been a close win, the kind that left everyone exhausted rather than celebrating. The team boarded the bus back to the airport still wearing traces of the game—duffel bags slung over tired shoulders, headphones on, and conversations quieter than usual. Most of the players were already half-asleep before the bus even left the arena, while the coaches quietly discussed schedules and the next week’s practices from the front.

For you, there wasn’t much time to rest. The documentary wasn’t going to edit itself. Between transferring footage, backing up files, organizing interviews, and making sure nothing was accidentally lost before returning to campus, the ride to the airport was spent balancing a laptop on your knees instead of sleeping. It wasn’t glamorous work, but every game added another chapter to the season you were responsible for capturing, and missing a deadline simply wasn’t an option.

Jett Sinclair hadn’t acknowledged you once. Not on the bus. Not while everyone waited in the security line. Not even when the two of you ended up standing only a few feet apart at the departure gate. He kept his hood pulled low, headphones covering his ears as fans occasionally recognized him, asking for photos or congratulating the team on the win. He handled every interaction politely but briefly before disappearing back into his own world, making it abundantly clear that conversation was the last thing on his mind.

The first delay barely caught anyone’s attention. Flights were delayed all the time, especially this time of year. The second announcement drew a few frustrated sighs, but by the third, the atmosphere inside the terminal had shifted completely. Passengers crowded around the departure boards while airline employees hurried from one counter to another, and outside, heavy snow continued swallowing the runway until the planes beyond the glass became little more than blurred silhouettes.

Then came the announcement.

“Due to worsening weather conditions, all remaining departures have been canceled until further notice.”

A collective groan swept through the terminal. Within seconds, hundreds of stranded passengers surged toward the airline counters, desperate to rebook flights or secure one of the rapidly disappearing hotel rooms. The basketball team wasn’t any different. Coaches gathered everyone together while the athletic department spent nearly two hours making phone calls, trying to find enough accommodations for the players, staff, and production crew before every vacancy in the city disappeared.

By the time a shuttle finally pulled beneath the hotel’s covered entrance, snow had buried the sidewalks in thick drifts, and the lobby buzzed with tired travelers dragging suitcases across polished tile. Coach returned from the front desk carrying a stack of key cards, calling out room assignments one by one until players naturally paired off and disappeared toward the elevators, joking about who snored louder or who was stealing the shower first.

Before long, only three people remained.

You.

Jett.

Coach.

He looked down at the final key card in his hand before letting out a tired sigh.

“The hotel’s completely booked,” he said. “This is the last room they’ve got.”

Jett frowned.

“So?”

Coach didn’t even blink.

“So... you’re sharing it.”

Neither of you argued. Mostly because there wasn’t much point. Every nearby hotel had already filled with stranded travelers, and sleeping in the airport wasn’t exactly an appealing alternative. Jett took the key card without another word and headed toward the elevators, leaving you little choice but to follow.

The ride upstairs passed in complete silence. Jett leaned against the back wall with one hand tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, his duffel hanging loosely from the other shoulder while the floor numbers climbed one by one. The silence wasn’t awkward anymore. After weeks of following the team, you’d grown used to it. Jett only spoke when he felt there was something worth saying.

Room 814 sat at the very end of the hallway.

The lock clicked.

The door swung open.

The room was warm, clean, and surprisingly spacious. A television hung opposite a long dresser, a small sitting area overlooked the snow-covered parking lot, and fresh white linens had been neatly tucked across the bed in the center of the room.

The bed.

One bed.

Neither of you said anything at first.

Jett stepped inside, dropped his duffel beside the dresser with a dull thud, and looked at the mattress for exactly one second before turning toward you. His expression never changed.

“The floor’s over there.”

His voice was calm.

Matter-of-fact.

Like the conversation was already over.

He shrugged his hoodie from his shoulders and walked toward the bathroom without another glance.

“I’m not sleeping on it.”

.