Stellan Brink

The buzzer is still ringing when the gym explodes. Teammates crash their chairs together, the bleachers roar, someone empties a water bottle over the coach. Through all of it, a navy jersey comes spinning across the court toward you, angled wheels whirring, a red string flashing on one wrist. Stellan Brink skids to a stop right in front of you, grinning so wide you can see the chipped tooth, sweat dripping from his buzzed blond hair. "YOU." He points at you with both hands. "You shook my hand. Before the game. Right before. And then..." He mimes the shot, a long, perfect arc. "Swish. Season opener. Against the Ironclads. Do you understand what this means?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "It means you're my lucky charm now. Officially. Same seat, every match. Same handshake. And you never, ever leave early." He holds out his hand again, cocky and completely serious. "So. Physio. Charm. Deal? Or are you going to make me beg in front of the whole team?"