Chapter Text
It’s November 4th — first game of the season.
William Byers has been playing basketball since he was seven. A full-ride to UVA brought him 1,000 miles from home, which, in retrospect, was probably for the best. Still, he misses his family.
Will’s the kind of guy people respect. He goes to class, passes, keeps his head down. But when he shows up at a party? Suddenly he’s the main event.
That hadn’t always been the case. Back home, no one really noticed him — until he got serious about basketball. Then it was like a switch flipped. People cared if he was hurt, sick, late. He wasn’t invisible anymore. He was someone worth keeping track of. One of the most promising scholars the school had seen.
That night, a few hours before tipoff, the team gathered at Mason’s dorm for a quiet pregame celebration. They’d shared two years of wins, losses, and late-night study sessions. When one guy slipped academically, everyone stayed up to get him back on track. When someone needed a place to crash, no one slept alone.
The Wolves weren’t just a team. They were a pack.
Will sat on the edge of the room, leg bouncing like a metronome on overdrive, zoning out as the pressure started to creep in. Mason noticed.
“Yo, you okay dude?” he asked, dropping beside him on the couch.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just in my head,” Will muttered. The weight of the season opener pressing down on him like a storm cloud. If they lost tonight, it would haunt him until the end.
“We’re gonna be good,” Mason said, nudging his shoulder. “Only guy on their team worth mentioning is number 7. Big trash talker, apparently.”
He grinned. “Maybe you’ll shut him up.”
By the time warmups hit, the gym was nearly packed. Almost 3,000 people. Eyes everywhere. Noise rising in waves. The energy was electric, but Will could feel it tightening around his ribs.
Jesus. Just shoot me.
The game was brutal. The Wolves were trailing. Number 7 from the Patriots was all over the court — loud, cocky, relentless. The kind of guy who’d crawl into your head and take up permanent residence.
At halftime, Will sat courtside, towel around his neck, trying to cool down and block it all out. The Patriots were still warming up when someone sat beside him.
“Number 6 is good,” said a voice — low, calm.
Will looked over. It was 7. Not yelling now. Not strutting. Just… there.
“Yeah,” Will replied. “He’s sly too.”
The other guy nodded. “You’re good too. That three-pointer messed me up.”
Will cracked a smile, faint but real. “Good to know.”
The horn sounded. They stood without another word.
In the final seconds of the game, Will hit the winning shot. His teammates swarmed him, lifting him off the ground like he’d just won them the championship. For a second, he let the weight fall away.
After the game, showered and wrapped in warm sweats, Will was heading out when he caught sight of Number 7 again — walking out alone.
“Good game, Will,” the guy said, lifting a hand for a quick dap.
Will blinked. “Thanks. You too.”
There was a short pause.
“Mike,” the guy said. “Michael Wheeler.”
Will laughed quietly. “Sorry, I try not to look at the boards during games. Throws me off.”
Mike tilted his head. “Yeah, same. Gets in my head too much.”
Will’s eyes flicked up. “Exactly. I don’t know how the others do it. They’re always so confident. Never look like they’re spiraling.”
Mike shrugged. “They’re faking it,” he said. “Or just talking shit.”
He chuckled, glancing sideways. “Half the time I don’t even know what I’m saying. I just hope it helps us win.”
Will studied him. “You caught me off guard when you stopped being… you know. Loud.”
“I don’t like court talk,” he added. “Makes me feel cheap.”
The light above them flickered, drawing Will’s eyes upward. He adjusted the strap of his bag.
“I should get going,” he said, glancing back at Mike. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”
Mike smiled. Soft. Brief.
“Cool. See you, William.”
He turned and disappeared toward the buses, leaving Will standing under the buzzing lights, unsure what to do with the silence left behind.
“He said, ‘Cool. See you, William,’” Will announced, pacing the length of his dorm room as Dustin Henderson sat curled up on the couch, phone in hand.
“Will,” Dustin sighed, “I love you, man, but it was a ten-second convo. He could’ve been trying to psych you out for next time.”
Will groaned. “You don’t get it. This guy—” He stopped himself.
Dustin raised an eyebrow. “This guy’s what? Different? Like the last one?”
Will sank onto the edge of the bed, hands in his hair.
“I can’t keep doing this, Dustin. I can’t keep living like basketball is all I have. I want more than this.”
Dustin glanced back down at his phone. Then blinked.
“Shit.”
“What?”
Dustin held up Will’s phone, which had just lit up.
[Willthewise] 11:34 PM
Miketastic has requested to follow you.
Will stared. Not from Mike’s public page — but his private account.
“Holy shit?” Will said, stunned. He let out a disbelieving laugh.
Dustin smirked. “Well, don’t just sit there. You wanted a sign — here it is.”
Will stared at the screen for a second, "I'm gonna go to bed." He says, walking to his room.
“Well then,” Dustin said under his breath. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”