The LA team takes the court, then Denver is announced one by one.
“What the…” Brooke starts. “What are they wearing?” she asks as she sees Atlas, then Miles bound onto the floor.
“Oh shit, Nova. Those are fierce.”
Their normal playoff jerseys have been replaced with new ones: purple and gold with a gray bear in honor of Coach. The design is mine, and Harlan personally called the league to get approval for the team to wear them. Chloe worked around the clock to get the jerseys prepared.
I grin, cheering for every player. Clay is announced last, and I jump up and down, screaming until I’m hoarse.
“If the crowd could win it for them, we would,” Brooke says.
The entire arena is standing from the moment Atlas takes the jump ball.
It starts out tight, back and forth.
Two points here. Two there.
Then the Kodiaks move the ball, setting Miles up for a perfect three…
And he misses.
A collective groan goes up.
The next play, Atlas trips trying to guard and they get a dunk.
Brooke grabs my hand.
By the end of the first quarter, small mistakes are adding up to a six-point deficit for the Kodiaks.
“Damn it,” I whisper.
I look up at the jumbotron for a closeup of Clay as he heads back to the bench. His expression is tight as he and Jay confer.
The teams go back at it in the second.
This time, Rookie tries to take over and get his.
“Come on,” I call, clapping.
Isaac, Clay’s former teammate, steals the ball from him and takes it back the other way for a three.
No.
I see the moment Clay decides to make a change. His face goes from tight concern to impenetrable resolve.
He takes over in the third quarter. Puts the team on his back and carries them to even ground.
“He’s playing out of his mind!” Brooke hollers. I can barely hear it over the roar of the stadium.
At the end of the third quarter, it’s a tied game. Clay goes up for a dunk, and one of the LA guards goes up for the block.
“Look out!” I scream as if they can hear me. As if they’re not already committed.
My heart stops as the two huge bodies fly toward one another.
Clay is focused on the basket, the other man intent on bringing him down.
They collide in mid-air.
The ball finds the hoop and cheers erupt as both players crash to the court in a pile of limbs.
Brooke and I gasp.
The other guy gets up first, but Clay doesn’t move.
Denver calls a time out.
The other Kodiaks jog over to help him up. It takes far too long for him to rise, and far too much help from the other guys.
He tries to walk it off, but when his gaze finds mine, I know.
He’s hurt.
“It’s okay,” I say under my breath. “Trust them.”
Clay turns away.
“This is the worst timing.” Brooke says what every person in the arena is thinking as the final seconds of the quarter expire. “They have twelve minutes to pull out something magical.”
The huddle is intense, every head bowed together as the coaches and players confer.
The ref blows the whistle, and Clay stays on the bench.
But when the other Kodiaks take the floor, it’s with a new energy.
Everyone chips in.
Jay grabs a steal from Isaac.
Rookie runs circles around the LA defense, cutting into the pain to get a drop-off pass from Atlas, who’s moving his feet better than I’ve seen all season.
Miles lurks in the corners and sinks two three-pointers in the first shift.
It’s working.
But LA is bringing their game up, too.
In the final two minutes, it’s neck and neck. Both teams have ramped up their defences, stopping multiple attempts in a row.
At sixty seconds, it’s still tied.
Thirty.
Twenty.
Ten.
LA calls a time out to draw up a play, but it’s Denver that makes the first substitution.
I’m wiping a hand over my own sweating forehead when Clay rises from his seat and strips off his jacket and tearaway pants.
“What is he doing?” Brooke demands.
“He’s going back out,” I whisper.
He’s not operating at full capacity. I can tell, and so can everyone else in here.
But they have a plan.
When the time out is over, LA inbounds the ball over Miles to Isaac, who takes off toward the basket.
Atlas is in the right place. He sets a screen that gives Jay time to snatch the ball away from Isaac. He turns and passes to Clay, who’s open near half court.
The crowd is deafening.
Clay nods to Miles, shouting something it’s impossible to hear over the arena roar, and Miles takes off toward the basket.
Clay brings the ball up the court as LA scrambles to get back.
Five seconds.
He palms the ball in one hand, pulling back as he nods to Miles in the corner.
Every eye is on Clay and his intended recipient.
Four.
LA rushes to double Miles, eager to intercept the incoming pass.
Three.
Clay pivots and release the ball…
Two.
…to Rookie, slicing through the middle of the paint.
The entire arena is on its feet. We all watch, holding our breath.
With one second remaining, he rises up in front of the basket.
Every guy on the court has both eyes on the ball. Denver watches with hope, LA with horror at the deception.
Brooke grabs my hand, squeezing hard enough it hurts.
Rookie slams the ball home with both hands.
The entire building is deafening.
“They did it!” I shout.
“We did it!” Brooke hollers.
Conference champions.
We run down toward the floor to meet the guys. Even with our VIP passes, it’s a few minutes before we can find our way through the confetti and security.
It helps that Clay spots us and comes to grab my hand, tugging me through the crowd.
I throw my arms in the air and he lifts me up, spinning me around. He’s sweaty and triumphant and I wouldn’t have him any other way.
“How does it feel?” I holler over the crowd.
“Like we fucking won.” When he sets me down, he presses his grinning lips to mine.
“Please tell me your knee is okay,” I murmur after pulling back an inch.
“Nothing a few days of rest won’t fix,” he promises.
“What happened to your championship ring from LA? The box was empty.”
“I sold it to cover Coach’s ceremony and chip in for his retirement. Figured it was kind of poetic.”
I’m laughing and crying at once. “You did say it was only ever good for pawning or smashing drywall.”
“You sold your ring?” Jay demands.
“Your championship ring?” Rookie shrieks, appalled.
Clay jerks his chin at his friends, sweat shining on his forehead.
Miles descends, wrapping a sweaty arm around each of them.
“Let’s get the man a new one.”
32
CLAY
Two months later
I pull up at the end of Harlan and Mari’s driveway, staring down the paved path to the house.
“What’re we waiting for?” Miles asks, leaning across me from the passenger seat.