Page 148 of Mending Hearts
“Shake it,” our center mutters under his breath.
“I’m good,” I reply.
I am.
By halftime, we’re up six.
In the locker room, the energy is focused. There’s no celebration or even tension. We’re just locked in.
Coach makes adjustments. We nod. We drink water. We reset.
When I glance at my phone briefly, there’s a message from Rafe waiting.
Rafe: You look calm.
I type back.
Me: I am.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Rafe: Good. Stay that way.
I tuck the phone away.
The third quarter is where it clicks.
I read a passing lane early and intercept a lazy cross-court pass. I push the break myself, a defender backpedaling in frontof me. I Euro-step around him and absorb contact as I finish at the rim.
The whistle blows.
And-one.
The arena detonates. For a split second, I allow myself to look toward the sideline.
Rafe is on his feet.
Just standing. Watching.
I sink the free throw.
The boos intensify in the fourth quarter, particularly when I bring the ball up late in the shot clock. They’re not crossing lines, just amplifying their disapproval every time I rise to shoot.
With two minutes left and the game tight, Cass swings the ball to me in the corner. My defender closes out hard.
I jab once, drive baseline for a step, then pull up just inside the arc.
The shot sails high.
Swish.
The building erupts. The visiting section groans loudly enough to almost rattle the backboards.
Cass slaps my back as we retreat on defense. “That’s it.”
We close the game with composure.
Final buzzer.
