Chapter 12
There is nothing like being on the court with my team.
The lights, the fans, that moment where the referee throws the ball up for jump ball, and everyone flows into their game.
I love that feeling: the sweat that drips down your temple, the thudding of your heartbeat in your ears, the gasp of your breath.
I’m not a daredevil. An adrenaline junkie. But sometimes, out there, I feel like I’m chasing a competitive high that is unreachable. Like my fingers are stretching both towards the ball and towards that feeling of flying.
Tonight, I don’t feel any of that.
The first thing I notice when I head to the court for warm-ups is two neon green posters held by Indiana Fever fans. The first reads: Jack Smith = Another corrupt billionaire.
The second reads: Annie Smith = Washed-up nepo baby.
I wait to feel something. Jack probably deserves to be taken down a peg, but couldn’t they leave me out of it?
The moral dilemma is endlessly messy, and I understand that some fans are frustrated that I was drafted by my father.
Even if I didn’t know what was happening behind the scenes, I still potentially stole another player’s spot in the league.
It’s an agonizing prospect to imagine someone losing their dream because my billionaire sperm donor had a crisis of conscience in his old age.
Fortunately, Jadea has enough anger for both of us.
The two signs are only a few rows into the stands, and she looks ready to climb up there.
“Washed up?” she growls, aggressively dribbling the ball during warm-ups.
“You were an All-Star this year! You’re only behind Caitlin Clark in assists, and she’s a future Hall of Famer. ”
“Nothing to say about the nepo baby part?” I try to joke, but it comes out bitter.
Jadea shoots me a look but quickly refocuses on the two sign-bearing fans.
Her glare would be enough to scare me, though I can’t tell from here if they’re shaken at all.
It’s Lynn who talks Jadea down. “There will always be some idiot with something to say,” she counsels us. “We’re here to play. Don’t forget it.”
There’s nothing more powerful than some of Lynn’s wise words, and I wait for them to wash over me, fill me with fire and courage.
Instead, I continue to feel cold. The only spark I feel the whole warm-up is when I see Daniel, and he waves at me tentatively.
I can see him working with his crew, as they’ll use some footage of the game in their piece, getting extra cameras set up around the game broadcast’s.
They’re mostly focusing on bench conversation, locker room huddles, and other in-between moments.
They don’t want to step on the toes of the ESPN2 broadcast. Daniel is wearing something strange for the occasion: black joggers, black sneakers, and a white T-shirt with something printed on it.
A quote maybe? I can’t catch a good enough look of him during warm-ups, but it certainly deviates from his usual dark wardrobe.
The game starts horribly. We just beat Indiana at their home stadium, and they feel energized, ready for revenge.
My fingers are cold, my chest numb, everything feels far away as we take the court.
Allyson sends the ball my way during the tip-off, and I would usually tear down to our basket, Jadea even with me.
I would pass it to her, and it would look like she’s going to slam the usual dunk down.
Instead, Jadea would pass it back to me for the easy lay-up.
It’s a triple deception, and it always swings the momentum our way from the get-go.
Instead, the ball slips through my fingers and all-around superstar Catilin Clark snatches it up.
She has Jadea-level speed herself, if not the size, and runs away for her own lay-up.
Our defensive response is sluggish, and Jadea fouls Clark early.
“Shit.” Jadea looks my way, and I’m surprised to see the unease in her expression.
We’re down 2–0, not exactly a blowout. But we both feel something, a series of mistakes waiting in the wings.
We’re not wrong.
At the top of the key, I throw two turnovers in a row.
One, a bounce pass to Olabisi, where I didn’t see Kelsey Mitchell streaking up the lane.
4–0. Another effort, this time I wait at the top of the key a little longer, trying to slow the pace.
Typically, our pace is blisteringly fast, but I’m trying to get us back in rhythm.
Settle. We pass it around endlessly, reaching no conclusions, until I’m back at the top and trying desperately to throw a high-arching pass to Allyson in the lane.
It goes over her head and into the hands of Indiana’s center behind her. 6–0.
I can hear Coach Rembert shouting from the sideline, but it’s not reaching me. I feel a strange urge to walk to the bench and sit down. I shouldn’t be here anyway, right? Am I the reason we’re out of sorts? Is my team questioning whether I should even be on the floor?
The Indiana Fever is a younger team, just like us, so they’re hungry and growing fast. They’ve settled into the middle of the standings and would love to take down the current number one seed.
Lynn goes for a three-pointer that dings horribly on the rim and falls right into Lexie Hull’s hands.
She runs away with it, and I give chase.
I search for that fire within myself, but I can’t catch her.
She scores again, and we’re officially down 8–0. It’s only been two minutes of play.
The rest of the first half continues in the same style.
We have 14 turnovers, and I’ve contributed six of them.
We’re shooting only 28 percent and miss five free throws, two of them being mine.
I have zero points and two assists. Jadea has eight points and three rebounds.
When we have a time out with two minutes left in the half, Jadea throws her water bottle, and it explodes all over the ground. I cringe.
“What is going on?” She glares at the court. “We’re supposed to be the best team in the league, and instead we’re embarrassing ourselves.”
Coach Rembert is barely controlling her own frustration. “We just need to adapt and try to get through to halftime. Do not let them get to you.” She and Coach Zak give us a suggested out-of-bounds play that should lead to an easy Jadea dunk.
I’m trying to pay attention, but my eyes keep darting to those electric green signs waving in the air.
Was I deluding myself all this time about my skills?
Was I puffed up by making it into the league, and all my stats are simply the product of the placebo effect?
It feels like any ounce of pressure might break me.
The sweat dripping down my neck feels cold and I clench my fists, feeling the nails dig into my palms.
Coach Rembert wraps up our time out, erasing the Xs and Os on her whiteboard.
Jadea and the girls start heading back to the court, but my gaze is locked on the scoreboard.
46–24. A 22-point deficit. We haven’t been down this much all season.
We also haven’t lost in eight games. To get back into this game would take a miracle.
Coach seems to sense the swirling cloud of my thoughts. “Annie?” Her tone is sharp. “Do you need me to sit you?”
I snap my gaze back to hers. She looks fierce, but not exactly angry. More like she’s testing me. To sit now, at such an important moment in the game where we need to shift the momentum before halftime, would be shameful.
I need to fake it. I straighten my spine and jut out my chin. I imagine it’s how Jadea would stand, or Lynn, or Serena freaking Williams. “No, Coach.” I hold her gaze for a beat, even as the referees are whistling emphatically for us to get moving. “We’ll score here. Turn it around. I promise.”
She nods and shoves me towards the referee holding the ball. I’ll pass it in. We have two minutes until half, and we need some easy buckets. A quick turnaround so that the second half doesn’t feel like such an uphill battle.
Once I have the ball in my hands, I have five seconds to pass it in.
If I don’t do it in that time, we forfeit the possession.
I take a few breaths, standing next to the referee and surveying the court.
Jadea and Aaliyah Boston are pushing each other ferociously.
Taherah, who we decided to put in for her three-point shooting ability, is balanced on her toes, ready to run.
Olabisi has her arms spread wide, her knees bent so she’s crouched low.
Lynn stands all the way in the back, the furthest target, and the last resort if our play doesn’t go well.
I’m just about ready to fake it and hope I don’t turn it over again, like the bad luck charm I am, when my gaze snags on a white shirt across the court from me. Daniel stands next to one of his cameramen, but he doesn’t seem focused on work. Rather, he seems focused on the game itself.
We lock eyes in that split second, and Daniel looks as fierce as Jadea a few minutes ago.
Beneath his kindness and friendly demeanor, Daniel is as competitive as they come.
This game must be killing him. My lethargic play must be killing him.
I feel myself shrinking away from him, wanting to hide.
But before I can look away, he taps his chest with one finger.
I look down again at that strange white T-shirt and, for the first time, I can see what’s written on it.
Larger Than Life.
My heart turns over. He promised that there were better things for Annie Larger, and he delivered. He clearly made the shirt himself or went to a T-shirt shop to have it custom-made. The font is aggressively dark and bold. There is no hiding his thoughts on me and my play.
She is larger than fucking life.