Chapter 12 #3
When Caitlin Clark takes it over the half-court line, I press close, lingering on one side.
She pulls the ball to her back hip, trying to look for an open lane to pass to.
My teammates must have clamped down enough that there’s no easy pass to make.
I take advantage and press her back two more steps.
When she tries to spin away, she turns into my outstretched hands, and I take the ball away.
For once, I don’t look for anyone while I sprint down the court.
This basket is mine and that resolve burns brightly when I easily make the lay-up. 71–68.
Indiana calls a time out, and I check the clock, chugging my water.
3:48 left. Some of my teammates are in foul trouble, with both Jadea and Lynn having five.
Allyson has four. If anyone gets six, they’ll be out for the rest of the game.
The Fever knows this and will likely try to goad someone into fouling.
Coach warns Jadea of the possibility. “Watch your back, Jones. They’ll want you gone. ”
Jadea nods seriously. This team is impressive, fantastic really, but Jadea is practically born for these moments. She can make something out of nothing. We can’t lose her.
The next three minutes pass in a blur. Indiana scores first with a set play that has so many passes and cuts we lose track of the ball.
Taherah shoots another three, and electricity crackles on my skin when it falls through the hoop.
73–71 them. I can see Daniel pacing anxiously on the sidelines and my mom in the stands, recklessly throwing her pom-poms in the air.
There are a few more plays, a few more steals, and time feels like it’s slipping through our fingers. It’s tied with 34 seconds left. 77–77. Indiana calls a timeout, and then we do. Both trying to throw the other team off. Freeze their momentum and slow them down.
We have the ball. I’m coming down the court, watching my defender, Kelsey Mitchell, carefully.
She’s one of the toughest players in the league, and she won’t back down in these last few plays.
I dribble across half-court and look for the first pass.
I see Olabisi lingering on the wing, and my first thought is of her quickness and how easy it would be for her to pass it to Jadea for the easy bucket.
The ball shoots out of my hands, but I make the same mistake as the first half.
I forget that Olabisi’s defender is just as quick.
Caitlin Clark jumps the lane and snatches my pass out of the air.
She barrels down the court, feeling that hunger for an advantage in the final minute.
I race after her, but I’m not quite fast enough.
Jadea was standing in the corner, but she’s so fast, she races past me.
Just as Clark is about to score, Jadea throws a hand in the air.
I wince, hoping it will be a clean block, but Jadea clips Clark’s hand, and the whistle blows.
Clark missed the shot, but she has two free throws. Jadea is escorted to the bench since she’s fouled out. I grab her hand before she leaves. “I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “That was my fault.”
We won’t have our star player these last few moments, and it’s because of me. Jadea looks more serious than I’ve ever seen her. “We’ll win.” She leans in, eyes locked on mine. “Not you. Not me. We will win. I promise.”
I’m startled by her declaration but manage to turn my attention to Clark’s free throws.
She makes the first one. 78–77, them.
She misses the second one. Unusual. Still 78–77.
There’s 23 seconds left in the game, meaning we have just one go at this. One full shot clock run at this. We don’t have any timeouts. We need to move.
I think about Coach Rembert. About her familiar directions. About Jadea’s fevered promise. About Daniel and his T-shirt. My mom and her pom-poms.
This is for them.
I shock Indiana by practically sprinting down the court. I should be wasting time by their account and waiting for one perfect shot to end the game. Instead, I force my team to pass.
To pass and pass.
To their credit, they don’t seem surprised. Despite my eight turnovers tonight, passing is what I do best. I can see every teammate and anticipate their opportunities for success. The paths to the basket.
The clock is counting down, and I’m still standing at the top of the key, directing our passing. The girls are running around, pushing themselves to the limit in these last few seconds. Their defenders are giving chase.
Finally, when the clock reaches ten seconds, I leave the top of the key.
I bounce pass to Taherah, who is my backup point guard anyway, and I run as fast as I can.
I rush behind Allyson and Flo, keeping their position under the basket.
I push past Indiana defenders and come out on the other side of the basket.
Taherah has directed the pass to my side, Olabisi’s wing, and she has the ball.
I’m open, my defender two steps behind me, just a few feet away from the basket. Too far for the easy lay-up, but close enough for a fairly basic jump shot. When I catch the ball there’s three seconds left. My pulse is so loud in my ears.
I spring up on my toes and shoot.
It doesn’t swish. It doesn’t go down easily. It bounces and bumbles and bumps the backboard. Then it rattles home. Basket made. 79–78, us.
The buzzer goes off, and the crowd goes wild. Jadea jumps off the bench, running to hug the breath out of me. I’m laughing and laughing, my chest light. Taherah and Olabisi are suddenly there, and we’re all screaming, crying, laughing. We won. It wasn’t a playoff game, but it felt like one.
I pull myself free from the pile, smiling brightly.
My eyes seek out Daniel, and when I find him, across the court, near the media table, I find myself running.
It’s a strange instinct, but I don’t tamp it down.
I fling myself into his open arms, and then we’re laughing together.
My sweaty cheek sticks to his newly minted t-shirt.
When I pull back, I admire his shirt. “When did you have time to make this?”
Daniel frowns in thought. “Hard to say. It might have been a rush job that my assistant and I struggled with. The letters might even be iron-on.”
The giddy laughter finally flickers out, and the moment grows more serious as I look at him.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.” He smiles a little, studying my face as though to see if my words are genuine.
I hope he sees every little bit of hope he’s given me reflected in my face.
I lean in close to him, savoring his minty scent and the reappearance of his half-dimple. “Best date I ever had,” I say softly.
Daniel’s expression melts, and he looks at me with galaxies in his eyes.
He reaches a hand to my cheek, and I inhale sharply as he tucks a wayward baby hair back into place.
Before he can say anything, there’s a tapping on my shoulder.
Someone with an ESPN media badge on. “An interview, Ms. Larger?” They gesture to a smiling Holly Rowe.
You know the game is being nationally televised when you have the brilliant Holly Rowe interviewing you.
Daniel nudges me encouragingly, but some of my confidence has deflated.
Just because I’m getting better at talking to my teammates and to Daniel doesn’t mean these interviews feel any easier.
Especially since the last one I had basically upended my life.
I nod hesitantly and accept the microphone so I can talk to Holly.
I nervously flip a braid over my shoulder as Holly and the camera turn their attention towards me. “Annie, I think we’ll start with this game. I have to say it felt like one of the most exciting of this season. Do you agree?”
Familiar territory, and I want to pull Holly aside to thank her. “I’m sure it was very exciting for the fans, Holly, though I’ll say it was a little more nerve-racking for the team.”
This gets a small chuckle from Holly. She continues, “You started off the game struggling with your passes and shots. You finished with 14 points and nine assists. What changed?”
I try very hard not to look at Daniel, standing a few feet away, talking to his cameramen and pointing to my team, who is finally heading off the court. “Someone reminded me that I can change my mindset. It’s been a hard week, and my game felt off as a result.”
Holly’s eyes are sparkling. “Is that someone Daniel Chan?”
“No comment,” I respond, but my voice is teasing.
She switches gears, growing a little more serious as she looks down the camera lens.
“The hard week Annie is referring to is the recent investigation into her biological father’s misconduct when it comes to the ownership of the Arrows.
” It’s a kind and efficient summary. She turns her attention back to me.
“But, as far as I understand it, you don’t even know Jack Smith? ”
I think about Trenton’s warning to stay out of his family’s business, but I still feel compelled to say something. Holly is looking at me seriously, like she knows this isn’t just jokes about being a “nepo baby”.
“That’s correct,” I finally say, trying to keep my voice even and to show no sign of tearing up. “I didn’t know he was my biological father until a few days ago.”
Holly presses me, but in a surprising way. “And do you feel like your father’s scandal, which may or may not have anything to do with you, is taking away from your team’s recent success?”
It’s a thoughtful question and exactly what you’d expect from consummate professional Holly Rowe.
Jadea will be pleased. Her fake dating scheme and our win today seem to have boosted my reputation already.
“Yes, I think it has,” I say softly. “Jack isn’t my father.
He didn’t raise me. He didn’t coach me. I’ve never said more than a few words to him.
Maybe he thought he was helping me, but instead, he’s distracted everyone from the incredible games being played in the WNBA right now.
I think it’s shameful that the WNBA is getting more press than ever right now, and it’s all because of a scandal that most players have nothing to do with. ”
With that, I pass back the microphone. I don’t know if I said enough or explained it in the right way, but I tried to be honest. As I walk away from Holly, I see my mom is still in her seat, waiting to talk to me.
I know we need to hash things out. I need to explain Daniel and our entanglement, and she needs to talk about Jack.
I want to be friends with her again, to tell each other everything again.
I’ve hovered over the call button so many times these past few days.
But my mom and I hardly ever fight, which means we’re not used to making up.
Daniel sidles over to me. “Is that your mom?”
I nod nervously. He reads my expression. “You’re still not speaking?” His words are laced with sympathy, maybe because he’s also close with his family. His parents and younger brother William.
I take a deep breath. “It’s time. We need to talk it out, but I don’t know what to say. It’s hard to be disappointed in someone you love, you know?”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them.
It sounds like I’m talking about Daniel, about how disappointed I was when he left.
Before I can open my mouth and say something, anything, he says, so softly and achingly, “I guess you just have to hope they’ll acknowledge how they hurt you.
And promise yourself that you’ll try to understand their reasons.
” There’s a moment of fraught silence, fragile as spun glass.
He clears his throat, looking away from me and towards the stands.
“Your mom wasn’t honest with you and that hurts.
But she didn’t do it intentionally. If anything, she was probably scared that you’d be disappointed in her when you heard about Jack.
And so, she became trapped in a paradox of her own making. ”
Every word that comes out of his mouth is empathetic and kind.
Like always.
Is there a reason out there that would make up for all the pain I suffered when he left? If there isn’t, is time enough to heal our wounds?
We can’t have this conversation now, with my mom watching us from above. There’s a few more breaths of tension before I try to smile for him. He returns it tentatively. “I’m sure you’re right. She’s my mom. How scary can she be?”
I take a deep breath and start my ascent.