34. Gavin
GAVIN
Before I was an asshole and hurt her feelings. I know I did. I could see it as soon as I told her not to come to the game. And confirmed it by the fact we’ve barely talked since then.
To be fair, yesterday was a packed schedule, even though we had the day off, and Violet was probably nursing a hangover from being out with the girls all night.
I also had another run-in with my dad. He was at the game, and after, he made a point to come say congrats. The interaction lasted only a second, but it was long enough for the big news of the night to be us and not Valley U winning the game.
Instead of Noah or one of my teammates having their photo splashed across the top headline, it’s me and him. And it’s such bullshit.
I pocket my phone and grab a basketball from the rack.
Today, the buzz of excitement humming through the arena is like nothing else.
Coaches and players, media and fans. There is no quiet.
Which is good because any time things get too quiet, the shit with my dad replays in my head and I feel like I’m going to explode.
I keep waiting for the next moment he corners me or I get ambushed by a reporter, who pulls him into the interview without a heads up.
I’m tired of putting on a show when the truth is, I don’t know my dad and I can’t figure out what he wants from me.
He didn’t do the interview without me, which I guess makes me happy. To be honest, I’m just trying not to think about any of it too much. I want to get lost in the rhythm of my dribble and the practiced ease of the ball rolling off my fingertips.
There’s an uncertainty in basketball. The best team doesn’t always win. It’s the best team on any given night. The pressure of the tournament has a way of making unlikely heroes and upsetting top-seeded giants. I don’t know if we’ll get back here next year, so I want to make every second count.
I told Violet it wasn’t important, but the truth is, it’s the only thing that’s important right now. It’s my sanity, and my team is counting on me, so I have to push past all the bullshit.
Coach comes in with a coffee in hand about thirty minutes before we’re due to head into the locker rooms.
I rebound a ball near him, and he tips his head to indicate he wants to talk to me.
“How are you feeling? Nervous?”
“A little,” I admit. “The size and noise of the crowd was intense Friday.”
“It’ll be worse tonight,” he says. “I saw your dad. Any other friends or family coming tonight?”
“Some guys from school, I think. I’m not really sure. My mom is watching from St. Louis. They play again next week.”
“I bet it’s killing her not to be here.”
“For sure.”
“When you get out there for warmups, do a quick scan of the crowd. Get it over with, soak it in, let it freak you out, and then find some of your buddies in the crowd, a friendly face, whatever helps. When you’re overwhelmed in the game, you know where to look to bring yourself back to the calm.”
“Thanks, Coach.” I start back onto the floor, but then stop and ask, “Do you miss it?”
His brows furrow.
I palm the ball and stretch out my arm. “This. Playing ball. The nerves and anticipation before a big game. All of it.”
He nods slowly and a smile transforms his face, as if he’s lost in the best of the memories.
“For me, basketball was an outlet. It was family. I had some good times out there and I don’t regret a single second of the time and sweat I left on the court, but no.
This job gives me as much of that as playing ever did.
” He takes a drink of his coffee. “Besides, I was good, but the NBA would have chewed me up and spit me out.”
A chuckle escapes my lips. I think he’s being modest. I’ve seen the films. He was a great player. “It’d probably do that to me too.”
“If you believe that, then it’s a good thing your mind is already made up.” His smile dares me to say I’m not as confident in my decision as I’ve made everyone believe.
I swallow thickly. “However it happened, I’m glad you ended up here.”
“Thanks, Gavin.” He nods toward the rest of the guys shooting around, dismissing me.
When we take the court for warmups an hour later, I do as he suggested.
I turn in a circle, staring up at the thousands of spectators.
Those nerves from earlier turn into adrenaline.
God, I love this game. I love the energy that flows through me when I step out in my uniform, the test of my focus and skill, and the honesty of the sport.
Genuine talent and hustle are what it takes, nothing less. You can’t let up for a second.
I find my dad in the same spot as last game, sitting in a section across from the bench. He’s wearing a Valley U T-shirt, hands clasped in his lap as he meets my stare. Someone next to him thrusts a paper and pen in his direction and he offers a gracious smile as he signs it for them.
Seeing him doesn’t fill me with the calm Coach mentioned, so I continue looking around until I find Felix and a few other guys from the football team. Their seats are high up, but they stick out with their painted faces and bright yellow T-shirts that when read together say, VALLEY.
I keep searching, and it takes me a minute to realize I’m looking for her. Guilt coats my insides. I should have told Violet I wanted her here. I did. I do. I don’t know why I didn’t say that. Shit with my dad has my head spinning, but it’s no excuse.
“Are you good?” Jenkins asks as he approaches me. I guess I probably look star struck, standing here staring out into the crowd.
“Yeah, I’m good. Did you see the football team?” I point.
Jenkins chuckles. “That’s awesome.”
“It really is.” I hold up my wrist. “Ready to do this?”
“So ready.” He taps his wrist to mine.
From the start, the game is fast-paced and physical.
Gonzaga is tough. They put a full-court press on us and get away with a few sneaky fouls.
We push back, but we’re frustrated and off our game.
That’s how the turnovers start. One bad pass turns into a carry, and the next thing I know, we’re down by eight in the first five minutes.
Coach calls a much-needed timeout to settle us down.
“Take a deep breath and let it go.” He scribbles on the white board a play we all know by heart.
“Take care of the ball. Push it down the court, get set up and pass it around the perimeter. I promise if you swing it around enough, someone will have a look at the basket. They’re playing too tightly not to get caught a step behind. All right?”
We all nod our agreement.
“Let’s go.” He puts his hand up and each of us does the same, joining together. In unison we say, “Run ‘em.”
Noah inbounds the ball to me underneath the Gonzaga basket.
Like they’ve done all game, they pick us up in a full-court press.
I push the ball up the court and pass it off once I cross the half-court line.
Jenkins holds the ball until we’re in position, then passes to the right wing.
Their defense is tight and grabby, the guy covering me is constantly holding my elbow or my jersey, anything to keep me from getting away from him.
I’m a step faster than him, though, and able to make a quick cut from the wing to the basket.
Noah snaps the ball to me as defenders close in from two sides.
I make a split-second decision that dumping the ball off to a teammate is riskier than going for it myself, so I take two dribbles, angle my body and jump above the defense to dunk the ball.
My legs are taken out from under me, and I come down awkwardly. The crowd explodes as I crumble to the ground. A tearing sensation rips through my left knee. No. No. No. No.
I curl into myself and cradle my leg. I think I cry out, but the noise in the arena is deafening. It’s probably only a second before everyone realizes something is wrong, and then one hundred and seventy thousand people go silent.