19. Miles
19
MILES
HOOPSNEWS UPDATE: HAWKINS VOWS KODIAKS “DON’T STAND A CHANCE” IN MUST-WIN VERSUS BOSTON
“ H e's been running his mouth all week, saying how he's going to shut us down,” Atlas grunts as we gather in the locker room.
Clay shakes his head. “Let him talk. We'll do our talking on the court.”
A chorus of agreement rises from the team, a unified front against the looming challenge.
As the chatter continues, I slip away to my locker. The pregame jitters are there as always, but there's also a heaviness, a worry that gnaws at the pit of my stomach.
I reach into my bag, my fingers finding the edge of the photographs. I pull out the stack and stick them one by one up in my locker next to the picture of Brooke.
There’s one of my guys after finals last year, another of me and Jay in college, plus a new one of Brooke and Grams from the retirement home yesterday with Brooke beaming and the blue bracelet I made her just visible on her wrist.
Yesterday, I told Brooke I loved her. It felt so damned good to get the words out after all this time.
But today, as I trace the lines of her smile, a chill of doubt snakes through me. The scandal, the rumors, and the speculation have been circling me like vultures, threatening to pick apart everything I've built.
What if I can’t live up to what everyone expects of me? If I can’t make the people I care most about proud?
I don’t want this season to end. The Kodiaks need to make the playoffs and I’m going to get us there.
I owe it to the team, to myself, to be the man Brooke and Grams believe me to be.
“Miles, you ready for this?”
I turn to see Rookie, his eyes wide with a mix of nerves and excitement.
“Yeah.” I clap him on the shoulder, mustering a smile. “Just stick to the plan.”
As we gather, the energy in the room shifts. It's electric, a crackling current of determination and unity.
“All right,” Jay says, his voice cutting through the tension. “This is it. There’s no way around Hawkins, we’ve got to go through him.
“Boston thinks they have us beat. They think they can intimidate us, but they don't know what we're made of. They don't know the hours we’ve put in, the sweat we’ve left on this court. They don't know the heart of this team, but they're about to find out.”
A ripple of energy passes through the room, a shared resolve that binds us together.
Coach claps his hands in agreement. “I want you to go out there and play your game. Play smart, play hard, play together.”
His words wash over me, fueling the fire in my veins. I look at my teammates, seeing that same fire reflected in their eyes.
“Let's do this,” I say, my voice ringing with conviction.
As we break the huddle, our hands joined in a unity circle, I push away the doubts and worries. This is where I belong. This is what I was meant to do.
We take the court to the roar of the crowd, adrenaline surging through my veins. Hawkins is there, his smirk already in place.
The ball goes up, and the game begins. It's time.
Boston’s not here to fuck around.
They come out strong, their offense clicking with precision.
Hawkins is everywhere, his footwork impeccable as he weaves through our defense.
I’m playing great, but so is he. I grit my teeth, pushing myself harder with every play.
“Keep your head up, Garrett!” Coach barks from the sidelines. “Trust your teammates!”
I nod, forcing myself to take a deep breath. As we transition into offense, I see an opening. With a quick head fake, I drive toward the basket, drawing two defenders. At the last second, I dish the ball to Clay, who's wide open in the corner. He sinks the three, and the crowd erupts.
I barely have a moment to sneak a look up at the team box. Brooke and Nova are standing in their seats, holding onto one another as they watch intently.
The second quarter is when fatigue sets in. Am I pushing too hard? Not hard enough? Hawkins seems to sense my inner turmoil.
“Heard you've been having some locker room issues, Garrett,” he sneers during a free throw. “Maybe you should stick to partying in Vegas.”
I clench my jaw, willing myself not to react, but the words fuel my fire. “Maybe you should worry more about basketball.”
At halftime, we're down by seven. The locker room is tense, frustration palpable in the air. Coach's words wash over me, but I'm lost in my head, replaying every mistake, every missed opportunity.
“Miles?” Jay's voice cuts through my thoughts.
I look around at my teammates, seeing the trust in their eyes. They believe in me, even when I'm struggling to believe in myself.
The third quarter is a battle of wills. We claw our way back, point by point. A steal here, a clutch shot there. Rookie surprises everyone with a monstrous block on Hawkins, sending the crowd into a frenzy.
But Boston isn't going down without a fight. They match us shot for shot, their defense tightening like a vise. With every possession, the pressure mounts.
As we enter the fourth quarter, the score is tied. My muscles ache, sweat stinging my eyes, but I've never felt more alive. This is what it's all about. The challenge, the struggle, the chance to prove ourselves.
With three minutes left, Hawkins sinks a deep three, putting Boston up by two. The crowd goes silent, the tension almost unbearable.
Coach calls a timeout, gathering us close. “This is it, boys,” he says, his voice steady. “Everything we've worked for comes down to these last few minutes.”
His words settle over me, determination coursing through my veins.
As we retake the court, I catch Hawkins's eye. He's smirking, confident in his team's lead, but there's something else there too—a glimmer of respect, maybe even fear.
The ball is in my hands, the seconds ticking down on the clock.
Hawkins's taunts ring in my ears, his words like venom trying to seep into my veins. “Heard you're more interested in off-court drama these days, Garrett. How's that investigation going?”
I try to block him out, to focus on the game, but his jabs are relentless.
I feel my grip slipping, my feet stumbling.
But then, in the midst of the chaos, a voice cuts through. “Hey, Hawkins!” It's Jay, his eyes blazing with a fierce protectiveness. “Fans want to listen to you gabbing, they can tune into one of your podcasts instead of paying five hundred bucks for a ticket.”
Hawkins sneers, but Jay isn't done. He turns to me, his hand firm on my shoulder. “Don't let this asshole get in your head.”
His words hit me like a jolt of electricity. I look around, seeing the faces of my teammates, my brothers. They're nodding, their eyes filled with the same trust, the same belief.
A new resolve settles over me. “Let's do this.”
As we start the next play, I feel a shift in the energy. We're moving as one, a united front against anything the world can throw at us.
The game resumes, and I'm seeing the court through new eyes. Every pass is crisp, every shot is true. We're clicking, our trust in each other translating into flawless execution.
Hawkins is getting more and more frustrated, his plays becoming sloppy and aggressive. He's trying to provoke me, to get a rise out of me, but I don't take the bait. I've got more important things to focus on.
The last three minutes tick by, the score climbing. We're neck and neck.
My gaze lifts to the crowd where Brooke’s sitting. Her eyes, full of love and support, lock with mine.
I know I can do this. I can be clutch for my guys, the team, the dreams of everyone who bet on this franchise.
The clock is winding down, mere seconds left. I've got the ball and a clear path to the basket. But out of the corner of my eye, I see Jay, open and ready.
I don't hesitate. With a flick of my wrist, the ball flies from my hands, a perfect arc across the court. Jay catches it, his eyes wide with surprise and gratitude. He jumps, the ball leaving his fingertips as the buzzer sounds.
The whole arena holds its breath. The ball seems to hang in the air for an eternity.
And then, with a satisfying swish, it drops through the net.
The crowd erupts, a deafening roar that shakes the very foundations of the building. My teammates are on Jay in an instant, their voices hoarse.
Over their heads, I catch a glimpse of Hawkins, his face twisted with disbelief and defeat, but he doesn't matter—not anymore.