24. Miles
24
MILES
T he Visitors’ locker room in Boston is quiet, each player lost in his own pregame ritual. I sit at my locker, staring at my jersey, tracing the familiar numbers with my fingers.
Rookie sidles up, his usual boundless energy tempered by nerves. “You think we can do this?”
I look at him, seeing the mix of hope and fear in his eyes. “I know we can.”
Atlas grunts as he comes in and drops his bag at his locker. “What is it with Boston?!”
“What do you mean?”
“All their sports teams are tough. You wouldn’t last a second in a Boston uniform,” he informs Rookie.
Rookie shrugs. “My cousin got drafted to their hockey team. He’s going to start next season.”
A chorus of boos goes up around the locker room.
“He a nice kid like you? They’ll chew him up and spit him out.” Damon flashes teeth.
As game time approaches, the energy in the locker room builds. Coach gives his final speech, short and to the point. Then it's time. We line up and Jay turns to face us, his eyes blazing with intensity. “Who are we?”
“KODIAKS!” we roar back.
With a final battle cry, we run out into the stadium.
The crowd is a wall of sound and color.
It only makes us stronger.
As I run onto the court, I'm hit by a wave of emotion that nearly knocks me off my feet.
I made it. Despite everything, all the lies and betrayals and setbacks, I made it back here—to this moment, this team, this chance to earn our place in the playoffs and bring a series back to our home court in Denver.
As we take our places for tip-off, I look at my teammates. At Jay, our fearless leader. At Clay, a competitor to the core. At Rookie, brimming with potential. At Atlas, our silent strength. And I know, with a certainty that goes bone deep, that no matter what happens in this game or the ones that follow, we've already won—because we're here, together, ready to face whatever comes our way.
The squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood fills my ears. The crowd's roar is a distant hum, my focus laser-sharp on the task at hand. This is it. Winner goes to the playoffs, loser goes home. Everything we've worked for comes down to the next forty-eight minutes.
I glance at the scoreboard: 00:00. A fresh slate.
My gaze drifts to the stands, landing on Brooke. She’s dressed in my jersey and standing with Nova and Mari and Chloe and…
Grams. My grandmother is here in Boston, wearing a Kodiaks jersey and beaming.
Brooke gives me a small nod, and I feel a surge of confidence. Win or lose, I know I'm not the same man who started this season.
Marcus Hawkins is across the court. He's smirking, cocky as ever. My blood boils, but it’s not the same as when I thought he was fucking with us off the court.
This game, I know how to play.
The ref's whistle pierces the air. Tip-off.
Atlas wins the jump ball, tapping it back to me. I pass it to Jay, setting the offense in motion, but something's off. Our passes are a beat too slow, our shots a hair too short. Boston's defense is suffocating, and before we know it, we're down 10-2.
Coach calls a timeout. We trudge to the bench, heads hanging low.
But it’s Clay who drags us into the huddle, his tattooed arms urgent.
“Listen up,” he says sharply. “We’re not bottom feeders, we’re defending champions. It’s in our blood. In every one of us.” Last year’s Finals MVP nods to me, and it feels like an apology. “Now let’s go out there and show them who the fuck we are.”
His words light a fire in my chest. As we retake the court, I lock eyes with Jay. A silent understanding passes between us. It's time to turn this around.
The second quarter is a different story. We find our rhythm, chipping away at Boston's lead. Jay threads a no-look pass to Atlas for an easy layup. Rookie drains a three from the corner.
We're clawing our way back into the game.
With seconds left in the half, I drive hard to the basket. Hawkins steps up to challenge. I feel the contact, hear the whistle, see the ball drop through the net. The free throw brings us within two points at halftime.
In the locker room, the energy is electric. We can taste the comeback.
“We've got them on their heels,” Coach says. “Now it's time to deliver the knockout punch. Clay, I want you running the pick-and-roll with Jay. Rookie, Atlas, be ready to crash the boards. Miles, keep that hot hand ready.”
His words echo in my mind as we retake the court. The ball feels alive in my hands. We trade baskets with Boston, the lead changing hands with each possession. The crowd is on its feet, the noise deafening.
With two minutes left in the third, I see an opening. I fake left, go right, and drive hard to the hoop. Hawkins is there to meet me, but I'm ready. I leap, twisting in midair to avoid his block, and somehow manage to kiss the ball off the glass and in. The arena erupts.
The fourth quarter is a battle of wills. Every possession feels as though it could decide the game. With thirty seconds left, we're down by one. Coach calls our final timeout.
“All right, listen up,” he says, his voice steady despite the tension. “We've got one shot at this. Miles, I want the ball in your hands. Everyone else, be ready. This is what we've practiced for. This is our moment.”
As we break the huddle, Clay grabs my arm. “You've got this.”
I nod, my throat too tight for words.
The inbound pass comes to me. I dribble, watching the clock tick down. Twenty seconds. Fifteen. Ten.
Hawkins is guarding me, his eyes burning with determination. I can almost hear his taunts from earlier in the season, but I'm not that Miles anymore.
Five seconds.
I make my move, driving right. Hawkins stays with me step for step. Three seconds. I pull up for the jumper, feeling Hawkins’s hand graze my arm. The ball leaves my fingertips.
Time slows. The arena holds its breath. The ball arcs through the air.
Swish.
The buzzer sounds. For a moment, there's silence. Then the world explodes into noise. My teammates mob me, screaming in joy.
As the chaos swirls around me, I find myself face-to-face with Hawkins. There's no smirk now, just a look of grudging respect.
“Hell of a shot, Garrett,” he says, extending his hand.
I shake it, feeling the last of our rivalry dissolve. “Hell of a game, Hawkins.”
In the locker room, the celebration is wild. Jay's leading a chant, Rookie's dancing on a bench, and Clay's already talking strategy for the playoffs.
Coach quiets us down just long enough to say, “I'm proud of you boys. Now go enjoy this. You've earned it.”
As the team files out, still buzzing with excitement, I linger. I sit on the bench, letting it all sink in. We're going to the playoffs. We have a shot at our second championship.
But more than that, I realize how far we've come, how far I've come. From the joker who didn't take anything seriously to the leader who just hit the biggest shot of his life.
A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. It's Brooke, her eyes shining.
“That was some game, Garrett,” she says, her voice soft.
I stand, crossing the room to her. “Couldn't have done it without you, Princess.”
She laughs. “Pretty sure I wasn't the one who made that shot.”
“Maybe not,” I say, pulling her close. “But you made me the person who could.”
As we leave the locker room hand in hand, I can't help but feel excited for what's to come. The playoffs await, another chapter in our journey, but whatever happens, I know I'm ready. We're ready.