Chapter 17
The arena is packed in that particular way it gets when expectations are high. The crowd knows this one counts. So do the players. So do the cameras.
And my head is not where it should be.
I see him before warm-ups even finish.
Rafe’s in the stands, tucked behind the bench area in seats that aren’t quite courtside but close enough that I can feel him when I look up.
He has a cap pulled low and sunglasses on even though we’re indoors, but I would recognize his curls anywhere.
He looks tired, but when his gaze catches mine, his mouth curves in a small smile that hits me like a hand to the chest.
He came straight from the airport to the arena. He said he would, and I believed him.
Now he’s here, and my body reacts like it always does when he’s near. My nerves light up. My heartbeat changes rhythm. I feel steadier and more unsteady at the same time.
Because after this game, he’s going to drive to his parents’ house.
And he’s going to tell them he’s married.
To me.
I try to inhale slowly, to remind myself that it’s a good thing. That this is what I agreed to. That he’s excited. That his parents are not like mine.
My chest stays tight anyway.
Marco jogs up beside me as we line up for introductions. He bumps my shoulder lightly, like he’s checking in without asking the question out loud. “You good?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I lie.
His eyes flick to the stands, then back to me. He doesn’t press, but something in his expression sharpens, like he’s storing it away for later.
“All right,” he says quietly. “Stay present.”
I nod.
Stay present.
It sounds easy.
It isn’t.
The opening tip goes up, and we win it clean. The ball is ours, and the first possession is supposed to settle me. I run the set. I cut. I get open on the wing. The pass comes fast and sharp, right into my hands.
It should be automatic. I hesitate anyway. Just a fraction too long.
The defender closes the gap. I adjust late. The shot comes off awkward, a rushed release that clips the front rim and dies.
The crowd groans.
I jog back on defense with my jaw clenched, trying to swallow the embarrassment before it becomes something bigger.
“You’re fine,” Marco calls, reading my face. “Next one.”
I tell myself that too. Next one.
The other team pushes pace early, trying to rattle us. They hit a three in transition. Our coach barks from the sideline, voice cutting through the noise. “Match up! Talk!”
I talk. I point. I rotate.
It still feels like I’m moving half a beat behind the game. The ball comes back to me on the next offensive trip. I drive baseline. The lane collapses. I see the kick-out to the corner, wide open.
I fire the pass and it sails. Just slightly too high, too far. The guy in the corner jumps for it, fingertips grazing leather, but it hits the sideline and bounces out of bounds.
Turnover.
Our fans make that collective sound, frustration swelling. I stop at the top of the key for a second longer than I should, staring at my hands like they betrayed me.
Marco grabs my elbow as we jog back. “Hey,” he says sharply. “Eyes up.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. My pulse is loud in my ears.
I glance toward the stands again without meaning to. Rafe hasn’t moved. He’s watching, still, focused. Not judging. Not disappointed. Just there.
It should help. What it does is make me feel like I’m playing with my ribs exposed.
The first quarter becomes a blur of effort and small failures. I miss a rotation that leads to a layup. I overhelp on a drive and give up an open three. I take a midrange jumper that I normally hit in my sleep, and it rims out.
Coach calls time-out. We crowd around him, sweat already slick on our skin. His clipboard is in his hands, but his eyes are on me. “Marshall,” he says, voice tight.
I meet his gaze.
“You’re drifting,” he says. “You’re thinking instead of playing.”
“I’ve got it,” I say quickly.
“Do you?” he challenges. Not cruel. Not loud. Just direct.
I swallow. “Yes.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods once. “Then show me. Simplify. Make the easy read. Stop hunting the perfect play. Give me the right play.”
“Yes, Coach.”
We break.
Kirk is behind me as we walk back onto the floor. He leans in just close enough that no one else hears. “Big game and you’re already choking,” he mutters.
I ignore him.
He laughs under his breath. “Maybe your little band boyfriend should write you a song about it.”
My spine goes rigid, but I keep walking. If I turn, if I react, it becomes something. It becomes a scene. It becomes fuel, which is exactly what a dick like Kirk wants.
Marco looks over his shoulder at Kirk, expression dark, but he doesn’t say anything. The game is still on. The clock is still running.
Second quarter, I try to lock in. I force myself to focus on my breath, my feet, the ball. I get a steal and push it in transition. I finish through contact. The whistle blows, and I get the and-one.
Our fans erupt, and for a moment, something in me steadies. It feels like I’m back in my body instead of hovering above it.
I step to the line and bounce the ball twice. Rafe is in my peripheral vision. I can feel him watching.
I shoot.
Swish.
I exhale sharply and jog back, jaw set. I can do this. I have done this. I’m not going to fall apart because my husband is in the crowd and my life is complicated.
We trade buckets. The game tightens. The other team plays physical, hands on hips, forearms in ribs, talking constantly. They want us uncomfortable. They want us messy.
They’re getting what they want from me.
Late in the second quarter, I catch the ball at the elbow and jab step.
My defender bites. I drive. The help comes late, but I have the lane.
I go up, but my timing’s off. Just slightly.
Just enough that the ball catches the rim and bounces out, and in the same second, I feel the momentum swing away from us like a door slamming.
They run it back for a fast-break score.
Coach’s voice explodes from the sideline. “Marshall! Get your head in the game!”
The words slice straight through me. I nod once, not trusting myself to answer.
We go into halftime down six.
In the tunnel, the noise of the crowd fades into the hum of the building, the echo of sneakers on concrete. My skin feels too tight. My stomach churns. I wipe my face with my towel and breathe through my nose, trying to reset.
Marco walks beside me. “You’re spiraling,” he says quietly.
“I’m not,” I reply automatically.
He gives me a look. “Ollie.”
I stop walking, and he stops too.
“You’re better than this,” he says, not unkindly. “Whatever’s in your head, leave it in the hallway. We need you.”
The guilt hits like a punch. “I know,” I say hoarsely. “I know.”
He nods, satisfied that I heard him, and we keep moving.
Third quarter starts, and we come out aggressive. Dan hits a three. Marco gets a dunk. The bench erupts. Our fans catch fire, and I want to ride that wave.
I try. I really fucking try. But it’s like my brain keeps slipping, like my focus has oil on it.
I make one good play, then follow it with a stupid one. I force a pass that isn’t there. It gets picked. They score. I foul on the other end trying to recover.
Coach’s face on the sideline is thunder. He calls for a substitution.
I feel it before he says my name. I feel it in my bones, in the way the game is tightening and I’m the loose bolt.
“Marshall!” Coach barks. “Get over here.”
My chest goes cold. I jog to the bench as the crowd murmurs. I sit. My hands shake slightly as I grab my towel again and wipe sweat from my face that isn’t just sweat.
Coach leans down in front of me, blocking my view of the court. “Talk to me,” he says, voice lower now. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “That’s bullshit.”
I swallow hard. “I’m just… off.”
“You’re off in an important game,” he says, controlled but furious. “You understand what that does to everyone else?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He holds my gaze. “If you can’t get it together, you don’t go back in.”
The words land heavy. I nod, because I deserve it.
From the bench, I watch the rest of the third quarter unravel into something ugly. We fight. We scratch back. We make it close, then give up an open three. We miss a layup. We turn it over.
The home crowd is loud, our own fans restless.
Kirk sits two seats down from me, smirking like he’s enjoying this. “Tough night,” he murmurs. “Maybe you should ask your friend to write you some confidence.”
My hands clench.
Marco hears him this time. He turns slowly, eyes hard. “Shut up, Kirk,” he says flatly.
Kirk’s grin widens. “Touchy.”
“I said shut up,” Marco repeats, voice quiet but dangerous.
Kirk lifts his hands in mock surrender, still smiling like he won something anyway. No one else says anything. No one backs Marco up. And that silence feels almost as bad as the comment.
Fourth quarter starts with us down eight.
We push. We claw. We get it to five. Our fans believe. I feel my body lean forward, desperate to be out there, desperate to fix what I broke.
Coach doesn’t look at me; instead, he keeps me on the bench.
We cut it to three with two minutes left. Then we give up a corner three that silences the arena for half a second before the other team’s fans roar. We miss on the next possession while they hit free throws. The gap widens again, and I feel the loss settling in before the buzzer even sounds.
When the horn finally goes off, the scoreboard is undeniable. We lose.
The home crowd noise turns loud, a wave of glee that washes over the court and leaves everything feeling grimy. My stomach drops through the floor.
Players start moving toward the tunnel. Hands on hips. Heads bowed. Sweat-drenched jerseys sticking to skin like shame.
I stand slowly, legs heavy. Coach doesn’t look at me as he walks past. Marco brushes my shoulder as he moves toward the tunnel, his expression tight, while Dan’s jaw is clenched like he might crack a tooth.