Eleven
Craig
The first quarter of the game we were behind.
By a lot. Kathy found us a seat in the upper back corner of the bleachers which allowed me to rest my back against the wall.
Cami and Darren were on either side of us which meant they couldn’t poke each other, but also meant I had to reach over Darren to grab the rail when I stood up.
Though there weren’t a lot of reasons to stand and cheer with the other team picking off our passes and shutting our guards out of the key. It was rough to watch.
Jackie got boxed and the referee didn’t call an egregious body check that sent her sprawling.
I wasn’t the only one on my feet for that one but the ref just got angry.
By the close of the first period we were down by fifteen.
The only bright spot was a pair of three pointers in the middle of the quarter before the opposing Lions started double teaming our tall outside wing.
During the break I could see the girls gasping for breath, even from across the gym.
“This is not going well,” I murmured to Kathy.
“Jackie was worried about this one. I think that’s why she wanted you to come.”
Rubbing my thigh I shook my head, leaning over Cami to whisper, “Holding me out as a good luck charm is sure to come to no good.” At the end of the brief break a fresh squad took the court but with Jackie on the bench. I watched her coach pacing the sideline.
Rilee wore black shorts and a long-sleeved shirt that she nervously pushed up to her elbows.
When she changed directions back toward the bench her sneakers squeaked slightly.
The muscles in her calves flexed with each step and more of her height was leg than I’d realized, able now to see her fully as she waved directions with her arms. In reaction to something on court, her steady pace broke with a nervous short shuffling step, a step like the one at the coffee shop. I wasn’t watching the game at all.
Our team picked off a pass. The blond center ran the ball up but as she got boxed‐in she took a chance with a bounce pass to our guard already just outside the key.
An opponent got a finger on the ball deflecting it, but the guard still made the catch and spun to sink a two point shot with just net.
The bleachers broke into a cheer and Rilee shouted something through her wide grin that I couldn’t hear over the cries.
The other team responded with a quick play but bricked the ball and we recovered the rebound.
Rilee held up her hands and shouted a play.
The other couch, a small Hispanic woman, clapped twice and shouted something else.
Our right wing gave our guard a short nod a moment before the guard sprang into action.
It happened so fast I didn’t see the screen but suddenly the guard was open and already in the air with the layup, sinking another two‐points.
We traded baskets, creeping the score up, but without either team making any progress.
Our little Wolfpack guard set up behind the half court line and raised her hand to call out a play.
As she started her dribble, with the wings already in motion, she yelled a signal and the incredibly fast screen materialized.
She was free again, sinking another two points.
Rilee clapped enthusiastically, directing the squad on the court as the small Hispanic coach was in conference with Jackie’s squad.
Play continued with Rilee managing the court.
Even from across the gym I could see the purse of Rilee’s lips as the ref missed another foul call, an obvious slap across the wrist just as our center took her shot sending her straight to the ground.
I couldn’t take it. It was hard enough playing against a strong team without playing against the refs too.
With the ball still in the air, and the gym silently waiting for the geometry of the shot to reveal itself, I stood up, shouting, “Foul!” My voice echoed back from the far wall.
Jackie looked away from the shot and right at me, her attention drawn by my voice.
Rilee did the same with a startled look.
The ref glanced my way as well, before extending his hand and grabbing his own wrist to call the foul, late, just as the ball bounced off the back of the rim, then the front, and then sloughing through the net. The gym erupted.
Sitting down in my seat with a grunt I watched the teams set up for the foul shot.
In front of me, a guy with a red baseball cap turned around, setting his hand on my knee momentarily before jerking it away like he’d been burned as his finger touched the plastic of my brace.
“Uh good call,” he said, before turning back to the free throw which fell through the hoop with a satisfying swoosh of just net.
As our team set up on defense Rilee looked up from the court to our corner.
Across the empty space our eyes met. It had been almost a week and we’d only exchanged brief texts about the CPR class.
Raising a hand I waved across the distance.
A curl started at one corner of her mouth and then vanished in a look of annoyance.
“Who’s that you’re waving at?” Kathy asked, searching the stands below us.
A cold sweat broke out in my armpits and elbow creases.
Why had I done that, waving at a coach in the middle of the game?
How would I explain to Kathy how I knew her?
I couldn’t say hey that girl with the pretty eyes and the awesome legs is the one I had coffee with, oh and by the way she’s Jackie’s coach. Yea, that one right there.
“Uh, nobody. I thought I recognized someone. I was wrong,” I slid my hand back to my lap.
Kathy glanced at the lower bleachers and then back at me, staring hard as if she was going to find the answer written on my forehead. “Sure. You know lots of people in Spokane.”
“Right,” I said, agreeing with her sarcasm. “I was mistaken. I get things wrong occasionally. Don’t tell Lukas.”
That bought a chuckle and Kathy turned back to the game.
Neither team scored in the final minute of the half.
The Wolfpack was down by ten but had made up a third of their deficit.
The coaches joined the whole team in a huddle.
I’m sure she didn’t mean to, but Rilee’s position in the huddle put her back toward me and occasionally she bent over to point something out, generating more definition in her shorts than I am sure she meant.
I alternated from admiring to looking away.
Kathy chattered away but I couldn’t pay attention due to my struggle between decorum and the memory of the heat of Rilee standing too close in the coffee shop doorway.
The ten‐minute halftime finished and Jackie took the court.
She opened with what looked like that fast screen but broke away before the layup to pass to the far wing who was open due to an attempt to double team Jackie after the screen.
The wing caught the pass and sank a solid two pointer before the Lions could recover, starting the half with a quick score.
Control of the ball rotated back and forth with the relative scoring positions not changing much.
I watched Jackie intently, trying to keep my eyes off Rilee’s pacing legs.
Dashing up and down the court, sweat trickled down from Jackie’s hairline across her cheek and forehead.
Even in the stands I could see the struggle to keep her face calm, to not telegraph her moves before she made them.
This game was all about misdirection, and trying to be where you weren’t expected.
The third period ended with a deficit of only five points.
The squads switched, Jackie coming back to the bench.
Try as I might, I couldn’t watch the fourth quarter of the game.
The Hispanic coach shouted directions and Rilee paced.
Realizing that she was moving up and down the sideline too much, Rilee settled into a spot near the half court line, occasionally whispering to the other coach when their paths crossed, but as the ball changed sides Rilee swayed back and forth like a tree in a stormy wind, her branches shivering at the strain.
Each movement was a projection of her desires for her team, willing the ball across the court.
I jumped as Kathy gripped my knee with a wide fingered grip.
“They’re going to do it,” Kathy breathed.
Tearing myself away from Rilee I looked at the scoreboard. It was tied. We were on the offensive but caught in a passing duel. The Lions held us out of the key but we kept a frantic half pace ahead of the defenders.
Groaning, Kathy let go of me as a defender’s long arm tipped the ball mid pass sending it tumbling out of play.
We set up for a throw-in but the pass never made it to our team.
A tall ponytailed brunette leapt out, stole the ball and broke for our basket.
The layup went wild and the Lions jumped late, the ball careening off the backboard.
Our center was hot on her heels but didn’t expect the ricochet and only got a hand on the ball, tossing it back toward half court before stumbling out of bounds.
The ball stayed in play and there was a mad scramble, a storm of hands and feet and maybe a quick elbow that no one called, and the orange ball squirted out again, this time toward the defender’s basket right into the hands of our curly-haired guard who was as surprised as the rest of us.
Startled to have the ball in her hands, she looked up from the pack of charging players and turned to take a flat-footed bank shot.
The ball hit the corner and ricocheted off the rim, right through the net.
The ref whistled a dead ball and we were ahead by two with eight seconds left on the clock.
I felt sick. Eight seconds was enough to score.
A single basket by the Lions and we were in overtime, and a three pointer would mean a loss.