Chapter Thirty-Nine
Todd
The locker room pulses with nervous energy, Coach McBrady’s marker squeaking against the whiteboard as he diagrams a play we’ve run a thousand times in practice this week. But Kentucky is our toughest opponent yet—undefeated on the season.
The tournament run flashes through my mind—the opening round blowout, the Sweet Sixteen nail-biter where my buzzer-beater sent us to the Elite Eight, and then the defensive showcase against Arizona that brought us here.
Each game, each win has been one step closer to vindication, and to proving that all those countless hours in empty gyms were worth it.
But now, sitting in this locker room, minutes away from one of the biggest games of my life, I can’t help but feel that something—someone—is missing.
“You good, man?” Jacob asks, snapping a towel at my knee.
“Yeah,” I reply, flexing my fingers. “Just locking in.”
The past two and a half weeks haven’t been any different than they usually are at this point in the season, but for some reason they feel different this year. It’s harder being apart from Taylor—the distance feels infinitely greater.
“Listen up,” Coach McBrady says, his voice dropping to that intense register that means it’s almost time.
“You’ve earned your way here. Every sprint, every drill, every film session has prepared you for this moment.
But talent and preparation only get you so far.
Who wants it more? That’s the only question that matters now. ”
The team rises as one, and we head out onto the court, the lights blinding. I instinctively scan the crowd during warmups even though I know Taylor’s three thousand miles away.
Before I know it, Jacob bounces on the balls of his feet beside me as the announcer calls the starting lineup, and then we’re taking the court.
But my head still isn’t in the game.
I spring upward when the ball is tossed in the air, arm extended, fingers reaching—but Kentucky’s center, Hayes, gets there first, tipping the ball to their point guard, Ethan Harris.
I backpedal, eyes tracking the ball as it whips around the perimeter but a screen I don’t see coming rocks my shoulder.
Kentucky’s shooting guard, Isaac Harris, cuts backdoor, catches the lob, and rises for a tomahawk dunk that ignites a roar from the 72,000-strong crowd.
Not the start we wanted.
“Lock in!” Coach McBrady shouts from the sideline, his voice barely audible above the crowd’s sustained roar.
Sweat runs down my back, my breath already coming in controlled bursts. The magnitude of the moment hits me—the cavernous stadium, the sea of faces, the knowledge that millions more are watching at home . . . and maybe Taylor is one of them.
Jacob slaps my back as we cross half-court. “Shake it off. We’ve got this.”
The ball finds me on the wing. I catch it, face my defender—a lankier guy who’s giving me too much space.
Big mistake.
I rise, release, and watch the perfect arc as the ball drops through the net. My first points in the Final Four.
“There you go, big man!” Matt shouts, already backpedaling on defense.
The rest of the first half goes like that—they get one, we get one back, until it’s halftime and we’re tied 36–36.
The locker room feels ten degrees cooler than the court, the sudden temperature change raising goose bumps on my sweat-slicked arms. Everyone collapses onto benches, gulping water and stretching tight muscles.
The equipment manager moves through the chaos, distributing fresh towels and electrolyte drinks with practiced efficiency.
I extend my legs in front of me as a student trainer appears with an ice pack for my shooting arm, even though I didn’t mention the dull ache that started after a chase-down block.
The door swings open, and Coach McBrady strides in, clutching his whiteboard like a shield. The assistant coaches flank him, each carrying stat sheets and water bottles. The scattered conversations die instantly.
“Okay, gentlemen,” Coach says, his voice calm but edged with steel. “We’re right where we need to be. Tied game. Fresh start.”
He positions himself at the center of the room, uncapping his marker with a sharp click that echoes in the sudden silence, before giving us a rundown of the first half as if we haven’t just played it.
“Remember what I’ve been telling you all season,” Coach says with finality in his tone. “Defense wins championships—not fancy dunks, not three-pointers. Defense.”
The phrase hangs like a buzzer-beater, a mantra we’ve heard countless times, but it carries a new weight in this moment.
Kentucky comes out aggressive in the second half, pushing the tempo, but this time I’m ready. I fight over screens, communicating switches with crisp, clear calls. The defense tightens like a fist. Three possessions for Kentucky, three stops for us.
It all comes down to the final minutes. Kentucky hits back-to-back three-pointers to cut the lead to three with a minute left. The crowd reaches a fever pitch, a physical pressure that makes my ears ring, but rather than tightening up, a strange calm descends upon me.
The play develops exactly how we’ve practiced—a high pick and roll that forces a switch, giving me the matchup I want. I drive right, draw the help defense, then whip a pass to the corner where Jacob waits. The shot arcs high, hanging in the air for what feels like minutes before dropping through.
Six-point lead. Forty seconds left.
Kentucky races downcourt, desperation driving them.
Their guard rises for a contested three that clangs off the rim.
I position myself, boxing out my man, rising high to secure the rebound.
My hands close around the ball—the most important rebound of my career—and I’m fouled immediately.
My heart beats in time with my steps as I walk to the free-throw line.
The crowd’s cheers rise and fall as I prepare to shoot, a strange auditory tide.
I bounce the ball three times—my ritual—and I think about Taylor in the batter’s box, gazing into the outfield.
The first shot rolls off my fingertips—perfect backspin, nothing but net. The second follows the same path.
Eight-point lead. Thirty seconds left.
Kentucky manages one more desperate three-pointer, cutting the lead to five, but the outcome is inevitable now. When the final buzzer sounds, the scoreboard reads 78–72.
Victory!
For a moment, I stand motionless at center court, the noise washing over me in waves. Then Jacob crashes into me, the rest of the team not far behind.
As the initial celebration subsides, I scan the stands. My parents stand in the lower level, my dad pumping his fist in the air, my mom wiping tears from her eyes. But as much as it means to see them here, there’s only one person I want to share this moment with.