Chapter Forty-One
Todd
I stare into the mirror hanging inside my locker, studying my reflection.
My jaw is set, shoulders are tight. I look ready for the NCAA Finals—at least on the outside.
Then a familiar flash of red curly hair appears in my peripheral vision, and my stomach does a weird flip that has nothing to do with pregame jitters.
“Hey, Coach.” Taylor walks over to him. “Can I get some pregame quotes for The Beacon? I can be quick.”
Coach looks at his watch, sighs, then nods. “Five minutes, Coleman.”
“Thank you,” she says, pivoting toward the players, notebook already open. I watch as she approaches Sam, our backup point guard, her voice shifting into that professional cadence she uses when she’s on newspaper duty.
“With Varga likely to play heavy minutes tonight, what’s your mindset coming off the bench?”
I pretend to retie my shoes, straining to catch their conversation.
Sam says something about staying ready, being a spark.
All the usual clichés. Taylor nods, taking notes, her face a mask of journalistic neutrality.
Only I can see the slight tension around her eyes, and the way she keeps her weight on her right leg when she’s stressed.
“You know you could just wave,” Jacob says, appearing next to me. “It’d probably be less obvious.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, grabbing a towel. “I’m not doing—”
“Yeah, you are.” He smirks. “You two have that weird telepathy thing going on. It’s creepy, man.”
I flip him off casually, but he’s not wrong. Even from across the room, I can feel when Taylor’s attention shifts my way.
“Did you get the paternity results yet?”
He scowls. “Emma’s refusing to tell me until after the game, says she doesn’t want to be the reason I fuck up.”
“Hey, guys,” Taylor says, making her way over to us. “As seniors and draft prospects, what’s your mindset heading into tonight’s game?”
“For me, it’s about proving myself,” Jacob says, answering first. “This is a chance to showcase what I can do against tough competition. Draft prospects or not, we need to rally together as a team. I want to show that we can handle the pressure and come out stronger—I just want to contribute to this team the best I can one last time.”
She turns to me. “And you?”
“It’s all about focusing on the moment.” I sigh, running my fingers through my hair.
“This is our last shot at the NCAA Finals, and while the draft is looming, I can’t let that creep into my head.
I need to play for my team and make sure we execute the game plan.
It’s about leaving everything on the court tonight. ”
Coach claps his hands. “Coleman, wrap it up.”
“All done, Coach,” she says, closing her notebook. “Thanks, guys.”
The team begins to gather for the final huddle, but I linger by my locker, watching as Taylor heads for the door. I want to stop her—ask how her games went in California, about Emma’s paternity test, and what it means for her postgrad plans.
“Bergman! Huddle! Now!”
But the moment slips away, drowned out by the urgency of Coach’s voice snapping me back to reality. I take a deep breath, turning my attention to my teammates, and prepare for the challenge ahead.
“Tonight’s about execution,” Coach says as I join the circle. “About making the right play at the right time. About trusting what we’ve built all season.”
My pulse quickens. This is it. This is what I need—the simplicity of basketball. For the next forty minutes, my world needs to narrow to the court, the ball, and the scoreboard.
No Taylor.
No Emma.
No postgrad plans.
The circle breaks, and we line up for the walk through the tunnel. I step forward as the door opens, the distant roar of the crowd already washing over me like a wave.
Jogging onto the court, the hardwood thrums beneath my feet. Between the announcer and the crowd, the noise is deafening as I run through my warm-ups.
When it comes time for tip-off, I face my opponent, Dubanowski—a lanky center with a seven-foot wingspan and a scowl that says he’s read all my stats. The whistle shrieks, the ball rises, and suddenly I’m airborne, fingers stretching toward that perfect leather sphere.
My fingertips connect first, directing the ball toward Jacob. He takes it with confidence, surveying the court with practiced calm, then swings it to Matt on the wing.
We draw first blood, and the crowd erupts as we backpedal to set up our defense.
Sweat already streams down my face, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Their point guard, Reed, brings the ball up cautiously, probing our defense.
He passes to their shooting guard, who’s somehow gotten free at the top of the key.
I scramble to close out, but I’m a half-step too late.
I clench my jaw as we take the ball back up court, Coach McBrady’s voice cutting through the noise.
“Communicate on screens, Bergman!”
My legs strain as I set a pick for Jacob, then roll to the basket.
The defender follows Jacob, leaving me momentarily open.
I catch Jacob’s bounce pass, take one dribble, and rise up.
Dubanowski rotates over, but he’s too late—I’m already above the rim.
The ball slams through the net, the backboard shuddering as I hang there for a split second.
When I land, the impact shoots from my ankles to my knees, but the adrenaline rush dulls any discomfort.
The game seesaws back and forth, neither of us able to build a substantial lead. With a minute left in the half, we’re down 31–29.
Jacob takes a high screen from me at the top of the key. His defender goes under, giving him just enough space to rise up, tying the game at 31–31, which holds until the buzzer sounds.
My fingers twitch with unused energy as we head toward the tunnel. We’re not playing badly, but we’re not imposing our will either. Coach is silent as we file into the locker room, but his tight expression says everything.
This game is far from over.
“I’ll keep this brief,” he says once we’re all gathered. “You need to decide who you’re going to be the next time you enter this locker room—the champions or the runners-up.”
I focus on the adjustments we need to make until we take the court again fifteen minutes later.
The crowd rises as we set up for the first possession. Jacob dribbles at the top of the key, motioning for me to set a screen. I position myself, feeling the defender’s body against mine as Jacob uses the pick. He drives, drawing the defense before kicking to the corner where Cody waits, wide open.
Thunder crashes through me as I pump my fist, backpedaling quickly to set up on defense, but Wisconsin’s response is immediate—their guard drives hard before pulling up for a smooth jumper.
I shake off the momentary setback, watching as Jacob weaves through their defense on our next possession. He catches his defender leaning the wrong way and slices through for a slick layup.
36–33.
The game whirls into a blur of motion and sound.
Each possession feels crucial, each stop a small victory.
My lungs burn with the constant sprinting, changing directions, jumping.
On defense, I call out screens, rotate to help, and contest shots.
On offense, I set picks, roll to the basket, and fight for position in the paint.
As we enter the final two minutes, Wisconsin ties it with a layup—61–61. Matt, quiet for most of the game, finally finds his rhythm, catching and firing a transition three that pierces the tension in the arena.
I lock eyes with him as we run back on defense, every nerve in my body alive with possibility. Under a minute now, and Wisconsin hits a long jumper that seems to hang in the air forever before dropping. 64–63, us.
Clamping down on the ball with thirty seconds left, I avoid a double team before finding Jacob. He drives, drawing the defense before kicking to Cody in the corner, who lets it fly, putting us up 67–63.
Wisconsin races downcourt, hoisting a desperate three that clangs off the iron. I position myself perfectly, boxing out their forward, and snatch the rebound as bodies slam into me from all sides. The foul is immediate.
I struggle to swallow as I approach the line, the outcome resting on my shoulders. The arena falls into that strange, suspended silence that accompanies crucial free throws. I bounce the ball three times, exhale, and shoot. The ball rolls around the rim before dropping—68–63.
One more. Same routine. Three bounces. Deep breath. Release.
69–63—and the crowd goes wild!
Ten seconds to go. Wisconsin hurries up court, but their shot misses badly. Cody grabs the rebound and gets fouled with three seconds left. He makes one of two—70–63—and I brace for the horn as Reed drops in a meaningless layup at the buzzer.
Final score: MSU 70–65 over Wisconsin.
My knees buckle slightly—joy and relief crashing over me in waves. The bench players storm the court, a sea of scarlet and gray jubilation. Coach pumps his fist once—his version of unbridled celebration—before composing himself for the handshake line.
As the adrenaline wears off throughout the postgame celebrations, thoughts of Taylor recapture me. I scan the crowd but I can’t find her in the sea of people. So much for that telepathy thing Jacob was talking about. It isn’t until I check my phone back in the locker room that I see her text.
See you back at the hotel. Room 203.
We’re kept longer than usual for the victory celebration between the awards and the postgame interviews. By the time we head back to the hotel, every muscle in my body is screaming for ice and painkillers.
“Drinks back at our room!” Jacob announces to the entire bus.
“I’ll meet up with you guys later.” I almost collapse under the weight of my duffel bag. “I gotta talk to Taylor.”
“Right, talk.” Jacob waggles his brows. “Get her to tell you about Emma—there’s nothing she can fuck up now!”
I chuckle as I head up to the room and knock softly.