He was thrown out of his thoughts by fists banging on his back. In a good way. The woman behind him screamed out a cheer of sheer excitement: “Go Whitetails!”
Brennan winced in pain. Now he got why people rioted after championships.
Every single Browerton fan hopped to their feet. Even fans from the other school took notice, nodding amongst themselves that this new point guard from Browerton was sure giving them a competition.
Mr. Warner watched every second with a glint in his eye. “We could win this game. We’re four points away from victory.”
There were forty seconds on the clock. Brennan was unsure if that was enough time.
Cliff dribbled down the court, eyes soaking in every detail before him. His chest puffed out with new breaths. Sweat sheened his face. And Brennan was the only one who’d get to see him naked, vulnerable, and moaning later tonight.
Cliff came up against aggressive defense. He clocked Cliff’s split-second glance at the player’s feet. Then, as if Cliff had made time his bitch, he did a lightning-quick fake-out pass and darted past the defense. He got into position and lifted off the ground for a three-point shot that swished into the basket.
The crowdscreamedwith elation. Cheering was not enough, not even for Brennan. Their voices created a cloud of noise that hung over the game. His body was a powder keg of nerves and enthusiasm.
“One shot. That’s all we need,” Brennan said, now a sports commentator apparently. He wondered why his friends called sports stupid, when there was obviously skill needed, and it was a rousing form of entertainment.
The player from Canadensis drove down the court. Cliff hunched over providing wide blocking; Brennan liked his butt sticking out like that. He bit his lip.Focus.
The player shot the ball; it hit the rim and bounced off, sending the crowd into a dizzying volume of noise. Ten seconds remained on the clock.
“Come on, Cliff. You got this,” Mr. Warner muttered to himself.
Brennan clapped forcefully and held his hands in prayer stance at his lips.
The pressure was intense, yet Cliff kept his game face on. Brennan couldn’t imagine what he was thinking right now. If Brennan had to make art under these circumstances, he would curl into the fetal position.
Cliff stood at half-court. Defense was heavy. They weren’t giving anything. Eight seconds remained.
He dribbled to the left boundary line. “What is he doing?” the woman behind Brennan asked.
Just as his defender caught up with him, Cliff hurled the ball like a javelin diagonally across the court. Brennan had never seen a basketballchuckedfor such a distance, like they were on a baseball diamond. The arena went silent as it hurtled through the air.
It landed in the hands of his neuroscience classmate Vince Cudia at the bottom right corner of the court, conveniently under the basket. Even he had to take a beat to realize what just happened, the ball in his hands. He tossed it up as the timer ran out. The ball hit the backboard and danced on the rim for an agonizing second before falling into the net.
The cheering went to volumes that could’ve shattered glass, Brennan loudest of all. He thought he was going to lose his hearing.
Mr. Warner pulled Brennan to him, hands on his shoulders, face glowing with pure pride. “He fucking did it!”
Shock paralyzed his body. Brennan had gone through an emotional roller coaster in twelve minutes, and he wanted to scoop Cliff up in his arms and give him the biggest kiss.
Browerton fans flooded onto the court. The Warners joined the mass, with Brennan not far behind. He couldn’t wait to see Cliff, to see his flush, sweaty face flush with victory. He wanted to hold him and tell him everything that he was feeling right now.
But he couldn’t.
Circles of fans packed formed an impenetrable wall around Cliff, everyone trying to get close to the man of the hour. He lost the Warners in the fracas. He couldn’t push through the fortress of jubilation; nobody would let him in.
He called out for Cliff, but so were others. His voice faded into the glee.
Brennan walked to the edge of the court, defeated. He turned around and left the arena by himself, shouldering past the crowds, the school spirit seeping out of him.
25
CLIFF
Little did he know, but as soon as he chucked that basketball across the court in a Hail Mary move, his life would change.
After the game, a whirlwind of people congratulated him. He was practically carried to the afterparty, where more people - students and adults - wanted to shake his hand and clap his back. His brain couldn’t catalogue the new faces and names fast enough. It was ten times the attention he received on his high school team.
