The team gathers in the circle, hands in the middle. “Believe,” everyone shouts. Then we’re lining up behind Byron and Leroy, ready and walking through the tunneltoward the court. I rub my hands together, then wipe the moisture onto my shorts.
Byron turns, bouncing on the spot, looking over his team, ensuring we are psyched. “A win today, and it locks in a spot for the playoffs,” he shouts. “Let’s do this.” Flares shoot into the air, and the music becomes deafening. The announcer calls out in almost a song, “Presenting your LASharks,” stretching out the last word on a high note.
The fans scream and applaud.
When Byron emerges first, the crowd erupts, and the applause becomes a chant. One by one, the team spills onto the court, then it’s my turn. Holding one hand in the air, I run out onto the court, my heart racing as I wait for a reception from the fans.
The crowd roars, and I can no longer hear myself think.
Relief fills me.
The fans are here to see me give what they crave.
A win—a championship.
I sprint toward the basket, and Byron sends the ball high in the air. With a quick catch and release, I slam the ball through the hoop, and the fans lose it.
It’s showtime, baby.
The game clockcounts down the final seconds.
We have a thirteen-point lead.
I intercept a pass, sprint, and push the ball in front as I leave the bigger players behind. One dribble, two, I eye the basket and prepare for the last shot of the game.Something flashy.
“BJ!”
To my right, Byron flashes in front, arm out, wanting the ball. I lob it high in the air toward the hoop. He catches itmid-air, spins, and then dunks it through the hoop. The fans spring to their feet and cheer. Three years ago, it was our signature move. Tonight, we brought our best game, and the fans loved every second. After training side by side with him for eight years, there are some skills that are embedded in your brain. Tonight, Byron and I worked together as though we hadn’t spent a single day apart.
As I run to Byron to pat his back, I catch sight ofherin the stands, clapping hard and smiling just like the old Charlotte. The Hendricks family sit in the seats surrounding her, all looking equally impressed with the win.
I pat Byron’s back, and he ruffles my hair. “Good work, BJ. I guess not all is lost.” He runs over to the rest of the team, and I watch them celebrate.
Simpson holds out his hand, and we do the standard handshake. “Nice work, BJ. Nice work.”
“Excuse me, Coach Mathews. Do you mind if we interview Brandon Johns?”
I look at Coach, then Byron, who gives me a nod, as Coach Mathews says, “Sure.”
I’m watching Byron’s reaction, as he is mine. For as long as I can remember, I have loathed post-game interviews on camera and attempting to think of the right things to say while my team continues to celebrate.
Katrina Batton, the journalist for the sports channel—she’s direct, bossy, and fires intrusive questions, asking about our private lives—guides me into the center of the court. “Great game, Brandon. How does it feel to be back?”
“It feels good. We got the win, and it’s a step closer to the end goal.” I wipe my face with a towel and look up at my teammates, still bouncing about, celebrating.
“That’s a huge smile you have there. What are you feeling right now?”
I shake my head to align my thoughts. “Elation.Satisfaction.” I smile at Katrina. “The desire to celebrate.” I point to my team.
“I get it. How did it feel playing with Byron again? Putting the past behind you and combining like you used to?”
Yeah, she went there.“Obviously, it’s game one for me. I won’t forget my time at the Stingers, but being back here, it’s like…” I hesitate, “… like coming home.” I catch Charlotte’s gaze. She can’t hear the interview, although she’ll probably watch it on television. “Despite what you hear, there has always been mutual respect. Byron and I are competitive, but we have one goal in mind, and tonight has brought us one step closer to achieving what every player wants.”
Katrina’s eyes probe me, her silence expecting me to say more. “Did you see the final goal?” She smiles. Yeah, I know she did. “I can still throw that ball to the ocean, and my mate, Byron, will find it.”
She laughs. “Yes, he will. Thanks for your time, Brandon. Good luck for the rest of the season.”
I smile before running toward my team with my eyes fixed on Charlotte. “That win was for you, baby. All for you.”
