Pops replies:
Pops: Good.
The third quarter is a blur of runs and steals and the kind of tension that makes the air taste metallic.
With two minutes left, the score is tied.
Sloane calls for the ball.
I watch her take it at the top of the key, eyes scanning like a quarterback reading coverage.
She drives.
Stops.
Kicks it to the corner.
Jade catches and shoots.
Swish.
Three points. The place explodes.
Sloane doesn’t celebrate.
She just points—directing, already on defense—because she’s not letting herself believe until the buzzer says she’s allowed.
The last thirty seconds are chaos.
We’re up by one.
The other team drives, and Blakely blocks a shot so hard it sounds like a slap across the gym.
We get the ball back.
They foul.
Sloane takes the free throws.
One goes in.
The second rattles.
Miss.
My stomach drops, but the clock is almost dead, and they don’t have time.
They chuck a desperation shot from half court.
It bounces off the rim.
Buzzer. Game. We win.
The gym erupts like someone opened a dam.
Jade screams and tackles Blakely, who actually laughs, which is terrifying.
Sloane stands near half court, hands on her knees, breathing hard like she doesn’t know what to do with the relief.
