I survived. I survived the hardest eleven months of my life. I learned to laugh again. Toliveagain.
His cocky smirk breaks free when he realizes I’m still staring, and he sends me a wink.
I shake my head once, but I’m smiling when I do it.
Cheesy. Insufferable. Perfect.
The referee’s whistle shrieks. The ball goes up.
And for a second, everything else disappears.
—
Championship games are made of moments that don’t feel real until they’re already over.
A fast break where Jade threads a pass between two defenders like she’s splitting atoms.
Blakely draining a corner three so clean it doesn’t even touch the rim.
My hands catching the ball at the top of the key, heart hammering, legs burning, crowd roaring like it’s trying to rip the roof off.
I take one dribble.
Then another.
The defender shifts left, and I go right, shoulder dipping, hips turning—instinct so old it lives in my bones.
The lane opens.
And when the ball leaves my fingertips, it feels like prayer.
Time slows.
And for a brief, suspended moment, I swear I can feel him.
Like Pops is right there—hand on my back, voice in my ear.
That’s my kid.
The ball drops through the net.
Swish.
The sound is clean. Holy.
Somewhere in the stands, Logan jumps up, and Cameron yells something that definitely isn’t appropriate for national television.
I don’t hear the words.
I just hear the joy.
For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like joy is something I have to earn through pain.
It feels like it can exist alongside it.
The gym explodes.
My teammates scream and pile onto me, bodies crushing, sweat and laughter and tears everywhere all at once. Jade’scrying. Blakely is shrieking like she’s feral. Coach is hugging us so hard he’s shaking.
