Kirk is behind me as we walk back onto the floor. He leans in just close enough that no one else hears. “Big game and you’re already choking,” he mutters.
I ignore him.
He laughs under his breath. “Maybe your little band boyfriend should write you a song about it.”
My spine goes rigid, but I keep walking. If I turn, if I react, it becomes something. It becomes a scene. It becomes fuel, which is exactly what a dick like Kirk wants.
Marco looks over his shoulder at Kirk, expression dark, but he doesn’t say anything. The game is still on. The clock is still running.
Second quarter, I try to lock in. I force myself to focus on my breath, my feet, the ball. I get a steal and push it in transition. I finish through contact. The whistle blows, and I get the and-one.
Our fans erupt, and for a moment, something in me steadies. It feels like I’m back in my body instead of hovering above it.
I step to the line and bounce the ball twice. Rafe is in my peripheral vision. I can feel him watching.
I shoot.
Swish.
I exhale sharply and jog back, jaw set. I can do this. Ihavedone this. I’m not going to fall apart because my husband is in the crowd and my life is complicated.
We trade buckets. The game tightens. The other team plays physical, hands on hips, forearms in ribs, talking constantly. They want us uncomfortable. They want us messy.
They’re getting what they want from me.
Late in the second quarter, I catch the ball at the elbow and jab step. My defender bites. I drive. The help comes late, but I have the lane. I go up, but my timing’s off. Just slightly. Just enough that the ball catches the rim and bounces out, and in the same second, I feel the momentum swing away from us like a door slamming.
They run it back for a fast-break score.
Coach’s voice explodes from the sideline. “Marshall! Get your head in the game!”
The words slice straight through me. I nod once, not trusting myself to answer.
We go into halftime down six.
In the tunnel, the noise of the crowd fades into the hum of the building, the echo of sneakers on concrete. My skin feels too tight. My stomach churns. I wipe my face with my towel and breathe through my nose, trying to reset.
Marco walks beside me. “You’re spiraling,” he says quietly.
“I’m not,” I reply automatically.
He gives me a look. “Ollie.”
I stop walking, and he stops too.
“You’re better than this,” he says, not unkindly. “Whatever’s in your head, leave it in the hallway. We need you.”
The guilt hits like a punch. “I know,” I say hoarsely. “I know.”
He nods, satisfied that I heard him, and we keep moving.
Third quarter starts, and we come out aggressive. Dan hits a three. Marco gets a dunk. The bench erupts. Our fans catch fire, and I want to ride that wave.
I try. I really fucking try. But it’s like my brain keeps slipping, like my focus has oil on it.
I make one good play, then follow it with a stupid one. I force a pass that isn’t there. It gets picked. They score. I foul on the other end trying to recover.
Coach’s face on the sideline is thunder. He calls for a substitution.
