At 11:22 I came off a drag screen, snaked the lane, and took a shoulder straight into my ribs before finishing off the glass.
And-one.
I hit my chest once on instinct, turned toward our bench, and my eyes went up into the stands before I could stop them.
Stella.
Still there.
Hands locked around the railing.
Face set.
Not smiling.
Not panicking.
Just reading me.
North.
The free throw dropped clean.
At 8:01 Kane picked up his third.
At 6:57 his fourth.
This one was worse.
Loose-ball fight.
Both hands high.
Their center throwing his body around like livestock.
Whistle on Kane anyway.
He turned so fast toward the ref I genuinely thought I was about to watch our season die by homicide.
I got there first.
One hand flat to his chest.
One in the back of his neck.
“Kane.”
“He’s stealing minutes from my life.”
“I know.”
“I’m gonna say something federally disallowed.”
I pushed my forehead almost to his because the arena was too loud for anything softer.
“You foul out now, they live in the paint the rest of the game.”
His jaw jumped.
