Page 17 of XOXO, Valentina

The final buzzer sounded as the ball hit the hardwood floor, and the sound of cheers was deafening. My mom and dad yelled so loudly, I thought my head was going to split open.

Fans swarmed the court, surrounding the players. Shane fought his way through the crowd.

My dad caught Shane in a bear hug. “Congratulations! You’re going to states!”

Shane wrapped his arms around my dad, and they thumped each other’s backs. In his high-top shoes, Shane stood taller than my dad, and his halo of curly hair gave him another few inches of height.

My throat clogged when our eyes met over my dad’s shoulder.Good job,I mouthed over the noise. He nodded and smiled so big, I thought his face would crack.

“Can you believe my three-pointer?” he asked.

“Of course!” I hugged his neck, thinking of the endless practice shots he’d taken in our driveway. The sound of the basketball thumping on the concrete had driven me crazy. “It’s your sweet spot.”

“You looked so handsome!” my mom said, joining in the hug.

We laughed, but it was true. Shane was handsome. He was the spitting image of Montel. Same wide mouth and high cheekbones. Same stubborn chin. There was so little of me in him. People often asked if we were related. I thought maybe he had my eyes, but otherwise, he was all Montel.

“I’m so proud of you,” I said, holding back tears. Montel would be proud. He’d been a huge basketball fan. I choked back my emotion and backed away from the family hug. “Pizza at Hawthorne’s tonight?”

Pizza at Hawthorne’s was our family tradition after basketball games. Hawthorne’s had the best pizza in town, and usually half the team was there celebrating a win or commiserating over a loss.

“See if Kendall and Jaden want to come,” I said. “My treat.”

Someone yelled Shane’s name, and he waved. “Zack is having everyone over tonight,” he said. “Remember?”

My chest squeezed. I didn’t remember, but I pretended. “Sure.”

“We’re getting out of here before the traffic,” Mom said. “Don’t be late for supper on Sunday.”

I rolled my eyes. My mom was a stickler for two things: punctuality and avoiding traffic.

My dad hugged me again. “I’m proud of you, baby,” he said.

The tears I’d kept at bay filled my eyes. “Why? I didn’t do anything.”

“You raised a great kid,” he said.

I gulped air, trying to force the lump in my throat to disappear. My mom tugged my dad away before the dreaded traffic thickened. I watched them until they disappeared into the crowd.

“Hey, Coach Joey,” Shane said.

I turned around and saw Mr. Morales coming up behind me. I read the lettering on his green-and-gold T-shirt: Mossy Oak Track and Field.

Mr. Morales was Shane’s track coach?

They were only a few days into practice, and Shane was taking it easy until basketball season was over, but he’d come home every day more and more enthusiastic about running.

“With speed like yours,” Mr. Morales told Shane, “I think you’re better suited to sprint distances after all.”

I agreed. My son had one speed: fast. Plus, he could jump. “Or maybe the hurdles,” I said, raising my voice over the noise of the crowd.

Mr. Morales stepped closer, so we didn’t have to yell. “One hundred meters or three hundred meters?”

“Three hundred.”

He took another step toward me when a group of girls rushed past us. “I think you’re right.”

“Mom, I gotta go,” Shane said, breaking in. “Is it okay if I go to Zack’s?”

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