Page 80 of The Riley Effect

I push her shoulder, and she nearly falls off the bed. Pulling her back on the bed I scoot over so she has more of it to sit on.

“Do you think Jalen misses me?”

“He’d be crazy not to,” Indy pulls me into a hug. “But we don’t have time to talk to him. We have a title to win.”

The talk with Indy after our first game lit something in me, and I played some of the best basketball of my career over the last three games. Now we’re in Austin, Texas, getting ready to play in my third Final Four.

Ten minutes before opening tip coach gives a pump speech for the ages, and she’s now passed the torch to me.

“Girls, this is what we’ve worked towards all season. Making it to Austin isn’t where this ends. Win this one, and we’ll give ourselves an opportunity to win it all. Bring it in, guys.”

My teammates cheer as we form a huddle in the center of the locker room with our arms raised in the middle of our antsy bodies.

“Team on me, team on three.”

I count to three, and in unison, we punch out “team”.

I run to my locker. Ruby was supposed to text me when she got here with the kids. When I pick up my phone, a picture of my family lights up the screen. They are in their seats, snacks in hand. The smile only lasts a split second. I lock and unlock my phone three times, and tap the notification aggressively like somehow that is going to change what I’m looking at.

A voicemail from Jalen.

One, who leaves voicemails anymore?

Two, why didn’t I wait to check my phone until after the game?

My body tenses, but I remember the talk I had with Indy in our hotel room after our first-round game. This is about me and my team and everything we’ve sacrificed to get here.

Indy jumps on my back, and I throw my phone in my locker so I can grab her legs.

“Are you ready for this?” she asks me way too loudly for someone who is three inches away from my ear.

I let go of her legs so she can jump back to the floor.

“Let’s go get this win.”

This game has been a nail-biter all the way through. Notre Dame has been alongside us in the top ten all season. Neither team has been up more than six the entire game.

There are eight seconds left in the game when coach calls a timeout to draw up one last play. We need a three-point shot to force overtime. We are able to get the ball in play quickly, but after that, Notre Dame’s defense becomes smothering.

Indy gets the ball with five seconds left on the clock. I cut down to the block and pop back up behind the three-point line, and Indy is able to get me the ball.

The clock runs down…

Three… two… with one second left on the clock, I let the ball free.

It feels good when it leaves my hand. It’s on line. It drops in the center of the basket. At the last second, it clips the back of the rim and falls outside the hoop.

We lost.

I collapse. How did I miss that shot? I’ve made it a thousand times before, and during the biggest game of my life, I couldn’t get it down.

My teammates pull me up to my feet, guiding me to the locker room. We disband for the showers right away. None of us want to stay in the arena longer than necessary.

I grab my travel suit that I have to wear back to the hotel, and when I throw the towel over my shoulder, something falls and hits my foot. I bend over and pick up my phone. As my thumb scrolls over my lock screen–I ignore all the apology texts aboutour loss – and pull up my voicemails. I might as well listen to the message Jalen left me while I’m already numb.

The voicemail is only twenty seconds long.

“Hey, angel. I know we haven’t talked much in these last few weeks, but I know I’d always regret it if I didn’t wish you good luck before your game. I hope you get this before your game. I love you, Ivy. I’m sorry I have given you a reason to doubt me. If I’m lucky enough to get a second chance, I’ll never give you a reason to second guess that you’re my first choice. Go kick ass tonight, and we’ll talk when we get back to school.”

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