Page 32 of A Shot at Love
Jadea shoots me a look but quickly refocuses on the two sign-bearing fans. Her glare would be enough to scare me, though I can’t tell from here if they’re shaken at all. It’s Lynn who talks Jadea down. “There will always be some idiot with something to say,” she counsels us. “We’re here to play. Don’t forget it.”
There’s nothing more powerful than some of Lynn’s wise words, and I wait for them to wash over me, fill me with fire and courage. Instead, I continue to feel cold. The only spark I feel the whole warm-up is when I see Daniel, and he waves at me tentatively. I can see him working with his crew, as they’ll use some footage of the game in their piece, getting extra cameras set up around the game broadcast’s. They’re mostly focusing on bench conversation, locker room huddles, and other in-between moments. They don’t want to step on the toes of the ESPN2 broadcast. Daniel is wearing something strange for the occasion: black joggers, black sneakers, and a white T-shirt with something printed on it. A quote maybe? I can’t catch a good enough look of himduring warm-ups, but it certainly deviates from his usual dark wardrobe.
The game starts horribly. We just beat Indiana at their home stadium, and they feel energized, ready for revenge. My fingers are cold, my chest numb, everything feels far away as we take the court. Allyson sends the ball my way during the tip-off, and I would usually tear down to our basket, Jadea even with me. I would pass it to her, and it would look like she’s going to slam the usual dunk down. Instead, Jadea would pass it back to me for the easy lay-up. It’s a triple deception, and it always swings the momentum our way from the get-go.
Instead, the ball slips through my fingers and all-around superstar Catilin Clark snatches it up. She has Jadea-level speed herself, if not the size, and runs away for her own lay-up. Our defensive response is sluggish, and Jadea fouls Clark early. “Shit.” Jadea looks my way, and I’m surprised to see the unease in her expression. We’re down 2–0, not exactly a blowout. But we both feel something, a series of mistakes waiting in the wings.
We’re not wrong.
At the top of the key, I throw two turnovers in a row. One, a bounce pass to Olabisi, where I didn’t see Kelsey Mitchell streaking up the lane. 4–0. Another effort, this time I wait at the top of the key a little longer, trying to slow the pace. Typically, our pace is blisteringly fast, but I’m trying to get us back in rhythm. Settle.We pass it around endlessly, reaching no conclusions, until I’m back at the top and trying desperately to throw a high-arching pass to Allyson in the lane. It goes over her head and into the hands of Indiana’s center behind her. 6–0.
I can hear Coach Rembert shouting from the sideline, but it’s not reaching me. I feel a strange urge to walk to the bench and sit down. I shouldn’t be here anyway, right? Am I the reason we’re out of sorts? Is my team questioning whether I should even be on the floor?
The Indiana Fever is a younger team, just like us, so they’re hungry and growing fast. They’ve settled into the middle of the standings and would love to take down the current number one seed. Lynn goes for a three-pointer that dings horribly on the rim and falls right into Lexie Hull’s hands. She runs away with it, and I give chase. I search for that fire within myself, but I can’t catch her. She scores again, and we’re officially down 8–0. It’s only been two minutes of play.
The rest of the first half continues in the same style. We have 14 turnovers, and I’ve contributed six of them. We’re shooting only 28 percent and miss five free throws, two of them being mine. I have zero points and two assists. Jadea has eight points and three rebounds. When we have a time out with two minutes left in the half, Jadea throws her water bottle, and it explodes all over the ground. I cringe.
“What is going on?” She glares at the court. “We’re supposed to be the best team in the league, and instead we’re embarrassing ourselves.”
Coach Rembert is barely controlling her own frustration. “We just need to adapt and try to get through to halftime. Do not let them get to you.” She and CoachZak give us a suggested out-of-bounds play that should lead to an easy Jadea dunk.
I’m trying to pay attention, but my eyes keep darting to those electric green signs waving in the air. Was I deluding myself all this time about my skills? Was I puffed up by making it into the league, and all my stats are simply the product of the placebo effect? It feels like any ounce of pressure might break me. The sweat dripping down my neck feels cold and I clench my fists, feeling the nails dig into my palms.
Coach Rembert wraps up our time out, erasing the Xs and Os on her whiteboard. Jadea and the girls start heading back to the court, but my gaze is locked on the scoreboard. 46–24. A 22-point deficit. We haven’t been down this much all season. We also haven’t lost in eight games. To get back into this game would take a miracle.
Coach seems to sense the swirling cloud of my thoughts. “Annie?” Her tone is sharp. “Do you need me to sit you?”
I snap my gaze back to hers. She looks fierce, but not exactly angry. More like she’s testing me. To sit now, at such an important moment in the game where we need to shift the momentum before halftime, would be shameful.
I need to fake it. I straighten my spine and jut out my chin. I imagine it’s how Jadea would stand, or Lynn, or Serena freaking Williams. “No, Coach.” I hold her gaze for a beat, even as the referees are whistling emphatically for us to get moving. “We’ll score here. Turn it around. I promise.”
She nods and shoves me towards the referee holding the ball. I’ll pass it in. We have two minutes until half, and we need some easy buckets. A quick turnaround so that the second half doesn’t feel like such an uphill battle.
Once I have the ball in my hands, I have five seconds to pass it in. If I don’t do it in that time, we forfeit the possession. I take a few breaths, standing next to the referee and surveying the court. Jadea and Aaliyah Boston are pushing each other ferociously. Taherah, who we decided to put in for her three-point shooting ability, is balanced on her toes, ready to run. Olabisi has her arms spread wide, her knees bent so she’s crouched low. Lynn stands all the way in the back, the furthest target, and the last resort if our play doesn’t go well.
I’m just about ready to fake it and hope I don’t turn it over again, like the bad luck charm I am, when my gaze snags on a white shirt across the court from me. Daniel stands next to one of his cameramen, but he doesn’t seem focused on work. Rather, he seems focused on the game itself.
We lock eyes in that split second, and Daniel looks as fierce as Jadea a few minutes ago. Beneath his kindness and friendly demeanor, Daniel is as competitive as they come. This game must be killing him. My lethargic play must be killing him. I feel myself shrinking away from him, wanting to hide. But before I can look away, he taps his chest with one finger. I look down again at that strange white T-shirt and, for the first time, I can see what’s written on it.
Larger Than Life.
My heart turns over. He promised that there were better things for Annie Larger, and he delivered. He clearly made the shirt himself or went to a T-shirt shop to have it custom-made. The font is aggressively dark and bold. There is no hiding his thoughts on me and my play.
She is larger than fucking life.
He’s telling me without saying a word how he feels. It doesn’t feel romantic exactly. It feels like life. Daniel said I saved him yesterday at the charity run, and now it feels mutual. I don’t need to listen to fans, to pundits, to Trenton Smith in his glass office. I need to punch back and show people who I am. I need to stop shrinking and start growing.
The referee puts the ball in my hands, and there is a small spark of magic. It’s difficult to shake off two bad quarters of play, but I feel determined. This is my team. My life. My game. I have to own it, even when it doesn’t feel like my own. Indiana expects us to pass to Jadea since she’s our star, which is not a bad gamble, but Coach Rembert had something more brilliantly subtle in mind. Instead of Jadea getting a screen so she gets open, she gives the screen to Taherah. Taherah, our shortest player, spins around the screen and comes close to me at the sideline. I quickly pass it to her, then screen the defender, Lexie Hull, who is chasing. Taherah is left with a moment of solitude just outside the three-point line.
Just as I push back on Lexie Hull and everyone is turning towards Taherah, she lets loose the three-pointshot. It isn’t perfect, it doesn’t swish, instead it rattles inside the rim, taking its time to go through the hoop. It feels almost poetic, seeing it fight its way through—just like we’ll have to for the rest of this game. Despite the fact that we’re losing by so much, the crowd roars at the spectacular basket. Everyone wants a close game—hopefully, we can give them that.
I look at my girls, surrounding Taherah for a fist bump, and that fighting spirit rises up. Yes, we will. I’ll make sure of it.
The last two minutes of the first half are chaos. I can’t say we’re playing cleanly yet, but we are pushing back. We play tougher defense, and I get a steal that has me streaking down the court with Jadea in tow. Just as my defender is about to catch me, I bounce pass it to Jadea, and she goes up for a showstopper dunk.
SLAM!
The crowd is frenzied now, and Indiana shows their first sign of nerves. Aaliyah Boston goes up for an easy bucket under the basket and misses. Lexie Hull shoots two threes and misses both. Caitlin Clark steals the ball from me, but I stomp after her and snatch it right back. The look she gives me is almost scandalized.
