Page 33 of A Shot at Love
We go into halftime 48–33. Fifteen down. It’s still a pretty decent lead on their part, but I feel a shifting of the momentum, both in myself and the game. We can do this. Daniel’s extremely cute, extremely bold T-shirt is branded into my brain. I have to think of myself differently. I have to block out the noise.
Larger than Life.
When we get into the locker room for our fifteen-minute halftime, Coach Rembert is angrier than I’ve seen her in months. “Where did the St. Louis Arrows go? Because I don’t see them out there.”
She turns her heated gaze on each of us in turn. Most of my teammates look away or just keep wiping their sweaty faces with towels, but I stare right back. I want her to see that I’m sorry for the way I played and that I intend to bounce back.
Whatever she sees seems to inspire her. “Annie, get up here.” A shiver of nerves trickles down my spine at her words. I step up next to Coach, and she gestures to me, her tone calmer. “Annie played an abysmal first half, I think we can all agree. Until those last few minutes, she was oh for four in her shooting, missed two free throws, had six turnovers. We all agree on that, right?”
My teammates rightfully look nervous for me. No one wants to be made an example of. But I try not to fidget. I’m the first one to say, “Right.” My voice hardly wavers.
There are a couple of muttered agreements, but nothing rousing. Our spirit is currently doused. “But then, she changed,” Coach Rembert continues, tucking her clipboard under her arm. “The last two minutes, she made two easy baskets, had three steals, and was tougher on defense. Our gap closed a little. We have a chance here, a real one.” Some eyes are looking up at her now, her words resonating. I nod too, listening hopefully.
So, I’m especially surprised when she turns the floor over to me. “Annie, tell them why that happened. Why you started to play better.”
“Oh.” I fidget back and forth, swiping some sweat off my upper lip. I take a deep breath and shoot for honesty. “Someone reminded me that even when you’re being labeled, that doesn’t mean you have to listen. Besides my own current family issues, this team has to contend with labels, too. We’re the best team in the league, and when we don’t play like it, our feelings get hurt. We’re embarrassed. Angry.” I pause, thinking of the right words. Jadea is looking at me like she’s never seen me before, and I hope that’s a good thing. “I think that label, of being the best team in the league, is almost hurting us. We shouldn’t be playing for that label; we should play for ourselves, for our fans, for each other.”
I rarely make speeches and certainly not in such tense situations. I notice that Lynn is smiling softly, and Allyson gives me a tentative clap. I duck my head and look at Coach for her approval. She seems pleased, as though I said exactly what she wanted and more.
Jadea’s expression has been more shuttered than usual today. But my words seem to prompt her into action. I’m never going to be a hype girl who shouts the team into excitement. So, when Jadea does it, I follow along happily. “Annie is right!” Jadea works herself up, leaping from her seat on the bench. “We can’t play like a sword is hanging over our heads. We’ll fight no matter where we are in the standings. We’ll play ourgame no matter what our record is. It’sus. It’s our game.”
She puts her fist out into the air. I’m the first person to touch mine with hers, and then my teammates’ sweaty, warm bodies are closing around us. I love seeing all our fists together, together and bleeding for the game. “Arrows on three!” Jadea is shouting now. “One, two, three!”
“ARROWS!” I let loose that scream inside, and we all dissolve into whoops and cheers.
Allyson grabs my hand on one side and Jadea on the other. We run back onto the court and shoot a few warm-up buckets. Some don’t go in, but the attitude has already turned. Failure is part of the game. And while Jack and Trenton are making my failure feel particularly uncontrollable, I will yank back whatever control I can.
When I see Daniel on the sideline, I do what any heart-full girl would do. I blow him a kiss.
Movie-star smile in return. I can’t even bring myself to care about the fake nature of our relationship. About the ghosting in the hospital. Actions speak louder than words, and his in the present speak volumes.
When the whistle blows for the second half, I get redemption for our first jump ball missed opportunity. Our triple deception with the tip-off looks better than ever, and my lay-up kisses off the glass cleanly. 48–35. Indiana starts to glare a little more our way, and we glare right back. I respect every single woman in our sport, but right now, it’s only fire in my veins and the need to win beating a drum in my brain.
The rest of the half feels like a comeback tour. Jadea dunks three times in the third quarter and at the break in between the third and fourth we’re all grinning. It’s 63–57 them. We’re only down by six points, which is an extremely surmountable number when we still have ten minutes of game left.
Coach Rembert calls us to order. “We have one more quarter to prove our worth.” Her words are clear, clean. I can feel Daniel’s crew hovering a respectful distance away, recording our huddle. “Annie, I want you cutting more to the basket. They’ve been losing you underneath, and it’s a great opportunity. Jadea, keep it up in the paint. Watch for your fifth foul, because you could foul out if you’re not careful. Taherah, catch and shoot from beyond the arc as much as possible.” Her words are quick, and she’s honestly said some variation of them dozens of times. There’s something comforting in the familiarity. She surveys all of us and then gives a grim little smile. “Let’s win this one. Please.”
We head back onto the court for the fourth quarter, and Indiana’s game plan quickly becomes clear. They begin pushing Jadea as much as possible, trapping her in the corner, double-teaming her on every opportunity, hacking at her arms to strip the ball away. We’re a few minutes into the quarter, and she gets her fifth foul.
“That’s BS, Ref!” she shouts at the official nearest her. “They’ve been doing the same thing to me all game!”
“Crap,” I mutter. I reach for her and yank, Olabisi doing the same on her other side. She’s straining, tryingto talk more to the referees. “Stop it, Jadea! You’ll get a technical. You only have one more foul to give.”
“They’re all over me.” She seethes in frustration. “I can’t get a clear shot anywhere.”
Indiana shoots their two free throws, and the score is 71–63. I try to recalibrate us and get Jadea back into the game. I pass her a quick one under the hoop, but to my surprise she passes it back out to a lonely Taherah who has been abandoned by her defender. An easy swish, and it’s a three-pointer. Taherah grins, and Jadea points at her. 71–66.
When Caitlin Clark takes it over the half-court line, I press close, lingering on one side. She pulls the ball to her back hip, trying to look for an open lane to pass to. My teammates must have clamped down enough that there’s no easy pass to make. I take advantage and press her back two more steps. When she tries to spin away, she turns into my outstretched hands, and I take the ball away. For once, I don’t look for anyone while I sprint down the court. This basket is mine and that resolve burns brightly when I easily make the lay-up. 71–68.
Indiana calls a time out, and I check the clock, chugging my water. 3:48 left. Some of my teammates are in foul trouble, with both Jadea and Lynn having five. Allyson has four. If anyone gets six, they’ll be out for the rest of the game. The Fever knows this and will likely try to goad someone into fouling. Coach warns Jadea of the possibility. “Watch your back, Jones. They’ll want you gone.”
Jadea nods seriously. This team is impressive, fantastic really, but Jadea is practically born for these moments. She can make something out of nothing. We can’t lose her.
The next three minutes pass in a blur. Indiana scores first with a set play that has so many passes and cuts we lose track of the ball. Taherah shoots another three, and electricity crackles on my skin when it falls through the hoop. 73–71 them. I can see Daniel pacing anxiously on the sidelines and my mom in the stands, recklessly throwing her pom-poms in the air.
There are a few more plays, a few more steals, and time feels like it’s slipping through our fingers. It’s tied with 34 seconds left. 77–77. Indiana calls a timeout, and then we do. Both trying to throw the other team off. Freeze their momentum and slow them down.
We have the ball. I’m coming down the court, watching my defender, Kelsey Mitchell, carefully. She’s one of the toughest players in the league, and she won’t back down in these last few plays. I dribble across half-court and look for the first pass. I see Olabisi lingering on the wing, and my first thought is of her quickness and how easy it would be for her to pass it to Jadea for the easy bucket. The ball shoots out of my hands, but I make the same mistake as the first half. I forget that Olabisi’s defender is just as quick. Caitlin Clark jumps the lane and snatches my pass out of the air.
