Page 59 of A Shot at Love
I try to grab the towel, but Mimi slaps my hands away. “It will stop in a minute.” I hope so, anyway.
Coach waves me away. “I’ll have Olabisi shoot them. The refs can’t expect you to do it. You need to go to the locker room to get checked for a concussion.”
Before I can protest vehemently, Mimi and a few other staff members are leading me back into the locker room. My brow is pulsing, but I walk steadily. “I can’thave a concussion, Mimi,” I say desperately as she deposits me on the bench. “We still have another half to go.”
Mimi narrows her eyes. “Basketball is not more important than your health.”
It’s hard to argue with that, though I’m tempted. How to explain that this game feels like life to me? I can hear the fans cheering through the last minute, but not at anything specific. The team tromps in eventually, and I almost stand up in the middle of Mimi’s thorough examination.
Jadea heads my way immediately. “Are you okay?”
I nod, and the motion does twinge a bit. I hide the wince. “Mimi says it’s worse than it looks, right, Mimi?” I try to give the trainer my best smile.
“Hmph,” is all she says.
“What’s the score?” I ask Jadea, like an addict who’s going through withdrawal.
“We’re up by two. As soon as you left, Ionescu went to work, scored two quick baskets. 59–57.”
High-scoring game. We need to tighten up our defense, though theirs isn’t doing much better.
Coach goes through our half piece by piece, laying into us just as much as she encourages us that the win is possible. We need to be more dynamic, play as quickly as we can. We need to get more steals, more possessions. I try to listen even as Mimi quizzes me.
Finally, Mimi says, “No concussion,” switching out the bloody towel for a clean one. “But you should probably get stitches.”
“Stitches?” If I get stitches, I won’t be able to finish the second half. “What about a butterfly bandage?”
Mimi looks at my face, perhaps weighing my eagerness with my general safety. “Maybe. But if you get hit again, the thing will just bleed and bleed.”
I nod excitedly. “I promise I’ll be careful!”
Mimi shakes her head at me but ultimately pinches the wound together with two butterfly bandages. It hurts, pulsing too much, but it’s bearable. I hope things don’t get too messy.
Coach finishes up her message when I emerge from the bathroom, most of the blood cleaned off me. My face was easy enough, but my jersey still sports a few spots. Luckily, I have another I can change into, as players can’t play with blood on their clothes. When we head back out to the court, I hear some people shout my name and then cheer when it’s clear I’ll be playing in the second half. Daniel mouths, “OK?”
I smile and give him a thumbs-up.
The second half is just as brutal, though I manage not to bleed on anyone. It’s like New York didn’t even need the fifteen-minute rest. If we’re playing fast, they’re playing even faster. Sabrina is trying to drive to the basket every few plays, and my lungs and cut ache from chasing her down. Jonquel Jones is on fire in the second half, and her extremely long reach snatches up offensive rebound after offensive rebound. They’re beating us in the paint, something that should be impossible with the Jadea Jones dunk show.
We keep up well enough, with Taherah’s threes, Olabisi’s sneaky jumpers, and a few Jadea dunks. I only have eight points, but I also have eight assists. I’ve hardly sat for more than a few minutes, focused on stalling Sabrina’s play.
As we hit the final three minutes of the game, New York is up six points, 108–102. I’m reaching for the ball, thinking I can take it from Sabrina, a clean strip, but at the last second, she whirls, and my outstretched hand smacks her arm. The whistle blows, and I mentally count my fouls. This is my fifth. One more and I’m riding the bench.
I’m practically vibrating with nerves as Ionescu shoots her flawless free throws. 110–102. We need a score here to keep the pressure on. My thoughts are racing, trying to think of something unexpected. Just as Jadea turns to jog down the court, waiting for me to dribble it her way, I catch her eye.
You.I tell her.I’m going to you.
She nods once, grim. Her 21 points are probably frustrating her. She’ll argue she needs 40.
Then, instead of dribbling it calmly and surveying the court, as a good point guard should, I just run. I sprint down the court, face throbbing, and look only at the basket. I run right past Sabrina, who is surprised by my reckless play. It looks like I’m going to shove myself into the lane, that I’m scared we’re about to lose this game.
Instead, it’s a misdirect.
Just as I’m inches from the basket, pushing my way through New York defenders, I stop. Full tilt. Ionescu is on my tail, and Betnijah Laney is rushing over to my side, trying to help. Everyone is crashing the lane, right under the basket.
In the commotion, Jadea, who hardly ever shoots from outside the three-point line, has snuck to the corner. Without looking her way, I flick the pass overhead. I can almost imagine everyone’s head turning, shocked Jadea ventured out so far. She doesn’t need a good three-point shot; she canfly.
Jadea only shoots from three when she has to.
