Page 84 of The Assist
The buzzer goes off, and there is a surge of movement inside the fieldhouse.
“Halftime,” she says. “I think they need a pep talk from you more than they do the coach. I can’t even pretend to understand your role and how much this has to suck, but I can see they are struggling and looking for someone to step up. Go be that person.”
“What the hell am I supposed to say?”
She grins widely, probably pleased I’m finally soliciting her words of wisdom. “I can’t pull something from my canned inspirational quotes for this one.”
“You could try,” I grit out. Figures . . . the one fucking time I need her is the one fucking time she tells me she has nothing.
“How about pulling from your own material, maybe something about heart and talent? It helped me when I needed it, maybe it’ll work for them too.”
She leaves me standing there gawking after her. Even in this moment, I can appreciate how damn good she looks wearing my jersey. My name plastered across her delicate shoulders and number stretching down to her tiny waist.
Well, looks like this is it. I either have to get in there or get the hell out of dodge before I’m spotted.
It’s doubtful anyone is going to recognize me without my jersey, but I’m not taking any chances. I’m here for Z. The idea that he might need me, that I let him down . . . again, is more than I can take. I should be out there making sure he gets the shots he needs. Making sure the team makes it to the tournament again and ensuring Z’s name is called in the first round of the draft. That was my job.
Coach’s voice booms down the hallway. A set of security guards blocking off entry to the locker room look me up and down, but before I have to do something embarrassing like explain who the fuck I am, the one on the right recognizes me.
“Sorry about the foot, Reynolds. Boys sure could use you out there tonight.”
I nod and open the door before I can talk myself out of it. It creaks shut, announcing my arrival just as Coach finishes his halftime yelling spree with the usual pep talk about coming back and working as a team.
“Reynolds.” Coach nods and places his clipboard at his side. “You gonna join us for the second half?”
My teammates eye me with a mixture of pity and hope.
“Yes, sir.”
He tosses me the clipboard. “Shaw, see Wes before you head out see if he has any notes on Utah’s defense.”
My hands shake as I grip the board in one hand and uncap the dry erase marker with the other. I stand in front of Shaw and make x’s to represent the defense that Utah typically runs.
“Utah runs a combination. Pressure up top and zone down low. The most important thing you need to know about their style is that they’re a bunch of selfish pricks. Talented, but selfish. They’re aggressive and they take risks, which tends to pay off because it rattles their opponents. You can’t let them rattle you. You play your game, not theirs. They want to pressure you to take the shot or make a quick pass, but that isn’t our style. Our game is slow and smart. If you find yourself feeling rushed, you’re giving in to their game.”
Shaw nods, but he looks as good as defeated. I sigh and give in to Blair’s advice.
“You can do this. We can beat them. We’re just as talented, and our team has more heart. We play as a cohesive unit and get the ball to whoever has the best look—no matter what. They don’t understand how not to be selfish, and that’s how you’re going to beat them. Take your time and move the ball around to get the best look.”
“Sounds so simple.”
I pat him on the back, a real smile threatening at the corners of my mouth. “It is.”
Everyone clears the locker room except for Z, who hangs back, waiting for the door to close behind Shaw.
“I’m glad you came. Know it must be hard being here.”
“I think it’s going to be hard either way. This way, at least I don’t feel like I’m letting you down again. I’ll do whatever I can to make sure Shaw plays the kind of ball that’ll get you in that first round.”
“Fuck the draft.”
My eyebrows shoot up high enough to reach the Valley hat on my head.
“You think I care about all that more than I care about you?”
“I . . .”
Well, fuck, yeah that’s what I think.
