Page 48 of ClickBack

“Send me that,” I tell him.

He nods. It is a small thing to ask him for. Tonight, I can ask.

We wait through the presentation. Mom refuses to leave until she has seen every part of it, though she keeps saying she cannot see through the people in front of her. Eventually a staff member gathers us to go toward the tunnel. Aunt Pat removes her shoes for the walk and carries them like she has won a private argument.

The corridor is crowded with families, staff, and people trying to do interviews while everyone else is moving. Graves walks ahead far enough to find a clear way through. I keep Mom beside me.

Then Von comes out wearing a championship hat, goggles pushed up on his forehead.

“Mommy.”

He gets no further. She has him by the face, kissing his cheek, trying to talk and crying instead. He bends into the hug and closes his eyes. I give them room.

When he reaches me, he is grinning again.

“Old man.”

“Champion.”

I pull him in hard enough that he complains about his feet leaving the floor. I set him down but keep hold of him for another second. He is warm, soaked through, breathing fast. This is the part television never gives you, the actual person under all that achievement, still trying to catch his breath.

“You played right,” I tell him.

“I had eight at the half.”

“And you kept playing right.”

He looks at me, waiting for the criticism that usually follows a compliment when we talk about a game. I don’t have one for him tonight.

“Proud of you, Von.”

He hugs me again, briefly and harder. Then Mom starts arranging us for her picture. My father takes her phone. Aunt Pat tells him not to cut off anybody’s head. Graves tries to move out of the frame, and Mom catches his sleeve without looking.

“I said both of you, and I said you, too,” she tells us.

“That’s three people,” I say.

“I can count, Jarrett. Stand still.”

Von laughs, and that is the photograph my father gets.

We have barely separated when a reporter approaches with a microphone and someone carrying a camera. He congratulates Von, asks about the final minutes, and gets a good answer about trusting the play. Then he turns slightly so I am in the shot.

“With your brother here and San Antonio reportedly interested in him, are we looking at a Simmons three-peat?”

Von’s smile stays in place, but I can see him choosing his words. He has been champion again for less than half an hour, and already he has to make room for where I might play next year.

“Tonight’s about this team,” he says. “These guys earned it. I’m just happy my family got to see it.”

“But you’d welcome him?”

I step closer before my brother has to find a second way to be gracious.

“He just won back-to-back titles,” I say. “Ask him about that.”

The reporter looks at me, then at the camera. Graves is beside us now. He doesn’t crowd anybody. He simply makes it clear there is somewhere else we need to be.

The reporter offers another congratulations and lets us go.