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It shouldn’t matter, because he’s shown. Abram came, and it’s better late than never. Last game of the hellhounds’ high school careers or not.
Shifting, my neck curves into an almost painful angle as he continues to stand in the aisle. “Sure, glad you could make it.”
His grin is awkward because we’ve been having this conversation over another group of people.
He’s here but he’s late and the gym’s packed full. Hailey and I squished together in our spot.
Abram’s timidness somehow recirculates those wires that were fried, jump-starting Hailey back into the world of the living.
Hustling into action with the speed of a jackrabbit, she scoots down. Uncaring and unbothered that the people beside us are shooting her nasty looks. Their spots grow smaller while she makes room.
She gives it right back. The middle-aged woman beside us decides better than to say anything after her expression turns nuclear.
“Listen, Karen,” she says, leaning over. “Can I call you Karen?” Not bothering to wait on an answer she continues. “This is my best friend’s dad and he’s here to see his son play for the first time ever. So, you’re not going to open your mouth about the inconvenience.”
The girl is on a one-woman warpath.
“Got it?” she snaps.
It’s humorous how easily the grown woman cowers. Staring straight ahead in fear of my ruthless friend. Shoving, she pushes at her husband’s leg, making room for Abram to pass.
Hmmphing, Hailey crosses her arms, satisfied when he takes a seat at the newly added spot. Tugging, he pulls at his collar, and I swear he’s the one blushing now.
I’m used to Hailey’s lively antics, but for someone more renowned like him, I can see how it could be unsettling at first.
Side-eyeing me, I get the faintest lift of his lip when tip-off’s about to start. His cheeks are back to their normal color. Understanding dawning now that he’s found the whole thing amusing.
Oh, Abram, if you only knew.
We’re down, but not out.
One shot and two points are all we need to tie things up. Three and we earn the trophy and title of champions.
The clock is running down fast. The pressures on the verge of boiling over. Not a single person sits, everyone stands with the same hyperactive energy.
Coles got the ball, no Eli. Never mind he can’t find an open shot, so it’s tossed back to Cole.
This is how it’s been going all night. Back and forth, the other team making us work for the win. Both sides want it bad.
Briefly, I check the time on the clock. Not much is left.
Back down the court we go. Iceman fakes out his opponent and goes for the shot instead. The motion causes both him and the other player to react.
Everything happens in slow motion after that. The guy’s arms shoot out. The crowd tracks the movement of the ball with eagle-eye precision as it flies. It glides through the air without hazard.
The ref has his whistle already to his mouth and is blowing it. He shouts, “Foul, number forty-two.”
The ball’s still moving, even as Cole slips from the contact, catching himself before he goes all the way down. His attention glued like everyone else’s.
It’s going… going…
Touching the rim, the basketball bounces. We’ve made contact.
Holy crap, it’s made contact!
I can feel my heart literally stop. Beating only in the rhythmic pattern of every new bounce.
There’s a chance. We aren’t done yet.
