Page 83 of Hard to Break

“All their sports teams are tough. You wouldn’t last a second in a Boston uniform,” he informs Rookie.

Rookie shrugs. “My cousin got drafted to their hockey team. He’s going to start next season.”

A chorus of boos goes up around the locker room.

“He a nice kid like you? They’ll chew him up and spit him out.” Damon flashes teeth.

As game time approaches, the energy in the locker room builds. Coach gives his final speech, short and to the point. Thenit's time. We line up and Jay turns to face us, his eyes blazing with intensity. “Who are we?”

“KODIAKS!” we roar back.

With a final battle cry, we run out into the stadium.

The crowd is a wall of sound and color.

It only makes us stronger.

As I run onto the court, I'm hit by a wave of emotion that nearly knocks me off my feet.

I made it. Despite everything, all the lies and betrayals and setbacks, I made it back here—to this moment, this team, this chance to earn our place in the playoffs and bring a series back to our home court in Denver.

As we take our places for tip-off, I look at my teammates. At Jay, our fearless leader. At Clay, a competitor to the core. At Rookie, brimming with potential. At Atlas, our silent strength. And I know, with a certainty that goes bone deep, that no matter what happens in this game or the ones that follow, we've already won—because we're here, together, ready to face whatever comes our way.

The squeakof sneakers on polished hardwood fills my ears. The crowd's roar is a distant hum, my focus laser-sharp on the task at hand. This is it. Winner goes to the playoffs, loser goes home. Everything we've worked for comes down to the next forty-eight minutes.

I glance at the scoreboard: 00:00. A fresh slate.

My gaze drifts to the stands, landing on Brooke. She’s dressed in my jersey and standing with Nova and Mari and Chloe and…

Grams.My grandmother is here in Boston, wearing a Kodiaks jersey and beaming.

Brooke gives me a small nod, and I feel a surge of confidence. Win or lose, I know I'm not the same man who started this season.

Marcus Hawkins is across the court. He's smirking, cocky as ever. My blood boils, but it’s not the same as when I thought he was fucking with us off the court.

This game, I know how to play.

The ref's whistle pierces the air. Tip-off.

Atlas wins the jump ball, tapping it back to me. I pass it to Jay, setting the offense in motion, but something's off. Our passes are a beat too slow, our shots a hair too short. Boston's defense is suffocating, and before we know it, we're down 10-2.

Coach calls a timeout. We trudge to the bench, heads hanging low.

But it’s Clay who drags us into the huddle, his tattooed arms urgent.

“Listen up,” he says sharply. “We’re not bottom feeders, we’re defending champions. It’s in our blood. In every one of us.” Last year’s Finals MVP nods to me, and it feels like an apology. “Now let’s go out there and show them who the fuck we are.”

His words light a fire in my chest. As we retake the court, I lock eyes with Jay. A silent understanding passes between us. It's time to turn this around.

The second quarter is a different story. We find our rhythm, chipping away at Boston's lead. Jay threads a no-look pass to Atlas for an easy layup. Rookie drains a three from the corner.

We're clawing our way back into the game.

With seconds left in the half, I drive hard to the basket. Hawkins steps up to challenge. I feel the contact, hear the whistle, see the ball drop through the net. The free throw brings us within two points at halftime.

In the locker room, the energy is electric. We can taste the comeback.

“We've got them on their heels,” Coach says. “Now it's time to deliver the knockout punch. Clay, I want you running the pick-and-roll with Jay. Rookie, Atlas, be ready to crash the boards. Miles, keep that hot hand ready.”

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