Page 304 of Coach
“Not fair.” He grinned against my cheek.
“Never said I played fair.” I grinned back. “Want some company? I could eat some pizza.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Only if we resume this exact position at home afterward.”
I slipped out and planted a kiss on his lips. “Whatever Coach wants, Coach gets.”
Chapter 48
Mateo
The gym was packed.
Not just full—packed.
Standing-room-only kind of packed.
Fans leaned against every rail, filled every stairwell, clung to the topmost rows like their lives depended on it. The air vibrated with noise, whistles and shoes squeaking, competing pep bands blaring from each corner, and the low, electric hum of tension.
I stood at the edge of our bench, my arms crossed so tightly I could feel my shoulder blades digging into each other. My foot bounced like it had a mind of its own, and I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. I could hear myself barking instructions, calling out switches, shouting encouragement—but it all felt distant, like my mouth was on autopilot while the rest of me was stuck inside my head, screaming.
The game shouldn’t have been close.
We were the number one seed.
We’d prepared, trained, drilled the plays until my players could run them in their sleep.
And yet . . . we were scrapping, hustling for every possession, missing layups, turning the ball over like it was radioactive.
God, free throws, I thought as another one clanged off the rim.
“They’refreefor a reason!” I bellowed, the words flying from my mouth before I even realized I was saying them.
Shane was up in the bleachers, just where he always sat, wearing the purple-and-gold jersey the boys had begged him to put on. It was too tight on him, the piping straining to contain his chest and arms, but he wore it like a badge of honor, like he belonged to the team, too.
I glimpsed him once when I turned after a timeout. He was stone-faced, focused, burly arms crossed; but I knew him well enough now to know what that look meant.
He was feeling it, too.
This was the first round of Regionals, and if we lost, we were done. There were no do-overs, no best of three.
One game.
Winner advances.
Loser goes home.
And right then, with 1:17 left on the clock, we were tied 52–52.
We’d beaten this same team in the regular season by 20–7. There was no reason for us to be sweating, to be panicking, to be at risk of elimination before the tourney had begun in earnest.
My clipboard was a mess of Xs and arrows and sweat stains. I drew one final play, fast and clean, while my guys huddled close and tried to catch their breath. Ryan nodded his agreement on the play.
“You’ve got this,” I said, scanning their eyes, one by one. “We practiced this a hundred times. Stick to the script, trust your teammates, and take the shot if it’s there. And for the love of Jim Naismith, do not foul!”
They nodded.
I slapped a few shoulders, clapped once, then said, “Bring it in.”
