Page 306 of Coach
Shot faked.
Pivot.
Then disaster.
Gabe lost his handle, and the ball sailed into an opponent’s hands.
No!
The guard took off like a rocket, cutting through open court like we weren’t even there.
Two seconds.
One second.
He launched it, one step behind the three-point arc.
Half a second left.
The buzzer sounded.
The red light behind the backboard flared.
Swish.
The gym erupted. Fans screamed.
Our side fell silent.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.
My players dropped their heads, a couple collapsing to their knees. One ripped off his headband and flung it, while another stared at the scoreboard as though he could will it to change.
I forced myself forward, chest tight, throat raw.
“Line up,” I said, voice low but firm. “Shake their hands. Finish with your heads up, you hear me?”
We met at center court. My boys moved like ghosts.
The other coach clasped my hand. “Hell of a game, Coach.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t speak.
Because I’d never heard silence this loud.
Chapter 49
Shane
Mateo had barely spoken in two days.
Since the buzzer sounded on their Regional game, he’d moved like a ghost, still showing up, still teaching, still working as hard as he always did; but there was something hollow in his voice. That spark in his eyes hadn’t vanished, but it was definitely dim—and God, I missed it.
So I made a decision.
It was one he tried to argue against, of course, spouting nonsense about watching the State Tournament out of obligation, keeping tabs on his rivals, or honoring the season.
But I wouldn’t hear it.
