Page 47 of Caden & Theo
Basketball has always been mine. But today, it’s ours too.
Coach claps once to break the huddle, snapping us back into motion. The buzz of the crowd rises again, echoing off the gym rafters. I jog onto the court, refocusing, adrenaline already coiled tight in my chest.
The second half tips off, and Bellarmine wastes no time showing their hand. Whatever their coach said to them clearly lit a fire. They come out pressing hard, aggressive on every possession. Every pass we make is contested. Every cut, crowded. We lose the ball twice in the first three minutes, and just like that, our lead shrinks to one.
Coach is barking from the sideline. Jamari calls us into a quick huddle midcourt during a free throw.
“Settle,” he says, his voice low and steady. “We play our game. Let them rush. Not us.”
We nod. Refocus. Adjust.
I tighten my laces during the time-out. My jersey is soaked. My legs are burning, but it’s the good kind. The kind that says you’re pushing your limits. That you’reinthis.
We get back into rhythm. Leroy draws a foul on a fake. Price finishes a tough bucket through contact. Dirk makes a block that’s going on every highlight reel this week.
Me? I fight for every inch. I keep my hands active on defense, chase rebounds like they’re personal insults, and hit one more midrange jumper that keeps the score tight. I don’t light up the court, but I hold my own, and I make my minutes count.
The final two minutes are chaos. We’re up three, but they close the gap with a corner three that swishes so clean it silences our crowd. One possession later, Leroy gets fouled. He drains one of two. We’re up by one with thirty seconds left.
Defense decides it.
We switch on every screen, talking loud, hands up. My guy tries to slip past me again on a fake, but I recover, body low, and force him into a tough floater. It rims out. Dirk skies for the board, pulls it down like a beast, and draws a foul as the clock winds down.
He hits one. Misses the second.
Bellarmine gets off a prayer with two seconds left, but it clanks off the back iron.
Buzzer.
We win. 66–64.
The gym erupts.
The bench clears. Arms wrap around shoulders, we slap backs, and someone grabs me by the neck and shakes me like a rag doll.
“You did it, Frosh!” Leroy yells into my ear.
“Icontributed,” I yell back, grinning.
“Same thing.” Jamari laughs, mussing my hair.
The moment’s a blur of sweat, noise, and high fives. My heart’s still pounding as we huddle with Coach, who’s all smiles now. This was our last nonconference game before SEC playin January, and we finished strong. It’s not just a win—it’s momentum.
Coach gives us a short rundown on winter break training plans, reminders to check in with our strength coaches, and one last “don’t do anything stupid over break” speech.
As we start to split, Leroy claps me on the shoulder. “You heading home tonight?”
“Nah, tomorrow morning. Gonna chill with Theo tonight.”
He raises an eyebrow but just grins. “Cool. Tell your homie I said hey.”
I manage not to roll my eyes too hard. Barely.
I stick around long enough to shake hands, joke around, listen to Dirk talk about his plans to eat a twelve-piece bucket solo from KFC “as a reward for being agoddamn walltonight.” Then I duck out to find Theo.
He’s waiting in the hallway just outside the locker rooms, leaning against the wall, hands in his hoodie pocket, that crooked smile already playing on his lips.
“Hey, superstar,” he says, voice low and teasing.
