Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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"This has got to be the coldest start to a season that we've seen from USW in...how long, Bruce? Five years?" Greg Bradshaw unbuttons his suit jacket, leaning back in his seat as the spotlights above flash off his veneered smile. "They had another near loss tonight. I won't even call it a win — not for this team. Not at the level they've been playing recently. I hate to say it, but I have a feeling we're about to watch the fall of a dynasty this season."
A humorless laugh slips through my lips. The sly smile on Greg Bradshaw's face is anything but remorseful. In fact, he seems damn near giddy at the prospect.
"I agree, Greg. USW has been completely unrecognizable out there with their new lineup. We're seeing so many fresh faces this season — Jay Vega, Mason West, Nick Thompson, and with McConnell subbing out on injury more and more recently, Aaron Penn has been getting consistent playing time too. It's a brand new team, and from the looks of it, they haven't found their rhythm yet."
"They definitely haven't found their footing as a team, but Luke McConnell was phenomenal tonight; that's incontestable." Bradshaw nods toward the highlight reel playing on the screen behind them. It was a play toward the end of the game. I don't have to look at the game clock to know; I can tell by how prominent Luke's limp is as he runs down the court, stopping a few paces before the three-point line to sink a deep three. The camera is zoomed in enough to catch his jaw clenching in pain as he turns on his heel and runs back on defense. "He was limping around the court in the second half, and he still walked away from this game with a double-double. When I say that this team isn't performing, let me be clear, I am not talking about Luke McConnell."
"I just wonder what's going through McConnell's head right now," Chris Rocca, the third host at the reporter's table, offers. His lips turn down slightly as he watches another replay where Luke's limp is even more apparent. Coach tried to sub him out, but since we were barely holding onto our lead with two minutes left, Luke shook his head and kept running. Coach let him stay in for the rest of the game, but the second the final buzzer cut through the crowd's deafening cheers, he led Luke back himself to get treated by the trainers. "It's clear to everyone that his knee is not healed yet. It's nowhere near where he needs it to be. Every game so far has ended with him limping across the court, pushing through to keep his team from drowning without him. But I have to wonder — how long can he push through the pain to save his team before it becomes too much?"
Luke cracks a peanut beside me, absently chipping away at the shell. He's not watching the report. Instead, his eyes are locked on the other flat-screen behind the bar, the one playing the women's volleyball game from earlier. I spot Olivia easily. Her brown curls are pulled back into two long French braids, and as she jumps up and hits the ball over the net hard enough to send it flying toward the court floor faster than anyone can reach it, the camera zooms in enough to see her flushed cheeks and bright smile as she turns and slaps her teammate's hands. When she turns back around, I catch the number on the back of her skin-tight, long sleeve crimson jersey — 13.
