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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I'm drowning in adrenaline.
It's dripping off me like the sweat soaking my skin. And even bouncing on my feet, I can't shake the excess energy searing through my muscles. I shake out my arms, trying to focus on Coach, but all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears and the screaming crowd chanting for us to secure this win.
Less than two minutes. We have less than two minutes left on the clock and we're down by seven. If Tristan were here he'd give us a speech about not giving up until the buzzer — about fighting until the last second and proving that we deserve to win. He knew how to light the fire under our asses, how to push us until the victory was clutched so tightly in our hands we could feel it digging into our skin.
He was a leader. He was the best damn captain I've ever had. And I try to channel that energy as I glance around the huddle of my teammates, listening to Coach bark out orders and curse out West and Vega for sniping shots they had no business taking — and missing. They're trying to take the kind of shots Tristan took. The kind of shots Luke can make with his eyes closed. The kind of shots the rest of us can't even make in our dreams. They're trying to step into shoes they'll never be able to fill instead of owning their own game. And it's shooting us in the fucking foot because if UCLA is good at anything, it's rebounds and defense, which means every wasted attempt at the hoop is another full-on brawl to get the ball back.
Coach grabs his clipboard from under his arm and flips it over to the whiteboard on the back, uncapping the marker stashed in his suit pocket. He hesitates, glancing between Luke and me across the huddle. He's silent, but his question is loud and clear, especially when his eyes linger on Luke. Are you good? Can you make it to the buzzer?
Luke's cheeks are flushed, sweat matting his blond hair to his forehead. His jaw tightens as he shifts his weight, his knee buckling a little. He swallows so hard I can see every muscle in his throat working. He looks like he's about to pass out from the pain, but like every other game we've played this year, he refuses to be benched for more than a few minutes to recover. "I'm good. Just — just get me the fucking ball and I'll get it done. No more of this pissing contest bullshit. Get me the ball."
Coach's cheek twitches and he nods, uncapping the marker to draw out the play he wants us to keep in our back pocket for when the timer nearly runs out. Our last chance play. Our hail mary.
"We're running Alpha offense until the buzzer."
I nod, tipping my head back to squirt water into my mouth. Alpha offense isn't ideal, but since we're down by seven with less than two minutes left, I don't disagree with the call.
Alpha offense means every player on the court has one job — get the ball the Luke. And if nothing else, get the ball to me.
I can practically hear T's voice echo through my head — "The team isn't in sync because they're not listening to each other; they're not listening to Coach; they're not listening to you. So...make them listen."
