ROMANCE STORY COLLECTIONS

3. The Final Whistle

SKYLAR

"Good luck tonight," I said to my girlfriend as I picked up my brown duffel bag and swung the sling over my shoulder. 

I exhaled audibly. A cold whoosh of team rivalry breezed over my lips, and I wished my eyes could meld with the ground so I wouldn't have to look up and see the tears swell around her eyes. But I had to. 

Annalise was my world. We'd hated each other's guts on the court so much until we tolerated each other, then adored each other, and fell for each other. 

But all the lovey-dovey, kissy-kissy, stolen moments in the locker rooms had to be kept on the lowdown because Annalise was the captain of the Phoenix Ravens–the newly inducted team in the Women's Professional basketball league, who had wondrously made it to the finals to play against my team, the Arizona Hawks.

My team had won the last four national championships, and being the deadliest shooting guard in the league had earned me my nickname, sniper Sky because I never missed a basket.

"Good luck to you too, Sky," Annalise answered with a raspy voice after a prolonged silence.

"You know I don't like it when you call me that." I walked to where Annalise was standing next to the floor-to-ceiling windows of our apartment, staring at the yellow sun cutting through the clouds. I embraced her from behind before kissing her neck. The tension was vibrating off of her. "Will you come home after the game tonight?" I asked timidly because I knew how much she needed this win tonight, and I couldn't give it to her. My team was indomitable. We both knew that.

"Yeah," she turned around, her lagoon blue eyes blinking faster with each passing second, "I-I'll see you at our home, Skylar."

I tipped her chin, knowing there was nothing I could say to wipe the dread forecast on her face, but I'd give it a try. "Give 'em hell tonight. Okay?" A smile curled on her beautiful lips, "Make sure you get us fouled as many times as you can, and be the vicious viper you have been all season. Show them why you deserve the cup."

⭐︎

The half-time buzzer went off, and the score was 65-67, with the Arizona Hawks leading. The two-point gap had our coach sweating bitter bullets. "Skylar! I don't care how sick you are. If the game continues like this, I'll need you in there!"

"Yes, coach." I'd feigned illness to avoid being the hand that sealed my lover's fate.

With one minute left in the last quarter and my girlfriend's team leading the score of 114-113, The coach subbed me in to dribble, swerve, and slam dunk the critical score.

I took a fast break, reaching my opponent's frontcourt in a blink, then did a fake ball to lose the defender. Instead of taking my open shot, I passed the ball to my teammate, who didn't catch it on time. 

The digital clock displayed 00:00, and the referee blew the final whistle. I veiled my smile and readied for my coach's wrath.