Page 55 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

T he gym was packed.

Not just full—packed.

Standing-room-only kind of packed.

Fans leaned against every rail, filled every stairwell, clung to the topmost rows like their lives depended on it. The air vibrated with noise, whistles and shoes squeaking, competing pep bands blaring from each corner, and the low, electric hum of tension.

I stood at the edge of our bench, my arms crossed so tightly I could feel my shoulder blades digging into each other.

My foot bounced like it had a mind of its own, and I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood.

I could hear myself barking instructions, calling out switches, shouting encouragement—but it all felt distant, like my mouth was on autopilot while the rest of me was stuck inside my head, screaming .

The game shouldn’t have been close.

We were the number one seed.

We’d prepared, trained, drilled the plays until my players could run them in their sleep.

And yet . . . we were scrapping, hustling for every possession, missing layups, turning the ball over like it was radioactive.

God, free throws , I thought as another one clanged off the rim.

“They’re free for a reason!” I bellowed, the words flying from my mouth before I even realized I was saying them.

Shane was up in the bleachers, just where he always sat, wearing the purple-and-gold jersey the boys had begged him to put on. It was too tight on him, the piping straining to contain his chest and arms, but he wore it like a badge of honor, like he belonged to the team, too.

I glimpsed him once when I turned after a timeout. He was stone-faced, focused, burly arms crossed; but I knew him well enough now to know what that look meant.

He was feeling it, too.

This was the first round of Regionals, and if we lost, we were done. There were no do-overs, no best of three.

One game .

Winner advances.

Loser goes home.

And right then, with 1:17 left on the clock, we were tied 52–52.

We’d beaten this same team in the regular season by 20–7. There was no reason for us to be sweating, to be panicking, to be at risk of elimination before the tourney had begun in earnest.

My clipboard was a mess of Xs and arrows and sweat stains. I drew one final play, fast and clean, while my guys huddled close and tried to catch their breath. Ryan nodded his agreement on the play.

“You’ve got this,” I said, scanning their eyes, one by one. “We practiced this a hundred times. Stick to the script, trust your teammates, and take the shot if it’s there. And for the love of Jim Naismith, do not foul!”

They nodded.

I slapped a few shoulders, clapped once, then said, “Bring it in.”

The guys surged forward, palms outstretched and slapping in center. “Mustangs on three.”

Gabe barked, “One, two, three . . .”

And the team roared, “Mustangs!”

The ball was inbounded.

Time slipped away.

Tick, tick, tick .

We passed twice, swung to the corner.

The screen came late.

Our shooter slipped, then recovered.

He let the ball fly.

Off the rim.

Rebound.

Loose ball.

Scramble.

The ref’s whistle was a spear to my heart, as he yelled, “Jump ball!”

It was our arrow. We recovered—barely.

Another chance.

Ten seconds to go. Still tied.

Gabe drove to the basket.

His shot was blocked. It flew out of bounds.

Five seconds left.

Our ball.

I called our final time-out.

The crowd’s cheers were deafening.

Adrenaline roared in my ears as I crouched before my huddled boys.

“One shot. That’s all we need. Michaels, you take the screen. Gabe cut left, dish if you have to—but make it clean.”

The whistle blew.

The ball was inbounded.

One pass.

Another pass.

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.