I was so scared I started crying. I didn’t even stop when I saw her chest rising. Rising and falling, again and again, underneath her royal-blue warm-ups. It took four whole breaths for my eyes to convince my head of what my heart was afraid to trust. Good thing my back was to everyone else.

“Carli!” her team’s trainer called out, running onto the court. She was a tiny woman, five feet at best. “Lay her down flat on the floor,” she ordered with a steady downward motion of her right arm.

I did what I was told.

“Carli!” she shouted again, and lifted Carli’s legs up about twenty degrees.

Kneeling beside Carli, I leaned in close and said her name for the first time, feeling the ar wobble in my throat.

“Back up, back up,” the trainer yelled at me. “Give her some space!”

She could hang that up. I wasn’t going anywhere. I reached down and scraped Carli’s big, sweaty hair off the sides of her face. Even in a ponytail, it was everywhere. I was about to say her name again—

“I said back up!” the trainer yelled, like I can only imagine a mama would after she’s repeated herself for the last time and you’d better listen this time if you know what’s good for you.

I stood, backed up, and Carli’s eyelashes fluttered like she didn’t want me to leave. But the rest of her team immediately crowded me out. I stayed close, though, looking over the tops of their heads, watching her eyes tremble and go still.

The trainer waved something under her nose that made her eyes open wide, but only for a second. Then the paramedics came and rolled her out on a stretcher.

I hope she’s okay. She has to be okay, right? They wouldn’t let us keep playing if she wasn’t okay. Right?

“Hustle back! Hustle back!” Coach Bell shouts, running up the sideline, swinging his short arm in a wide circle.

Twenty-eight seconds left in the game and it’s tied 71–71. Focus, Rex, I tell myself, and sprint back. We can’t lose to Gaines and let them get their confidence up. They’ll be our biggest competition at the state championship, only five weeks out. We gotta shut these boys down now.

I’m coming up behind their point guard, Russell Price. Can’t stand this dude. He thinks he’s so much better than he actually is. He dribbles the ball between his legs—once . . . twice . . . three times—trying to look cool. Then he tries to pass to his shooting guard, but the pass is lazy and slow.