Spectacular.

Z nudges me, giving me a silent pep talk with his serious gaze.

Coach gives us our final marching orders for the plan of attack, and we stand to head back onto the court.

“Hey,” Wes motions with his head and I hang back.

“Dude, I swear to God if you give me another pep talk about heart, I’m gonna lose my shit.”

He chuckles. “Damn, I need new material.” He passes me his phone. “I think this is better than whatever I could have come up with.”

Confused, but intrigued, I take his phone and see a text from Katrina.

Wes pats me on the back. “See you out there, man.”

I sit back on the bench in front of the lockers and run a towel over my forehead. Let out a breath and read.

Kitty: If you’re reading this after the game and you lost, well, just stop reading. But in the off chance, Wes is able to get this to you at halftime, here goes…

You said once that I was your lucky charm. I don’t know if you were telling the truth or not, but there is a whole bar of people at The Hideout about to riot so here’s hoping.

I gave this careful consideration and I’ve decided to go with wisdom from someone I know you’ll listen to, yourself. Ready? Winners want the ball. Yep, that's it. And if that doesn’t work, then just know, for whatever it’s worth, I believe in you.

Read it three times before I stand, knowing I need to get out there but wanting to let her words motivate me. A lot of questions and thoughts of Kitty pull at my focus, but there’ll be time later to decipher the way it makes me feel to know she has my back even when I’ve given her every reason not to.

Wes is waiting for me outside the locker room. Should have guessed. He looks me up and down carefully. “You good?”

I hand him the phone. “Yeah, all good.”

The sound of the band playing “Tequila,” the echo of basketballs hitting the wooden floor, I let it soothe something inside of me that I wasn't able to before Katrina's message.

Fifteen thousand fans are here. This is what I live for – doing what I love in front of thousands of people. Giving them something to hope for, to cheer for. For two hours, they get to leave everything else behind. It’s more than a game. It’s a chance to be part of something bigger than myself.

Wes pulls out the dry erase clipboard he held under one arm and glances down at what looks like a list. A long list.

"Got a few notes for me, Coach Dubya?"

He grins. "Thinking you should attack the basket this half."

I play my best ball on the outside – long shots, jumpers, and fadeaways – that's my clutch move. I’m real good at the fadeaway. The best. On the court and off. You can’t guard someone who shoots and moves backward. You just can’t. I’ve staked my future and my personal life on that one move.