Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I feel like I've flown more in the past two weeks than I have in my entire life.
I barely had enough time to repack my bags from Vegas before flying out to Toronto, and when I finally got back to Pullman, I had three days at home before Coach called me into his office to not only chew my ass out for punching Luke—whose entire left side of his jaw was still tainted a dark purple and blue, a much more noticeable bruise than the one on my cheek—but also to let me know that the head coach of the Knicks had called and scheduled for me to come out for a few days to meet the coaching staff and join them for practice.
I felt like I was seconds away from waking up the entire time I was there because walking through the doors of Madison Square Garden was like reliving every dream I've ever had since I was a kid. It was like being transported back to sitting on the couch next to my dad watching the Knicks play on our shitty old TV. I've envisioned that moment since the day I decided I wanted to be in the NBA. When everyone else wanted to be a fireman, a doctor, or an astronaut, I wanted to be an NBA player. And now, I'm just two months away from the draft.
New York was a lot like Toronto because I fit into their team almost instantly. I've watched every single game they've played this season, so I've already studied their offense and defense, giving me an upper hand when we would run plays. They don't have the best defense, which only made my shots look that much more impressive, and I could see the head coach and trainer talking behind their clipboards after I managed to sink one of the most impressive shots I've made all season.
I tried to play it off like it wasn't a big deal, but fuck, it felt good to see that shot go in. I was double-teamed, pushed well past the three, and only had two seconds left on the shot clock. My passing lanes were cut off on either side, and I didn't have much of a choice, but it worked out because I managed to juke out one of my defenders, step back and shoot the ball. We all watched it soar toward the net, and when it fell in without even kissing the rim, I could feel the shocked glances from some of the players around me before their hands came down hard on my back with a mixture of comments like "nice shot, man" and "fuck, that was pretty."
It was surreal to play with some of the guys I've idolized for so long, and while I was out on the court with them, I could feel it—the energy, the excitement, the possibilities. Playing here wouldn't just mean that I'd get to wear the jersey I've dreamed about since I was a kid; it would mean that I'd get to move here with Abby. That I'd get to come home every night to see her doing homework on the couch, or making dinner, or reading in the bathtub, or more likely, hanging out with Jenny and Nia while getting wine drunk on a random Tuesday. It means I wouldn't have to be away from her. And somehow, in the span of the four months of knowing her, that's more alluring to me than anything else.
But I've done all that I can. I played my best in practice, I made my interest in the team clear in my last meeting with the head coach, and now that I'm standing at baggage claim searching for my suitcase, I know that it's just a waiting game from here. They're going to compare us. They're going to see who fits in better with the team, who's more coachable, who had the best chemistry, and since my time with both teams went so well, I have no fucking clue who's going to pick me.
