ROSETTA

ROSETTA CHAPTER 24: THE FINALS

{Xander Thompson, December 15, 2017}

It's the day of the finals. The gym is packed, the energy electric, but my mind is focused elsewhere.

You've come a long way. Remember why you're here. College scouts are watching. This is your time. The voice in my head is louder today, more urgent. Focus on the game. Shoot. Pass. Win.

I take a deep breath, shaking off distractions. This is what I've worked for, and nothing else matters right now.

"Xander." I turn to see my dad and Mr. Grant standing nearby. My dad's voice is steady, reassuring. "You got this. Don't worry about anything else. Just play your game."

Mr. Grant adds, his tone firm but encouraging. "You're the toughest, most intelligent player I've ever met. Today's the start of something great for you. Remember that."

I nod, soaking in their words, feeling a boost of confidence. Then my mom steps forward, hesitating before pulling me into a hug. It's strange, but I hold on, appreciating the support I've rarely felt.

"We know we haven't been there for you," she whispers. "But all we want is to see you succeed. You don't owe us anything, but we owe you everything. We'll be right here, watching you take what's yours."

I step back, feeling a mix of emotions—appreciation, pressure, determination. The crowd's roar pulls me back to reality. It's game time.

First Quarter

The whistle blows, and the game begins. From the jump, I'm locked in. I drive past defenders with ease, sinking shots from all angles. My teammates are firing on all cylinders too, and we're putting on a show.

The energy in the gym is palpable. Every basket is met with cheers, every defensive stop with roars. I hit three consecutive threes, then a dunk. Malik's face in the crowd shows frustration, but I can't focus on that right now.

We're up by ten points, and I can feel the momentum building. The crowd's excitement fuels me. The first quarter ends with us in a solid lead.

Second Quarter

The second quarter starts with the same intensity. I'm hitting shots and making plays. My teammates and I are synced, executing plays perfectly. The ball feels like an extension of my hand.

But in the back of my mind, I see Malik glaring, his anger almost palpable. It fuels me more, pushing me to keep scoring. By halftime, I've put up 30 points. The locker room is buzzing with energy, the music loud and hype.

Halftime Flashback

Flashback – Downtown Phoenix

Rosetta and I are walking hand-in-hand through downtown Phoenix, the sunset painting the sky in warm colors. We stop to get drinks, laughing and talking about everything and nothing.

She looks at me, her eyes serious. "You know I'm your number one fan, right?"

I grin, squeezing her hand. "You better be, 'cause when I win this championship, I'm lifting you, not the trophy."

She laughs, nudging me playfully. "Then go ahead and win it, Xander."

"Watch me," I say, pulling her closer.

End of Flashback

Third Quarter

I'm snapped back to reality by a teammate, Jason, who slaps me lightly on the shoulder. "Come on, man. It's time."

The third quarter starts, and I'm back on the court, still playing with intensity. I'm making shots and drawing fouls, but my focus wavers. I glance over to the stands and see Rosetta sitting there, her eyes fixed on me. We're not talking anymore. The distance between us is tangible, and it's distracting.

Every time I look her way, I remember how things used to be—how we used to be. My shots start missing. I'm getting frustrated, but I push through, trying to regain my rhythm.

Fourth Quarter

The final quarter begins, and the game is tight. I make 13 straight free throws, but then my confidence starts to crack. The tension is mounting, and every missed shot feels like a missed opportunity.

Focus, Xander. Don't let her be a distraction. You need to win this.

But it's too late. I miss five shots in a row. The frustration boils over, and I'm benched. I slam my fist into the chair, looking up to see Rosetta's concerned face in the crowd. It's a gut punch.

"Coach, let me back in!" I shout, anger and desperation in my voice.

Coach looks at me, assessing. "If I put you back in, no more missing shots."

"I don't plan on it."

Final Moments

I'm back on the court, adrenaline pumping. I drive to the basket, slam down a dunk, hit a couple of threes, and make key defensive stops. The score is tied—98-98. The tension is unbearable.

Timeout. I huddle with my teammates, determination burning in my eyes. "I'm taking the last shot."

Some teammates nod, while Malik smirks from the sideline. "This dude's taking the last shot? He's been cold."

I shoot him a look. "Must be chilly on the bench watching me play, huh?"

Malik stands, but the coach cuts him off. "Both of you, enough. Xander, you're taking the final shot. Let's go."

The clock ticks down. I dribble, weaving through defenders, eyes locked on the basket. With every heartbeat, the world slows down.

I release the ball.

It sails through the air, the gym holding its breath.

Swish.

The buzzer sounds. We win.

The crowd erupts into chaos. My teammates surround me, celebrating. I scan the stands, searching. And there she is—Rosetta, turning and walking away.

The high of victory fades as I watch her go.