Crossed Lines

Eli

The buzzer goes off, signaling the start of the last quarter. The sound of sneakers skidding across the hardwood and the echo of the bouncing ball fills my ears. I can feel the heat of the court, the intensity rising as we settle into position. This is what I live for—the pulse of the game, the challenge of competition, the thrill of being in the zone.

I call out plays as we start our offensive possession, my eyes darting from player to player, gauging the defense. Levi's on the wing, ready for a three, and Noah's under the basket, already positioning himself for the rebound. I dribble the ball, weaving through Hartford's defense, feeling the pressure as they close in.

 I pass it to Connor, who instantly makes a move toward the basket, but I see an opening. He's got the defense on his back, and I know exactly where he needs the ball. Without hesitation, I toss a quick pass to Levi, who's open on the perimeter.

The crowd holds its breath as he pulls up for the shot. The ball sails through the air—swish.

"Yes!" Levi pumps his fist, and the bench erupts. It's a great start. The team's energy is high.

We're up by three, but Hartford's quick. They're on the attack, pushing back immediately. Their center is a fucking wall, blocking shots and pulling down rebounds. Noah and I exchange looks—this is going to be a fight.

The game picks up speed. Back and forth, we trade baskets. They're aggressive, but we're playing with chemistry, something they don't have. Every pass, every rebound feels like it's meant to be.

Hartford pushes back hard, their shooting guard is on fire tonight, draining threes one after another. But we're not backing down. The game's a tug-of-war now—no one's letting up.

With only a few minutes left in the second half, the score is tight. 72-70, and we're up by two. The tension is thick enough to slice with a knife. I glance over to Coach Ortega, who's giving me a quick nod. It's time for the play we've practiced for moments like this.

"Levi, Connor, ready for the switch!" I call out, signaling for the play we've been working on all week. We need a quick play to break through their defense. 

The Hartford team inbounds the ball, their star shooting guard, #11, takes it up the court. I'm locked in on him, my knees bent, ready to move. I can see it in his eyes—he's hungry for this shot. But I know his moves by now; I've studied his game film all week. He's going to try to shake me off for a three-pointer.

He fakes left, then crosses right. I stay with him, my feet sliding, my hands up. The gym is deafening—chants, cheers, the rumble of the crowd—but all I hear is the sound of the ball hitting the court and my own heartbeat.

He steps back for the shot, but I'm there, my hand in his face. He hesitates, then passes to their power forward, who's posted up against Alex. Big mistake.

Alex has been solid all game. He stands his ground, hands up, forcing the forward to kick it out to their point guard. The clock's ticking—15 seconds left. They're scrambling, looking for an open shot.

"Switch!" I shout as they set a screen for #11. Levi and I trade places seamlessly, and now Levi is all over their shooter. Hartford's guard has no choice but to drive into the lane. Noah's waiting for him.

With a loud grunt, Noah plants his feet, standing tall like a brick wall. The guard tries to float the ball over him, but Noah swats it away.

"Block!" someone from the crowd yells, and the place goes berserk.

Connor grabs the loose ball, and now it's in my hands. Five seconds left. The Hartford players are sprinting back, desperate to stop us, but it's too late. I push the ball up the court, heart pounding as the seconds tick down.