And just like that, we’re heading down the hall. But this time I’m not in it alone. I’m not facing dark and ugly memories of what almost happened here. Quinn is right beside me. Right where he was always supposed to be. Thank god for secondchances. And thank god for Calvin Farnsworth the second, who couldn’t stop banging his secretary long enough to do his actual job.
EPILOGUE 2
JT
The roar of Rupp Arena is deafening as I bring the ball up court, my Wildcats jersey soaked with sweat and heart pounding with adrenaline. Senior Night. My last game wearing Kentucky blue, and we're down by three with forty-seven seconds left on the clock. The crowd is on their feet, and I can feel the energy crackling through every nerve in my body.
This is what I live for. This moment right here, when everything slows down and it's just me, the ball, and the game I've loved since I could walk.
Coach calls time-out, and I jog over to the huddle, chest heaving but mind sharp. I catch sight of the scouts in the front row, clipboards out, eyes tracking my every move. NBA scouts. Here for me. Three months from now, I'll be walking across that stage at the draft, shaking hands with the commissioner, starting the career I've dreamed about since I was fifteen and hungover as shit, running suicides for my dad.
"Alright, JT." Coach Harrison grabs my shoulders, his voice cutting through the sounds around us. "This is your house. Show them why you're going to be playing on Sundays next year."
I nod, wiping my hands on my jersey. Twenty-two points, eight assists, five rebounds. Not a bad way to close out four years of college ball. But I want more. I want that win, and I want to leave everything I've got on this court.
The referee's whistle pierces the air, and we break the huddle. I can see Mom in the stands, her hands clasped together like she's praying. Next to her sits Dad, wearing that same intense expression he had when he coached me in high school. Troy's there too, looking nervous as fuck, and Aunt Lizzie's got her phone out, probably livestreaming this whole thing.
They've all been here for me, through everything. The good games and the shit ones, the victories and the losses that left me questioning if I was good enough for this level. But tonight? Tonight I'm proving that all those years of work, all those early morning practices and late-night film sessions, were worth it.
The ball comes my way off the inbound, and I push it up the court. The defense is expecting me to pull up for three, tie the game, but I see something else. A seam in the lane, just for a split second. My teammate Jake sets a screen, and I drive hard to the basket.
My coverage gets a hand up, but I'm already airborne. The ball leaves my fingertips with perfect rotation, banking off the glass and dropping through the net. One-point game. The crowd explodes, and I backpedal down court, pointing to the student section that's losing their collective shit.
Duke calls time-out, but I can already taste the victory. This is how my college career ends—not with a whimper, but with a goddamn roar of victory that'll have those NBA scouts calling my agent before I even get to the locker room.
Thirty-one seconds left. Duke's got the ball, and they're looking to run the clock before taking their shot. I'm guarding their point guard, staying low, hands active, making him work for every dribble. He tries to cross me over, but I stay with him, forcing him into a Hail Mary that clangs off the rim.
The rebound comes my way, but so does half their team. I go up hard, both hands on the ball, determined to secure the possession that'll seal this win. But their center, all six-foot-eleven of him, comes down on top of me like a freight train.
I feel it the moment my feet hit the hardwood.
The pop.
The immediate, searing pain that shoots up my leg like lightning.
The way my knee buckles in a direction it was never meant to go.
I hit the court hard, the ball bouncing away from me as I clutch my leg. The pain is unlike anything I've ever felt, worse than when I broke my wrist in eighth grade, worse than the concussion I got junior year. This is different. This is the kind of pain that reaches into your soul and makes you lose your breath.
The arena goes quiet for a split second, that eerie silence that happens when something goes wrong. Then the noise comes back, but it's different now. Concerned murmurs instead of cheers. I can hear Coach Harrison's voice, but it sounds like he's underwater.
"Don't move, JT. Don't move."
Our trainer, Marcus, is already kneeling beside me, his hands gentle but firm as he examines my leg. I try to sit up, try to tell him I'm fine, that I can walk it off, but the moment I put any pressure on it, the pain screams through me again.
"Fuck," I gasp, and I don't care that there are kids in the stands or that this is being broadcast on ESPN. "Fuck, Marcus, something's wrong."
"I know, son. We're gonna take care of you."
They bring out the stretcher, and the humiliation of it hits me almost as hard as the pain. This isn't how this was supposed to end. Not being carried off the court like some piece of broken wood, not with fifteen seconds left in my final game. I should be finishing this, hitting the game winner, cutting down nets.
Instead, I'm staring up at the arena lights as they wheel me toward the tunnel, wondering why everything looks blurry until I realize I'm crying. The crowd gives me a standing ovation, and I lift my hand to acknowledge them, but inside I'm terrified.
Please, God, let this just be a sprain. Let this be something that heals in a few weeks.
But deep down, in the part of my gut that's never been wrong about basketball, I know better.
—--
