From the first game on Friday until after the championship game on Sunday night when Ashton received an at-large bid to the national tournament, Carolyn was convinced her blood pressure never dropped below a hundred and eighty. She was fascinated, and awed, by the excitement, noise and passion of the conference tournament.
“I still have the marks on my palms where my nails dug in from clenching my hands,” she told Stewart the next Thursday afternoon in his office.
Marsha Hortler had called saying Stewart would like to see her, but so far they’d only talked about basketball. C.J. and the team were already at the tournament site just outside Chicago preparing for their first-round game Friday afternoon. She planned to drive down with Stewart and Helene in the morning.
“Wait until you see the national tournament,” Stewart advised. “The conference is just a warm-up for the nationals.”
She groaned. “I’m not sure I can take that.”
“Hope your nerves are steady now because I have some more news for you. Exciting news, I think.”
Carolyn straightened in the chair. His words said one thing, but his voice said he wasn’t entirely happy with the news, whatever it was.
“I received a call from England this morning. This year’s seminar organizer contacted me as a professional courtesy to ask permission to approach you about returning there to teach. Permanently.”
Astonished pride surged through her. They wanted her. One of the most prestigious gatherings of literature professors in the world wanted her.
Permanently
. The word swept in another set of emotions. Live in England. Leave Wisconsin. Leave Ashton. Leave her friends . . . Leave C.J.
“I could play the heavy if you want.” Stewart offered. “I could tell them no, that you’re contractually bound to Ashton.”
“Am I?”
Some of the hopefulness went out of his voice. “Not in any way that would prevent your going.”
She had a choice to make. She’d make it. She couldn’t decide this by default. “No, Stewart. Thank you, but no. I have to make the decision.”
“I’m very proud of you, Carolyn. But I would hate to see you leave.” He sighed heavily. “I guess it’s good practice for me. I expect other schools—bigger schools with bigger programs and better jobs—to start calling about C.J. any time now.”
The reminder that C.J. might not be at Ashton left a jagged pain. “Stewart, please don’t say anything about the offer from the seminar to anyone.” He peered over the top of his glasses at her, and she looked away. “Nothing may come of it, and I’d prefer we kept it between us for now. Just us.”
“All right, Carolyn, if that’s the way you want it.”
“Yes. That’s the way I want it.”
* * * *
“Can you believe this, Carolyn?” Helene shouted over the noise.
Sitting right next to her, Carolyn barely deciphered the words. She knew Stewart, on the other side of Helene, was speaking because she saw his lips move. But the flood of sound swallowed his words.
The arena was under siege from noise. Every decibel in the world was here, caught in the shouts and roars and whistles and claps. It was enough to tear the world apart on this Sunday afternoon in March: Ashton University was on the verge of the biggest upset of the season.
After reaching the conference tournament final the week before, then winning the first-round game in the national tournament Friday, the Ashton Aces possessed a wide following as a sentimental favorite.
But this, this was totally unexpected. Leading Bracken State, the number two team in the country, by three points with nineteen seconds left in the game.
The Bracken State coach called his final time-out as soon as his team gained control of the ball. His players gathered around him while he rapidly diagramed plays designed to prevent the loss.
Anxiety sent Carolyn’s heart thudding against her ribs. Nineteen seconds. There were so many ways a win could disappear in nineteen seconds.
A three-point shot would tie the score and send it into overtime. Did Ashton have the endurance for that? A foul at the wrong moment could give Bracken a chance at tying. Or winning. If Bracken got one basket, then stole the ball back for another try . . .
Her stomach churned with the possibilities as she watched C.J. crouch down, with the Ashton players encircling him.
Frank, Ellis and Jerry had played every minute of the game so far. All three bent at the waist, resting their hands on their knees and sucking in air as they listened to C.J. Despite the frown of concentration between Brad’s eyes, his mouth couldn’t suppress a wide grin. Holding still was impossible for the rest of the team as jolt after jolt of adrenaline pumped through their systems.
She saw C.J. look from face to face as he tried to prepare them for the crucible of the next nineteen seconds. She could practically hear the slow drawl that could calm even at a shout.
Helene’s words came through erratically, like a poor long-distance connection, one faint, one clear, one unintelligible. “They win this and they go to the regional semifinals! Then just two more victories, and it’s the Final Four! I’ve always wanted to go to the national tournament.”
Want
. The word buzzed around Carolyn’s head. Wants conflicted and canceled out. She couldn’t wish for Ashton to lose, but wanting them to win amounted to wanting C.J. to leave. Yes, how could she
not
want him to get his opportunity, to move on to his dream of the big time?
She, too, had a chance at a dream. Prestige, honor, recognition in her profession. Hadn’t that always been her dream?
At that moment she knew only two things that she wanted unequivocally. She wanted the Ashton players—her players—to do themselves proud. And she wanted to put her arms around the tall, lean figure in the red Ashton blazer sending his players back to the court.
She loved him.
She held her breath, waiting for a reaction, but there was none. No surprise; it would have been like being surprised that her lungs functioned. No astonishment; it would have been like being astonished that her heart pumped.
She loved him. And she knew he felt an agony more intense at that moment than his knee had ever caused him. He could do nothing but wait and watch. And let someone else do the doing.
The Bracken State coach got to his feet and hollered instructions as his team brought the ball in. Despite Ellis’s arms-spread efforts to distract the passer, the ball found its mark. The Bracken State player eluded Brad and dribbled across midcourt.
Bracken State snapped out two more passes, so quickly that the Ashton players had to scramble to catch up. The third exchange went to Bracken State’s tallest player, in position just to the side of the net. He pulled in the pass, soared over Frank and slammed the ball home.
Noise became a physical pressure on Carolyn’s chest, pushing out her breath. There wasn’t time to worry about breathing.
One point. Twelve seconds on the clock.
Ellis passed the ball to Brad, who immediately sent it back to Ellis. He was the one Ashton wanted to handle the ball. He was hard to steal from; and if Bracken State fouled him, he was steady at the free throw line. Ellis brought the ball up the court with precise care. With a one-point lead the clock was his friend—as long as he held on to the ball.
Nine seconds. Bracken State tried to hem Ellis in so he’d have to pass the ball or risk a foul for holding it too long. He slipped away just in time.
Seven seconds. The Bracken State coach stood and screamed at his players to foul. The player closest to Ellis lunged at him, hacking him across the forearm.
A foul was called, and soon Ellis stood at the free throw line, measuring the familiar distance with his eye. The noise in the arena took on a different quality, undiminished but breathless.
The ball left Ellis’s hands in a perfect arc. As it curved through the air, time slowed. Carolyn saw Ellis turn an anguished face to C.J. on the bench, saw C.J. rise from the bench and holler something. He clapped his hands twice, then motioned for Ellis to get back on defense.
The ball touched the outside of the rim and time returned to its usual excruciating pace. The ball squirted to the right, directly into the hands of a Bracken State player.
“Oh, Ellis,” Carolyn gasped. How long would he punish himself for that miss? But for now he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of blame.
Six seconds. Bracken State brought the ball up the court as quickly as they could. These players were experienced and confident. They expected to win. All they had to do now was get the ball to the basket.
Five seconds. The Ashton players spread under the basket, arms wide, trying to form an impenetrable barrier. From up above Carolyn saw the open Bracken State player a split second before his teammate passed the ball to him in the left corner. She tried to shout a warning, but the wall of sound swallowed her words like a single drop in a downpour.
The Bracken State player gathered himself for the shot. He released the ball from his fingertips. Brad hurtled toward him with arms extended and his body nearly parallel to the ground.
The ball slammed against Brad’s hands and rebounded to the shooter. But the opening was gone. His balance already regained, Brad closed in to corner him. The shooter passed the ball back to a teammate.
Three seconds. Ellis shouted something, pointing for Frank to change positions. Carolyn saw C.J., still standing on the sidelines, half reach toward the players as if to move Frank back. His arms dropped abruptly to his side. She saw in every line of his body what control it took to stop the gesture, to hold himself off the court—to let his players play.
Two seconds. Bracken State made one last pass away from the basket, then sent the ball toward the big player, once more positioned beside the basket. He would need only to reach up for the ball and continue his trip to the net for the winning points.
One second.
Frank rose from the players around him like a puff of smoke. It wasn’t a leap; it was levitation. It was a liquid movement that intercepted the pass intended for the Bracken State player, pulled the ball into his chest and guarded it with extended elbows as he floated back to the court.
It was victory.
The final buzzer sounded, and Frank flung the ball above his head. The Ashton players, racing from the bench and the corners of the court, piled onto him, pyramiding in ecstasy.
C.J. moved more slowly to where Ellis stood alone near center court, head thrown back, arms extended in exultation. He reached out a hand to his player, then pulled him into a hug.
Carolyn knew she was crying, but couldn’t feel the tears. She could hardly feel the tug on her arm as Stewart tried to keep her and Helene ahead of the wave of humanity surging onto the court.
Dolph Reems’s bear hug caught her as she came off the last step of the bleachers. He was shouting, but she couldn’t separate the words.
Out in the middle of the court the players milled around and pounded one another on the back, shouting their joy. Brad draped his arm around Jerry. An upperclassman who rarely played pumped Ellis’s hand unceasingly. Thomas Abbott erupted into periodic whoops of triumph. Frank withstood his teammates’ congratulatory pummeling on his shoulders with a face-splitting grin and a glistening in his eyes.
From the edge of the melee Carolyn saw Rake enfold C.J. in a hug. When he looked up and saw her, warmth lit C.J.’s face.
He loved her. He might not even know it, but it was there, in the blue eyes and crooked smile. The wonder of it made her heart want to float up among the rafters and her knees want to buckle.
Two long strides brought him within range to wrap his arms around her. Her body fitted against his, and C.J. felt complete satisfaction.
“Coach Draper! Coach Draper! How are you feeling after that tremendous upset? What do you have to say?” The television interviewer’s microphone nearly tangled with Carolyn’s hair as he tried to get it up to C.J.’s mouth.
“I feel terrific. But all I have to say is you should talk to the players. You can talk to me after we lose. When we win, go talk to the guys. They’re the ones who did it.”
He gave a last smile, then pivoted away from the camera, still with a secure hold on Carolyn. He’d no more let her go now than he’d give back that one-point victory. He pushed the hair back from her cheek as she looked up and smiled at him.
“I don’t think I have the nerves for this.” Her voice shook a little.
“I didn’t hear you calling any refs jerks this time.”
She laughed, and his grip on her tightened. “You couldn’t possibly have heard me even if I had.”
“I’d hear you.”
She found herself believing his certainty. She loved him, and almost told him then. But that was for a private moment, which this most certainly was not. “I’m so proud of you, C.J. Draper.”
Warmth leaped up to a blue flame in his eyes, but he kept the words casual. “Hey, I wasn’t the one out there making the plays. The guys won the game.”
“You taught them how to win. And then you let them do it.”
He saw the understanding in her eyes, and he knew she appreciated the extent of his accomplishment. Who needed awards or trophies when someone looked at you that way? “Hardest thing I’ve ever done,” he murmured.
“I know.” She put both arms around his waist and hugged him hard.
“All right, all right, you two,” Rake boomed over her head. “I’m always having to break you two up.”
She released one arm’s hold on C.J., just enough to clasp hands with Rake and accept his hearty kiss on the cheek.
“Hell of an accomplishment, C.J. I’m braggin’ all over how I know C.J. Draper.”
“Still a couple to go before we wrap up the big one.” C.J. sounded like a boy afraid that hoping too hard might jinx his wish. But to Carolyn the words seemed faintly ominous.
Two more games to reach the Final Four. The last weekend of the basketball season, when, of the nearly three hundred teams that had started off the season, only four remained with a chance at the national title. The semifinals on Saturday, then the final game on Monday night were watched by millions on national television. Getting to the Final Four meant exposure for the players, added revenue for their schools and the sort of attention that could put a young coach on the fast track to glory. A track that led straight away from Ashton.