The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Epilogue

      It was by far the most important shot I had ever made. Making it would determine the winner of the NCAA Championship. Gambling addicts were betting on this game—it was definitely significant. Everything rode on this one shot.

      My eyes were glued to the orange orb as it continued to go, nearing the basket. Three seconds. Then, it made contact with the hoop, and my heart almost leapt out of my ribcage in eagerness. The ball slowly circled the brim three times, as if finding everyone's anticipation amusing, and then in an instant came to that the struggle that caused my heart to start pumping again. It went in. Just like that. Fluidly, it dropped through the white mesh of the basket with a mere second of struggle, tumbling to the court beneath as a buzzer rang, signifying the end of the game. We had won.

      Streamers erupted from the ceiling, coating the players in unwanted strips of shiny blue and white paper and confetti, as it was UConn's school colors. Cheers were yelled throughout the entire arena, and all I felt was complete and utter elation. We had won. It was incredible, really.

      Through all the early morning practices and having to get back into shape after my year off, it was all worth it. Every game I had played over the course of the season only solidified my connection to the sport even more. At UConn, basketball was perceived in a way I had never encountered before. So many people showed up to our games, and it was so unlike with what I was familiar, but I was okay with that.

      During the season, my friends from the previous year had shown up to only a couple games, due to where their schools were located. Lauren had ended up stranded at Westchester University due to being caught in the back of a car with Joey. Parsons had captured Tara, who was studying to become a fashion designer (Kit had already offered her a job at our senior year graduation to intern over the summer and work with her when she was done with college—obviously, she had accepted). And then Alice decided to go to Harvard because she liked Cambridge (contrary to popular belief, it was not located in Boston, but rather a city right outside of it) or something.

       Alice's boyfriend had gone to Yale and was a frequent flyer when it came to attending my games. Surprisingly, Alex loved basketball. Well, watching it. He had demanded to play against me one day just for fun, and let's just say it didn't end too well. Otherwise, he was one of my biggest supporters and had excelled to the borderline-best-friend zone.

      Eric went across the country to Stanford because he was done with New York, and wanted something new. We had ultimately lost contact, though every once and while he would text me, saying that he read a recap of one of my games online or something. It was sad that we didn't communicate anymore, but not that sad. Everything was pretty much going well for me.

      Also, Justin had shown up to a number of my games, as he said he might on that prom night that felt like an eternity ago. He didn't really have a lot going on in his life, but it was still awesome that he bothered to show up. Through watching me play, he had become instantly close with Alex, because they were both good guys. Despite one wearing boat shoes and polos, and the other preferring the accessory of a handgun, they clicked surprisingly well. It was nice to have people that I knew at my games.

      A few girls patted me on the back, congratulating me as I made my way to the bench where my coach was. She possessed a proud grin as she stared at me, mouthing a simple, "Nice one, Turner." I nodded back to her, mirroring her expression.

      "Amazing, Liz!" a woman said, consuming me in a hug, despite my perspired state.

      "Thanks, mom," I said, surprised that she wasn't pulling away in disgust with my being.

      "I'm so proud of you, honey!" she beamed, pulling back. Ever since the beginning of the season, she had come to every single one of games, being the second loudest fan, after Dylan. "Now, go find that boyfriend of yours and kiss him or something romantic like that to end this with!"

      "Mom!" I scolded, shaking my head with a small grin outlining its way across my face. Monica and her boldness... Some things never changed.

      "Go!" she shooed, shoving me in the direction of a handsome New Yorker who had somehow fallen for me, and I for him.

      He smirked at me as I clumsily collided with his hard chest. "Falling for me again, are you, Lizzie?" he questioned smugly, though I knew he was being playful.

      "Yup," I said, as he embraced me, holding me up with his strong arms. I felt as though I could collapse at any moment. It had been the most physically strenuous game I had ever played.

      "You were good," he commented casually.

      "Good?"

      "Okay, okay, you were incredible, and looked as beautiful as ever while doing it," he added sweetly.

      "What are trying to do, get laid or something?" I positioned both my hands around his neck, taking him in. This was the boy with whom I had fallen in love.

      "Maybe..." he smirked, moving his own hands down to my waist, so that our bodies were pressed up against each other's. Through my jersey and his thin cotton shirt with the number twelve—my number—stitched across it I could feel the vibration of his heartbeat. "So, are we going to kiss, or what?"

      "Well, I hate proving my mom right, but..." I trialed off, eyeing his delicious looking lips.

      "A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do?" he supplied hopefully, inching forward ever so slowly.

      "I suppose," I agreed casually, not being able to take it anymore as I crashed my lips onto his. They tasted of beer, pizza, and absolute Dylan. It wasn't a deep kiss, for there was a slim possibility that it would make it on national television, and a heated make out session wasn't exactly the best publicity to have after winning a national championship. We had won. I still couldn't get over it.

      "I freaking love you, Lizzie," he uttered the slightly altered clichéd line that every girl wanted to hear after pulling away.

      And, like in any good romance, I returned the phrase in sincerity. "I freaking love you too, Dylan."