The Last Shot

Overtime.
The world spun compressed and sharp, sweat stinging Jayden’s eyes under the fluorescent blaze as the teams gathered. The scoreboard—from somewhere high and merciless—flickered: Redhawks 56, Eagles 55. 0:07 on the clock. Only a whisper of hope left.

Bodies barely upright, the Eagles shuffled to the bench. Malik staggered, knees trembling. Jamir doubled over, wheezing so hard it sounded like sobs. Marcus, eyes rimmed in red, whispered to himself. Jayden’s own legs felt hollow, as if made of worn paper. Hearts pounded so hard whole chests heaved with each gulp of air. The arena’s roar was a living, volcanic thing.

Coach Anderson licked cracked lips, voice a half-bark, half-prayer. “Timeout! Timeout! Everybody in, now!”

The team folded in—a battered mosaic of hands and shoulders, sweat beading, legs half-dead. Coach knelt, the clipboard trembling in his grip. His eyes weren’t angry or afraid—they locked onto each boy’s face with impossible calm.

“This is it,” Coach said. “One shot. Seven seconds—seven seconds to define everything you’ve been through this season. We run ‘Eagle.’ Jayden, you come off a double-screen—Malik and Jamir, set it hard. Marcus, you’ve got the weak-side flare. If the defense collapses, hit Marcus or cut for the give-and-go. Trust your decision. No panic—we get our best look, win or lose as a team. But if you see the lane, Jayden—take it.”

He put his hand in, the circle closing around him. “Don’t let this slip. Play for each other.”

Jayden’s skin prickled at Coach’s words. He stared at the edge of the clipboard, at the hours he’d spent with these teammates across endless winter nights, at Marcus’s fierce, uncertain nod, at Malik’s trembling jaw. They had all bled for this. Seven seconds could wipe away everything—or leave them with scars.

He closed his eyes, one last breath finding a thread of steady air. His father’s voice, gentle and broken, bubbled up: It’s never about the last shot. It’s about trusting the work. His mother’s face—tired, proud, unwavering in the front row. Coach’s voice on winter nights, words worn smooth by sacrifice: You play for more than yourself.

He opened his eyes. Seven seconds. A lifetime.

---

The buzzer’s gasp pulled them upright. The Redhawks bristled, their coach bellowing, arms windmilling his defense into a coiled posture. The ref’s whistle split the silence. Jamir wiped his palms down his shorts, glanced once at Jayden.

The crowd had gone silent, a hundred hearts hitching at the edge of hope.

Malik triggered the inbound. Jayden cut hard, brushing Marcus’s shoulder, then darted past Jamir’s moving screen. The defender bit, tangled in the mess of bodies. Malik zipped the ball—hard, low—into Jayden’s waiting hands.

Seven seconds.

He caught, feet anchored to the shining wood. The world became a tunnel: every face, every scout, every expectation tunneled into a needle-slit focus. Sweat iced his forehead. One dribble—left. The Redhawks’ best defender lunged, shadowing close. There was Marcus, flaring to the deep corner—wide eyes, hands high, ready. The play was working.

It’s your call.

Six seconds.

Jayden faked right—defender slid, hips turned. He could dump it to Marcus: The play was open, the easy pass there. The old Jayden—last year’s Jayden—would have tried to do it all himself or panicked, tossed the ball away.

He gripped the ball, risk and hope intertwined. For a heartbeat, he shifted his gaze—locking with Marcus, both reading each other. All that bad blood and anger, burned away, what if trust could really be stronger than fear? What would it mean if Marcus took the shot and missed… or made it? What if he passed, and the crowd never forgave him for not being the hero?

Five seconds.

His body moved before his mind—ball fake, defender stepping wider. Marcus was open. Jayden wavered, pivoted, weighing.

A flash: his mom, scrubbing plates after another midnight shift. His team, digging out of twelve-point holes, folding each other’s pain into something tougher. Coach’s snapped voice: You choose who you become in moments like these.

The defender sank for the pass. Instead, Jayden tucked the ball tight, spun hard left.

Four seconds.

Marcus lurked—still ready, a safety valve in the dark. There was space, but the lane narrowed, Redhawks’ center sliding across, arms up, everything closing. Jayden’s heart scalded his chest. All the years—all the hours—crushed into this falling sliver of time.

Three seconds.

He rose, twisting. Bodies crashed, two defenders reaching. Hands slapping, feet sliding. The ball was in his shooting palm, heavy and slick.

The gym shrank. Only the rim existed.

His mind was clear. He could have passed—he’d seen Marcus, knew the play was sound, but the game, everyone’s hope, needed a shot made with belief, not fear. It wasn’t about heroics. It wasn’t about pleasing scouts or redeeming last year. It was about refusing to run away.

Two seconds.

He exhaled, slow—the way he’d practiced every morning in lonely gyms, the way his father once coached him when the world’s noise was too much. The ball left his fingertips: soft, perfect, a brushstroke arcing up into impossible light.

Time didn’t slow—it fractured. The horn blared, an animal howl. Everyone stood. Jayden in midair, hands still pointed toward the rafters, watched the orange sphere climb, spinning in slow, hopeful flight. The world held its breath.

The backboard glass glinted. The net quivered, waiting—

—and the chapter ends before the ball falls.