Chapter 152
Nora's POV
The stadium hummed with life—sneakers squeaking against polished hardwood, whistles piercing through cheers, the damp smell of sweat mingling with popcorn from the concession stands. I adjusted my camera strap and scanned the crowd, mentally composing angles for the halftime features Vincent wanted.
NCAA Division II regional preliminaries weren't usually my beat, but NPR's sports reporter had called in sick, and Vincent and I were covering seven back-to-back games. Silverton State was playing two today, and the stands were packed with students waving foam fingers and chanting fight songs.
I'd already filed the basic game recap—stats, standard stuff. Now I was hunting for something more human. A kid clutching his father's hand in the front row. The mascot doing backflips. The expression on a bench player's face when his teammate sank a three-pointer.
The halftime buzzer sounded. I lowered my camera and rolled my shoulders, trying to work out the stiffness from two hours of crouching courtside.
"Nora!"
I turned to see Benjamin jogging toward me, grinning like he'd just won the lottery. A few of his buddies were up in the nosebleed section.
"Having fun up there?" I asked dryly.
"Better view than you'd think." He was practically vibrating with excitement. "Did you see number 22? Andrew Anderson. First game as a starter and he's already put up 13 points and 7 rebounds. The kid's twenty years old, Nora. If they make it to the tournament, NBA scouts are going to swarm him."
I raised an eyebrow. "You sound like an agent."
"I'm telling you, this guy's the real deal." Benjamin pulled out his phone, scrolling frantically. "Look at these stats."
"He's good," I admitted.
"Right?" Benjamin's eyes gleamed. "Come on, let's get closer."
---
The second half started with Silverton State down by two points. The energy in the stadium shifted—less celebratory, more tense. I found my position near the baseline, camera ready.
The game stayed tight. Every possession mattered. With two minutes left, Silverton forced a turnover. The ball flew toward the sideline, spinning wildly out of bounds.
Andrew Anderson dove after it.
I barely had time to process what was happening. One second he was on the court, the next he was airborne—arm stretched impossibly long, fingertips just grazing the ball, tipping it back to a teammate. The crowd erupted.
But physics didn't care about heroics.
Andrew's momentum carried him straight toward me.
I saw his face in the viewfinder—eyes wide, mouth open, that split-second "oh shit" expression—and some stupid instinct made me press the shutter instead of diving out of the way.
The flash went off.
Then Benjamin yanked me backward, hard enough that I stumbled into him. My camera swung wildly on its strap.
Andrew hit the barrier hard, his forearms taking most of the impact.
For one second, nobody moved.
Then chaos erupted. Referees blew whistles. Coaches rushed over. The crowd gasped.
I clutched my camera to my chest, heart hammering. "Oh my god. Is he—"
Andrew pushed himself up, shaking his head like a dog shedding water. Sweat dripped from his temples, and when he looked at me, there was something sheepish in his expression.
"I'm fine," he said quickly, voice rough. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Are you okay?" I blurted. "That looked—you hit the railing pretty hard."
"No, I'm good." He flexed his arm, wincing slightly.
Andrew let them pull him to his feet, but not before glancing at me one more time—apologetic and a little embarrassed, his cheeks still faintly flushed.
Benjamin exhaled shakily beside me. "Jesus. That was close."
"Yeah." I looked down at my camera, hands trembling slightly. The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving behind a jittery, hollow feeling. "Way too close."
---
Silverton State won by one point.
The stadium exploded in celebration—students pouring onto the court, the band playing the fight song at full blast. I stayed on the sidelines, watching Andrew's teammates mob him, hoisting him onto their shoulders despite his protests.
His save had been the deciding factor. The ball he'd tipped back inbounds had led to the three-pointer that sealed the win.
"Unbelievable," Benjamin said, filming the celebration on his phone. "ESPN's definitely playing this tonight."
I nodded absently, reviewing the photos on my camera. Most were blurred action shots, but one stood out—Andrew suspended mid-air, eyes locked on the ball, expression a perfect mix of determination and desperation. It was a good shot.
A sharp pain lanced through my lower back. Must have tweaked something when Benjamin pulled me away.
"Hey." I touched his arm. "I'm going to the medical office."
"You okay? Hurt anywhere?" he asked worriedly.
"Probably just a strain. Nothing serious," I reassured him.
"You want me to come with you?"
"No, it's fine. Just hold onto my equipment?"
He nodded.
---
The medical staff handed me an ice pack and a tube of anti-inflammatory cream, along with instructions to take it easy for a few days.
"You're lucky," she said. "That kid weighs over two hundred pounds. If he'd hit you full force..."
I didn't need her to finish that sentence.
By the time I left the medical office, the stadium was starting to empty. I found Benjamin near the exit, chatting with a few people.
"Feeling better?" he asked when he saw me.
"Yeah. Just sore." I took my camera bag from him. "I'm heading back to the station."
He hesitated. "Actually, uh... the team invited us to dinner. To apologize for almost crushing you."
I blinked. "What?"
"They're going to a restaurant in about twenty minutes. Andrew specifically asked if we could come. I think he feels pretty bad about the whole thing."
I started to shake my head, but Benjamin cut me off.
"Come on, Nora. They're leaving for an away game tomorrow. Next time you see them, Andrew might be getting drafted by the NBA. You think you'll have easy access then? This is networking. For the future."
He had a point.
"Fine," I said. "But I'm not staying long."
After explaining the situation to Vincent, I set off with Benjamin.