Her Father Never Missed a Game Until That Friday

Fourth Quarter in Carver Falls

It was the worst game she had played in two years.

She knew it by the end of the first quarter. Her passes were a half step late. Her jump shot, the smooth, quick release that had put her name in the Des Moines paper twice that season, kept hitting the front of the rim. Every time there was a dead ball, every free throw, every timeout, her eyes went to the top row by the band. Every time, it was still empty.

Westfield Central was good. They were tall and patient, and they had a center who had already signed with a college in South Dakota. The Lady Vikings of Halvorsen had beaten them once in December by four points, and it had been the best night of Annika’s life. Her father had rung the cowbell so hard at the final buzzer that the clapper flew out and hit a man two rows down on the shoulder. The man had laughed. Everyone had laughed.

Tonight, at halftime, Halvorsen was down by nine.

In the locker room, Coach Haugen said all the things coaches say. Defense wins games. One possession at a time. Annika sat on the bench in front of her locker with a towel over her head and didn’t hear any of it. She was thinking about the call. He said to tell you he’s sorry. Sorry for what? Sorry he was late? Sorry he wasn’t coming? Had something happened? Had he been in an accident?

The thought went through her like cold water. She stood up so fast the towel fell off her head.

“Coach,” she said. “Is my dad okay? Did something happen to him?”

The whole locker room went quiet. Coach Haugen turned and looked at her, and this time Annika saw it clearly, the thing she had seen at the tip. Something careful. Something being held back.

“Your dad is fine,” Coach said. “I promise you, Annika. He is fine. He’s working.”

“Working?” The word came out louder than she meant. “It’s the regional final.”

“I know what it is.” Coach Haugen held her gaze. “It’s snowing pretty hard. The county called everybody in. He said he’d explain later. That’s all I know, and that’s all you need to know right now. Can you play?”

Working. Annika sat back down. Something hot and ugly had started to replace the fear in her chest. He was fine. He was out driving a plow somewhere, pushing snow off a county road that nobody would drive on tonight anyway. He had chosen that. On this night, of all nights.

She went back out for the second half angry, and the anger helped for a while. She hit two threes in the third quarter and drew a charge and stole the ball at half court and laid it in, and the Halvorsen side came to its feet. They cut it to two. Then to one. With forty seconds left, Bree hit a baseline jumper and Halvorsen went up by one, and the gym was so loud the floor shook.

Westfield came back down and scored. Down one, eleven seconds left.

Coach called timeout and drew the play everybody in the gym knew was coming. Get the ball to Brandvold.

Annika caught the inbounds pass at half court. She took two dribbles to her left, felt the defender shade over, crossed back to her right, and rose up from the top of the key with three seconds left. It felt good leaving her hand. It felt perfect.

Just before she released it, without meaning to, without even knowing she was doing it, her eyes flicked up to the top row by the band.

The shot hit the back of the rim, bounced straight up, came down on the front of the rim, and rolled off.

The horn sounded. The Westfield side exploded.

Annika stood at the top of the key with her hands on her head while the other team’s players ran past her in a blur of red jerseys, and she thought one clear, cold thought.

He wasn’t there. The one time it mattered, he wasn’t there.

In the locker room afterward, nobody said much. Some of the seniors were crying. Annika sat with her phone in her lap and stared at it. No missed calls. No texts. Nothing.

Then Coach Haugen came in, already pulling on her coat.

“Everybody grab your bags,” she said. “Don’t shower. The state just closed the interstate. We’re leaving right now.”