Mateo’s POV
Game Seven. The two most beautiful and terrifying words in basketball.
The arena is electric—twenty thousand people screaming so loud the floor vibrates beneath my feet. Western Conference semifinals, series tied 3-3, winner advances to face Golden State. Everything we've worked for comes down to the next forty-eight minutes.
I thrive on this energy. Always have. While other players tense up under pressure, I feel it fuel me, turning fear into focus, nerves into power. This is what I was born to do.
"You ready?" Axel asks in the tunnel, voice barely audible over the crowd.
"Born ready." I bounce on my toes, shaking out my arms. "Let's make history."
The first half is a war.
We trade baskets, neither team pulling ahead by more than four points. The Lakers' defense is suffocating, designed to shut down our inside game and force contested threes. But I'm seeing the court like I've never seen it before—passing lanes opening up, defensive gaps appearing like magic, everything clicking in that rare flow state where the game slows down and I speed up.
By halftime, I have eighteen points and seven assists. Career playoff highs for both.
"Whatever you're eating, keep eating it," Coach says in the locker room. "Velasco's carrying us."
Axel catches my eye across the room. Nods once. Pride in his expression, and something else—concern, maybe. He knows what I'm feeling because he's felt it too. That dangerous edge where excellence tips into recklessness, where confidence becomes hubris.
"Stay smart," he says quietly. "We need you in the second half."
"Always smart. That's my thing."
"Your thing is talking too much. Smart is my thing."
I grin despite the pressure. "Then I'll talk and you think. Division of labor."
The third quarter is brutal. The Lakers adjust, putting their best defender on me, making every possession a battle. I fight through screens, create space where there isn't any, refuse to let them take me out of the game.
Twenty-four points. Nine assists. And we're up by two.
Fourth quarter. Six minutes left.
The crowd is deafening. Selene's somewhere in the stands with Naomi and the babies—we got them a suite so Aria's screaming wouldn't disturb other fans. I picture them watching, picture her face when we win, picture coming home victorious and collapsing into her arms.
Focus. Stay present.
The Lakers tie it up with ninety seconds left. Then they pulled ahead by two with a contested three that shouldn't have gone in but did. Basketball is cruel that way.
Forty-five seconds. We need a basket.
Axel sets the screen. I come off it, find daylight, drive toward the basket. The lane opens up like a gift—their center out of position, the rim right there, nothing between me and the game-tying layup.
I go up.
And come down wrong.
The pain is immediate. Searing. My knee buckles at an angle, knees aren't supposed to bend, and suddenly I'm on the floor without knowing how I got there. The crowd noise changes—not cheering anymore, something more horrified.
"Don't move." Axel's voice, somewhere above me. His hand on my shoulder, keeping me down. "Don't move. I've got you."
"Did it go in?" The question comes out through gritted teeth. I don't even know if I finished the shot. "The layup—did it—"
"It went in. Just stay still."
The training staff surrounds me. Hands probing my knee, asking questions I can barely process through the pain. Someone's saying my name. Someone's saying words like "stretcher" and "MRI" and "we need to get him off the court."
I look up at the scoreboard. Tied game. Twelve seconds left.
I look at Axel, kneeling beside me with an expression I've never seen on him before. Fear. Real fear.
"Win the game," I tell him. "Whatever happens, win the game."
"Mateo—"
"Promise me."
He nods. Squeezes my hand once. Then he's gone, back on the court, and I'm being lifted onto a stretcher while the arena watches in hushed horror.
The tunnel is quieter. Just me and the medical team and the distant roar of the crowd as the game continues without me. I hear the buzzer—feel it vibrate through the stretcher—and then cheering. The right kind of cheering.
"We won?" I ask.
"They won," one of the trainers confirms. "Nielsen hit the game-winner."
Axel won it. Of course he did.
I should feel happy. This is what I wanted. Instead, all I feel is the throbbing agony in my knee and the creeping terror of what it might mean.
The MRI happens fast, the results faster. The orthopedic surgeon—Dr. Patterson, brought in special because this is the playoffs and everything matters more—delivers the verdict with practiced neutrality.
"ACL tear. Grade 2. Surgery required, followed by six to nine months of rehabilitation."
Six to nine months.
The words don't compute. Six to nine months means I miss the rest of the playoffs. Miss the entire offseason. Miss the start of next season if recovery goes slow.
Six to nine months means I'm useless.
"The good news," Dr. Patterson continues, "is that it's not a complete rupture. With proper treatment, you should make a full recovery. Plenty of athletes have come back from worse."
Should. Plenty. Comeback.
The qualifiers echo in my head. Should doesn't mean will. Plenty doesn't mean all. Comeback doesn't mean the same thing.
Selene appears in the doorway. I don't know how long she's been standing there—long enough to hear the diagnosis, judging by her face. She crosses to me, takes my hand, and doesn't say any of the useless things people say in these moments.
"Axel's doing press," she says quietly. "He'll be here as soon as he can."
"We won."
"You won. Your layup tied the game. None of this happens without you."
"None of this—" I gesture at my destroyed knee. "Also doesn't happen without me."
"That's not—"
"I know." I cut her off before she can argue. "I know. But that's what it feels like."
She sits on the edge of the bed, still holding my hand. The medical staff gives us space—probably seeing the expression on her face that says I need a moment alone with him.
"Six to nine months," I say. "That's a long time."
"We'll get through it."
"You don't know that."
"I know us." Her thumb strokes my knuckles. "I know that you're stronger than this injury. I know that Axel and I aren't going anywhere. I know that this is going to be hard and scary and frustrating, and we're going to do it together."
Together.
The word should comfort me. Usually it does. But right now, instantly, all I can think about is the weight I'm about to become. The dead weight. The one who can't play, can't help, can't contribute anything except needing things from people who are already carrying too much.
Selene's dealing with a lawsuit. Axel just survived his father's visit. We've got three toddlers and a household to run and now—now they have to add my broken body to the list of things to manage.
"You're spiraling," Selene observes. "I can see it happening."
"I'm processing."
"You're catastrophizing. Different thing."
I don't argue. She's probably right. She usually is.
But lying in this hospital bed with my knee wrapped and throbbing and the season over before it should be, catastrophizing feels appropriate.
Six to nine months.
An eternity of uselessness.
And no idea who I am without basketball to prove I'm worth keeping around.