Alice rose, knees popping in the quiet, and jogged back around the corner, high-fiving Phelps as he ran forward, then sat in a low crouch at the rear of the team. Being the point guard was exhausting beyond any physical exercise. Maybe Sarge was right, and she was in shock. Texas had been rough—she’d seen plenty of action—but nothing like that attack run. Her head throbbed, a dull ache that radiated from the base of her skull. It was rhythmic, hypnotic. She dragged herself upright, shook herself. She nudged Thomasson ahead of her, and he swung round with a goofy grin.