Worth the Fight

chapter nine

A sharp ache pulses in my side, forcing me to clench and double over, the pain cutting deep. The taste of iron and copper lingers in my mouth, thick and foul, choking me as I swallow past the lump lodged in my throat. Sweat beads along my skin trickle down my face and soak into the back of my shirt, which clings to me like a second skin, heavy and cold. My legs tremble, thighs quaking with the effort to keep me upright, but I refuse to collapse. I straighten my back, pushing against the exhaustion, and stretch my arms out, muscles straining, waiting.

Moments later, the rough basketball thuds into my hands, the impact vibrating up my arms. I draw in a sharp breath, the air stinging as it burns through my chest, filling lungs that feel like they've been worked to the limit. My fingers splay against the ball's textured surface, the grooves biting into my callouses as I mould my grip, grounding myself. I plant my feet firmly, eyes sweeping the court to find my teammates, gauging the distance between me and the hoop. But before I can make my move, a figure steps into my line of sight, blocking my view. I drop the ball, beginning a slow, deliberate dribble, studying the defence as it shifts, the ball bouncing rhythmically between my legs.

As the shooting guard, I should be looking for the open shot, but the defence has me locked down—Andre's on me, and I'm getting double-teamed. That forces me to think quickly, searching for another option. Trey, my teammate in this practice game, is hovering near the basket, arm outstretched, calling for the ball. Meanwhile, James, another shooting guard but on the opposing team, is closing in on me, leaving Devon completely unguarded and wide open for the pass.

I scan the court, calculating my next move. A plan forms: I fake a pick-and-roll, fully aware that Andre and James will recognize the setup and be more cautious, so I square up as if I'm going to take the shot. Just as I expected, Andre and James shift their focus, eyes flicking to Khalil, who's stepping up to block them. But when they see me, their posture shifts, and they both jump, hands reaching for the block.

That's when I make my move. I duck under their outstretched arms, sending a quick pass to Devon. In one fluid motion, he sweeps the ball to Trey, who's already set to capitalize on his height. With a smooth, effortless leap, Trey hangs from the rim after slamming the ball through the net, my team erupting as he finishes the play.

A wave of pride washes over me as I clap my hands together once, rubbing them in triumph, while Andre groans, throwing his hands up in frustration and letting his head fall back.

"Alright, alright. We get it, Mr. 6-foot-6," Andre pants, hands resting on his hips. "Get down before I get you down myself."

This practice game seems to be never-ending as Coach yells at my team while the assistant coach is laying into Andre's team. With Andre and Devon serving as captains and calling the shots, we're completely drained and exhausted beyond belief. At this point, everyone, including myself, is just hoping to head home.

Khalil shoulder-checks past Andre as he grins, "And what exactly would happen if you did have to get him down yourself?"

Andre, normally the life of the party, is clearly not in the mood for jokes. Everyone hates losing a game, especially after working hard and practicing for as long as we have. However, Andre is different when losing. Where most of us laugh off a loss or shift blame, Andre internalizes it. He becomes quiet, serious, and almost restless as if the loss is a reflection of his failure. He'll still blame himself for the small mistakes even when he's had a great game. He'll think he had a lapse in judgment with defence or as a power forward. He doesn't allow for anything else to be possible, even if it's been his best game and we've all missed our shots.