"You're not dead but not alive either.
You're just a ghost with a beating heart."
The tension in the air was tangible. Shouting and cheers had surrounded the court while players occupied it. The score was a grim 64 – 65. They were losing the States just by a point. The curly haired boy's jersey was drenched in sweat, the number four contrasting sharply against the black uniform. He had to do something. He couldn't let them lose. He needed to save the match.
Eyes concentrated on the target, he was high on adrenaline. Swiftly dodging the members of both teams, he dribbled the ball across the basketball court. The temptation to prove he was worthy overpowered his acknowledgement of it being a stupid move.
But basketball was the only thing he was good at. It was the only way he knew to show himself that he wasn't afraid.
Only way of restoring his faith.
Hands steady, the sense of familiarity took over. He knew what to do. He had done this a gazillion times. This was going to be easy. A smirk spread across his face.
Except he slipped.
The ball instead of falling in the hoop as intended circumvented on its edge only to fall on the hoop's side. Abruptly the bell rang. The match was over. They had lost.
A sense of atrociousness seeped in him. He had lost the match. His need to prove he was enough had got them here. He had let everybody down and had proved her correct yet again.
The boy sharply walked out the court, unaware of the mindless screaming of his coach, the sharp glares of the student body and stinging words of his members.
Only aware of her words playing like a broken record that he now come to accept.
He was always going to be worthless.
YOU ARE READING
The Jock
Short StoryWhen the jock hooked up with the star dancer, he hated, the look of a classic cliché took a mask. Nobody could read between the lines. Nobody knew that not everything was the black and white as they had all so rigidly prejudiced.
