A Single Stroke ✔️

40: Red(rum)

September was almost over. Basketball tryouts were starting soon.

I started hitting the gym. More workouts. More practice. More strength. Better chance of making it.

My fingers started healing but I still had to wear a cast. I was able to dribble a ball even though my fingers failed to bend right. The doctor said it would take another few months and maybe physical therapy to get them working right again. As long as I could dribble and play, I didn't really care. Dribbling didn't involve the tedious movements your fingers required to use a paintbrush.

October fifth was when tryouts started at our school. I signed up. Half the school showed up just to watch who would make it or break it.

The majority of tryouts consisted of dribbling, free-throw shooting, rebounding, other basic drills I soon remembered from middle school. My strength seemed double to that of other seniors. Everyone was shocked. Emery Cohen played basketball? Oh my God, sound the alarms.

Tryouts lasted two days. The second day was a little harder than the first since we had to run through more difficult drills and work with other people to complete our tasks. Max and Jacob snickered the entire time because they thought I was a joke. How pathetic was I to believe I could make the basketball team senior year?

Well guess what? I made the team.

After tryouts when I walked through the halls, I caught the stares of too many groups of girls to count. One of them was Ellie Matson. She tried smiling but failed. I looked away.

"Congrats bro, I didn't realize you even liked basketball." Beak Boy patted me on the back as I walked to my locker. Sweat dripped down my temples and I shook out my white t-shirt to cool myself off. Someone handed me a bottle of water; I didn't see who.

"Thanks. I didn't realize you came to watch."

"It's tryouts. Senior year. Everyone wants to know who's playing."

"Yeah? You're not into sports."

"Allow me to repeat: it's senior year. Everyone wants to know."

Maybe so.

I should have felt...what, happy? Proud? Still, I didn't feel anything. Girls thought I was the total package. Guys thought I was a show off. Maybe they were both right. But to me, this was simply...desperation.

At my locker after school, someone shouted behind me, "Hey faggot." Before I could turn, Max slammed against the locker and twisted my arms behind my back. Jacob grabbed one arm and Max held on to the other.

I smiled. "You expect me to cry at that?"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Going home. And I wouldn't do that if I were you." Peering over my shoulder, I nodded down at Max's hand tightening on my arm above my cast.

"I mean what the hell do you think you're doing with basketball? What kind of fucked up game are you playing?"

"Since when do you like basketball?" Jacob added. "You gonna try something?"

"Oh, Max didn't tell you I used to play? That's another thing I used to beat him at. But he'll never tell you that."

Max twisted my arm more. I winced but didn't cry out. People in the halls stopped to watch, but that's all they ever did.

"Quit the team," he growled close to my ear.

I chuckled. When you lacked feelings, nothing could hurt you. "Hell. No. I could take both of you out easily with just one hand."

"You're all talk." But I felt Jacob loosen his hold.

"Hey Max." I twisted my arm slightly so it wouldn't hurt so bad, but the cast had my wrist locked in place and I couldn't move much. I bit my cheek so the pain wouldn't show. "Maybe if you let me teach you to play, you'll get half the girls I have."

He muttered something indecipherable and pulled me back only to shove me back towards the lockers, but I stopped myself before slamming into them. Once I turned, I realized I was also an inch taller than Max, a couple inches taller than Jacob. Max glared up at me. Jacob backed away.

"We're on the same team now." I shook out my hand. Some people slowed in the halls to look over. "Maybe we're not so different after all."

* * *

Things I would gain by playing basketball Senior Year:

1) The school. I'd own Pepperidge High.
2) My dad's approval for once.
3) A scholarship. My ticket out. If I got a full-ride through college, I'd go far, far away and never look back.

Well...I could only hope.