The gym pulsed with energy again, third game in four days. The fatigue was setting in, but Lincoln High had momentum, and momentum meant everything. Coach Hale paced the sideline, barking adjustments, urging focus. Dante was locked in, every move deliberate, every pass sharp. The scouts were still watching, some of the same faces from the last game, now joined by a few new ones.
Midway through the third quarter, Lincoln led by eight. Dante brought the ball up the court, sizing up the defender. He hit a quick crossover, exploded left, then it happened.
His left foot slid awkwardly. The defender's knee clipped him just enough to tilt his balance, and before he could catch himself, Dante's ankle rolled violently inward. The sound, sickening, sharp, cut through the cheers like a blade.
He hit the hardwood hard, grabbing at his leg, jaw clenched in agony.
"Time! Time!" Coach Hale roared, running onto the court with the trainer already behind him.
Rico dropped to his knees beside Dante. "Talk to me, D. You good?"
Dante tried to nod, but the pain blazed too loud. "I, I think I twisted it bad," he hissed.
The crowd stood silent. His mother in the bleachers had a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and unmoving.
Minutes passed before Dante was helped to the bench. He didn't want to go. He wanted to fight through it. But even standing hurt like hell.
Still, Lincoln pulled through. Rico stepped up big. Everyone locked in. They rode the lead all the way to the final buzzer, preserving the win.
Lincoln had lost their number 1 point guard, who controlled the game, the team, and left a mark on each team they played with.
The next game, they weren't so lucky.
Without Dante running point, the offense stuttered. Rico did his best, but the rhythm was off. Defensive rotations collapsed. Missed assignments piled up. What should've been a winnable game slipped out of their fingers by the third quarter. They lost by twelve. Worse than the scoreboard was the way it felt, disjointed, leaderless.
Back home, Dante sat on the couch, an ice pack loosely wrapped around his swollen ankle. He didn't speak much during dinner, just poked at his food while his mom watched him with quiet concern.
"You need rest," she told him gently. "You won't bounce back in a day."
He knew, but he didn't want to stay home without bouncing what he loved.
But sleep never came.
At 2:47 a.m., Dante sat alone in the dim living room, the only light coming from the kitchen night lamp. A basketball sat by his feet.
He picked it up, let it roll against his palms. Slowly, methodically, he began to dribble.
Low, tight bounces. Left hand. Right hand. Back and forth.
Pop-pop. Pop-pop-pop.
Each bounce was a conversation with himself. A question, an answer. A refusal to let the game move on without him. The pain throbbed in his ankle, but the fire in his chest burned hotter.
He hunched lower on the couch, pounding the ball between his legs now, sweat starting to form on his brow despite the stillness of the room.
He wasn't just practicing.
He was making a statement to the scouts, the doubters, the ones watching from the shadows.
They could count him out if they wanted.
He'd be ready.
Even if he had to bounce his way back from the couch.
He was okay after some weeks of rest.
It was game time, and the gym was electric.
Even before tipoff, the crowd had filled every seat and corner of the bleachers. It was Lincoln's fourth tournament game, and tension buzzed through the air like static. Scouts had started showing up, not just from nearby colleges but from out-of-state programs too. Dante felt them watching.
He wore the pressure like a second jersey.
In the first quarter, Dante came out like fire, two quick steals, a reverse layup, and a fast-break assist that had the whole gym erupting. But midway through the second quarter, something shifted. A hard hedge on a pick-and-roll sent him stumbling off-balance. As he tried to regain his footing and cut to the lane, his right foot landed awkwardly on another player's. His ankle rolled hard again.
He crumpled to the hardwood.
Gasps spread across the court. Rico ran over first, yelling at the ref for a call that never came. Coach Hale crouched next to Dante while the trainer rushed from the sideline. Dante winced but waved them off.
"I'm fine," he muttered, but the pain was sharp, like needles grinding in his joint.
He tried to stand but stumbled, and the trainer had to help him limp to the bench.
The gym was quieter now. Whispers filled the bleachers. "Is he done?" "Looks bad." "Lincoln's cooked without him."
But the Lions weren't cooked, not yet.
Rico took the lead again, switching into full beast mode. He hit back-to-back threes, hustled for every loose ball, and flexed after drawing an and-one late in the third. Jalen stepped up defensively. Keshawn even blocked a corner three. Lincoln tightened up, played team ball, and held their own.
Dante sat iced up on the bench, biting down in frustration.
He wanted to be out there.
He needed to.
But sometimes the body doesn't care about what you want.
By the time the buzzer sounded, Lincoln had pulled off the win, barely. 61–58. The crowd roared, but Dante just sat there, his ankle throbbing under the wrap, eyes scanning the court like a general stuck off the battlefield.
In the locker room, Coach Hale patted everyone's backs, but when he got to Dante, he just looked at him long.
"You might be tough, King," he said. "But don't be stupid. We're gonna get you checked out. Tape and grit don't fix everything."
Dante nodded, but his jaw stayed clenched.
The next day, they lost, but the scores were tight.
But a defeat is a defeat, no matter how tight the scores were.
Dante sat out, wearing sweats on the bench, and the team couldn't find rhythm without him.
Rico tried to carry again, but the chemistry wasn't the same. The opponent, Oak Valley, took full advantage, pressing every possession and trapping Rico and the team till they had no outlet.
Final score: 72–63.
It stung. Not just the loss, but watching it unfold, helpless.
Back home that night, Dante didn't sleep.
The house was quiet. His mom had long gone to bed, but Dante sat alone in the living room, hoodie over his head. His right ankle was propped up, still sore, but he gripped the ball anyway. No dribbling on the floors, she'd told him earlier. But tonight, he made an exception.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Low dribbles, sitting on the couch. He worked his left hand. Then his right. Quick, tight, soft enough not to wake anyone, but firm enough to feel the texture of the ball.
His eyes stared ahead, unfocused, as he moved. The rhythm was meditative. A mantra. This is how he healed, by doing, by touching the game, even if it couldn't fully touch him back yet.
Each bounce echoed not just in the room, but in his head. Disappointment. Frustration. Hunger.
He thought about the scouts. The missed minutes. The silence after the loss. He thought about the way his teammates looked at him, like they still believed, even when he couldn't suit up.
He wasn't done.
Not even close.