The gym at Lincoln High was quieter than usual the next afternoon. The squeak of sneakers on hardwood, normally sharp and constant, was muffled by an air of caution hanging over the team. Dante sat on the padded table in the training room, his right ankle wrapped in ice. The swelling had gone down a little overnight, but it still felt stiff, and every step reminded him of the way he landed during that time of the game.
Coach leaned against the door frame, arms crossed. "How's it feel, D?"
Dante gave a half-shrug. "It's… fine."
"Fine?" Coach stepped inside, raising an eyebrow. "You were limping up and down the court yesterday and barely slept last night, from the way your mom told me. Don't 'fine' me, King."
Dante exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed on the floor. He didn't like being sidelined. He didn't like that in the game after his injury, Lincoln had dropped a tough road matchup against Franklin Prep, a loss that knocked them down a spot in the league standings. He wasn't blaming himself outright, but the guilt sat in his stomach like a brick.
When practice started, the team ran through their sets without him. Rico ran point, keeping the ball moving, but the pace wasn't the same. Dante watched from the bench, mentally calling out where passes should go, seeing angles and openings that didn't get used.
Jalen came over during a water break, sweat dripping down his temple. "We'll get it back, bro," he said, nudging Dante's shoulder. "We just need you healthy."
"Yeah," Dante muttered, though his mind was already somewhere else, picturing himself back in uniform, crossing over defenders, breaking presses.
Later that night, after a dinner he barely touched, Dante sat in the living room with the lights low. The TV was on but muted. His mom had already gone to bed. In his hands was his basketball, warm from the constant friction of his palm. He sat on the couch, hunched over, dribbling low and tight between his legs, alternating hands without looking down, just to reduce his hunger for the game. The rhythmic thump-thump echoed softly through the room.
It wasn't much, but it was something. Every bounce was a promise to himself that he wasn't going to let an ankle sprain derail everything he'd worked for. If he had to rebuild his game from the ground up he would.
That thought didn't feel like some dramatic motivational quote. It was simple. Bare-bones. A fact. Dante leaned back against the couch, rolling the ball under his palm slowly, feeling the texture of the leather, each little pebble pressing against his skin. He remembered when he first learned to dribble, sitting just like this, legs bent, shoulders hunched, locked in on nothing but control. He was eight years old then, the ball almost too big for his hands.
Now he was seventeen, stronger, faster, sharper… but that eight-year-old version of himself still lived in him. And that version wasn't afraid of starting over.
He set the ball down again, dribbling side-to-side between his legs. The motion was smooth, his hands light, his wrists loose. The ankle twinged a little when he shifted his weight, but that just made him focus harder. He imagined a defender crouched in front of him, hands out, eyes locked on the ball. Dante dropped his left-hand low, faked right, then pounded it back to his right hand with a snap, like he was breaking invisible ankles in his living room.
The muted TV flashed highlights of another high school team somewhere across the country, some guard pulling off a filthy step-back three. Dante caught the replay in his peripheral vision and narrowed his eyes. That could be him. That should be him. But right now, he was here, stuck in the quiet, nursing an ankle that had other plans.
His phone buzzed beside him. It was a message from Rico.
Rico: Film room tomorrow? We need to tighten some stuff before Friday.
Dante typed back quickly.
Dante: Bet. I'll be there.
He didn't add that he wouldn't be cleared to practice yet. Even if all he could do was sit in the back, watch plays, and talk through options, he was going to be there.
He dribbled for another ten minutes, pushing himself to keep the ball low enough that his fingertips almost brushed the floor, alternating crossovers with behind-the-back dribbles without letting the ball get away from him. Sweat was starting to gather on his forehead, and the quiet thump of the ball became like a heartbeat in the room.
When he finally stopped, he rested the ball on his knees and leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. The house was so still that he could hear the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
He thought about the Franklin Prep game, how they'd fought but couldn't keep their lead without him. Rico had played well, but the team had missed that extra gear, that confidence boosts that Dante brought when he was on the floor.
And then he thought about Friday's matchup. The opponent wasn't as tough on paper, but nothing about this season had been predictable. The standings were too tight for them to drop another game.
His ankle throbbed faintly, as if reminding him who was in control right now.
Dante grabbed his phone again and opened a clip from one of their earlier games, a win against Westbrook where he'd gone for 27 points. He watched the highlights in silence. Each move felt like a lifetime ago, even though it had only been weeks. He saw himself split a double-team, explode to the rim, and finish with his left. The crowd's roar came through the video like white noise, but it still sent a spark through him.
That was who he was. Not some injured player stuck on a couch.
He put the phone down and went back to dribbling. His eyes half-closed, letting muscle memory take over, he pushed himself through imaginary scenarios, full-court press, trap in the corner, last possession of the game. Each time, in his head, he broke through.
Time blurred. The next time he looked up, it was nearly one in the morning. His mom's voice floated faintly from her bedroom: "Dante, get some rest."
"I will," he called back, but the ball didn't stop bouncing until he'd finished one last clean, no-look crossover into a behind-the-back spin.
He set the ball carefully on the floor, right beside the couch, where he could grab it the second he woke up. His ankle wasn't healed, not yet, but his will hadn't taken a hit.
If anything, it was stronger.
He leaned back against the couch cushion, eyes on the ceiling. There was work to do, film to study, moves to sharpen, pain to push through. He could already feel the countdown ticking in his head, every day leading to the moment he stepped back onto the court. And when that happened, nobody, no defender, no scoreboard, no injury, was going to stop him.
Tomorrow, the grind would continue. Tonight, he'd let the weight of the ball against his leg remind him why he played in the first place.
And somewhere deep inside, the eight-year-old with the too-big ball and the wide-eyed dreams smiled, ready to go again.