The bench was cold, but Darius barely noticed. He was hunched forward, elbows on knees, muttering to himself like each phrase was a life raft.
"You're fine. You're still good." "That was a glitch. Shake it off." "You've played through worse."
But the words didn't land. They floated. Empty.
He glanced at the floor. Then at his teammates. The run had died the moment he came off. White Team started slipping—bad rotations, missed switches. Diesel tried to rally them with brute strength, but chemistry was broken. Possessions looked panicked.
The scoreboard didn't blink. It climbed for Blue. Sagged for White.
Coach Daniels glanced down the bench.
"Navarro," he said. "You good?"
Darius looked up. "Yeah. I'm ready."
Coach frowned. "Sure? You looked off before. We can wait longer."
"No. I'm good."
Daniels hesitated. Then nodded. "Alright. You're going in—SG."
Darius nodded. Clipped his jersey tighter. Stepped onto the court.
But the court didn't feel familiar anymore.
It felt alien. Echoing.
The next few possessions were… messy.
Darius posted up, called for the ball. Fumbled the catch. Fast break gone.
Next trip—he got it on the wing, pump-faked, jabbed right… bricked the pull-up. Straight backboard, like the rim had ghosted him.
Then a pass—he threw it behind Terrence, who turned too late and watched it bounce out of bounds.
Coach scribbled something. Jamal on the sideline winced. Even the system said nothing.
On defense, Darius missed a close-out. RJ drove past him with a spin that probably wouldn't have worked three minutes ago. It did now. Layup.
A whistle blew. Substitution call.
But this time, Darius didn't wait for it.
He jogged over and asked for it himself.
Coach looked at him—eyebrows raised.
Darius simply nodded once.
Daniels didn't question. Just waved Bryce in.
And as Darius sat back down, breathing hard, hand on his temple—
Jason Dobbins re-entered.
And what followed was clean, efficient, and sharp. Jason moved like he'd recalibrated while Darius had unraveled.
Every possession he touched turned into points or pressure. Every mistake Darius made, Jason turned into rhythm.
But Darius didn't watch Jason. Didn't track the score.
The sound of the court was distorted.
Shoes squeaked. The bench shouted. Coach Daniels barked out rotations. The scoreboard clicked up again.
But Darius heard it all like it was underwater.
He sat low, hoodie off, jersey clinging to his skin. His legs bounced out of habit, like they thought they could still run—but they didn't move. Not really.
Jason was on fire.
Floor general. Sharp as ever. Executing play after play with the kind of control Darius once owned in a different body, a different life.
Another drive. Kick to RJ. Three.
Then a stop. Jason took the rebound off the bounce. Euro step in transition. Finger roll.
Even the other team started clapping. Respect. Admiration.
Darius's hand tightened around the towel draped over his shoulder. His jaw locked. His eyes tracked every movement. He saw where Jason hesitated, where he didn't, where timing met instinct and created rhythm.
He hated every second.
Not because Jason was winning.
But because Darius couldn't interfere.
The desire to check back in pulsed hard. Every play tugged at him. Every point begged for a response.
But when he tried to stand—
His legs didn't go.
They buzzed. Then locked. His hands fumbled on the bench edge, and for a second, he almost forced himself up. But his body didn't respond. The image of the paint, the glitch, the memory—it was still there. Living in his bones.
So he stayed seated.
Jason scored again.
And again.
Final buzzer.
Team Blue walked off with control and cohesion. Coach Daniels tapped his clipboard once, didn't speak. Jason didn't flex or celebrate. He just walked past Darius—calm, sweat-drenched, locked in.
The gym was silent.
No bouncing balls, no sneakers squeaking, no whispered jokes. Just twelve boys lined shoulder to shoulder, standing like statues while Coach Daniels conferred with two assistants—clipboard over mouth, voices low but intense.
No one knew what would happen.
Noodle's fingers twitched.
Terrence rocked ever so slightly on his heels.
Darius stood still, palms pressed to his thighs, eyes locked on a loose thread on his shorts. His chest was tight. Not from the workout, but from something deeper—expectation dressed as dread.
Then Coach Daniels stepped forward.
He didn't draw it out. Didn't give a speech.
Just looked at the list.
"Starting five."
Names dropped like stones.
"Jason Dobbins. RJ Okoro. Quinn Avery. Miles Haney. Caleb Knox."
Team Blue.
White Team barely stirred.
Then—
"Noah Brooks. Denzel Osei. You're in. You earned it."
A brief nod. Two names from Darius's side had cracked through. Terrence stood tall but didn't get called. Bryce looked down.
And Darius—still quiet, face unreadable—didn't move.
Coach Daniels paused.
Looked up.
"For those not starting—your role's not over."
Darius exhaled slowly. Trying to mask the sting.
Then Daniels turned, looked him directly in the eyes.
"Navarro."
Darius blinked.
"You're sixth man."
The words hit strange.
Not quite victory. Not quite failure.
But real.
"Spark off the bench," Daniels added. "Stabilizer when the floor's shaking. You didn't finish strong—but you've got presence. And we'll need it."
Darius nodded once, slow. Like permission to breathe again.
The rest of the gym stayed quiet.
Terrence clapped softly. Bryce gave him a shoulder nudge. Even Jason tilted his head slightly. No smirk. Just acknowledgment.