"But, all I am sayin' D.. and dis don't be personal, but ya can't let a breakup mess yer head up, bruv."

I twist my head towards Darryn instantly - enough force as if I might have dislocated an air pocket; the whipcrack of a sonic boom lashing straight at his lounged idling figure on the tattered leather couch that sat mid-center in our locker room.

We have just finished practice and the gym post-lifting - and, I hate to admit it - I sucked ass. Couldn't focus - felt like the whole axis of my entire body shifted microscopically, my limbs and form a botched mess, sense of game curled and wilted.

It aggravates me, knowing we have a game later this week, knowing I should be making progress on my flaws, string-up more highlights, get everyone on the same page - to move and play as one solid unit, as right now we were still weak on communication. Entire stretches where Idris wouldn't know who to pass, Zane be too late to set up on the wing, we are lazy on rebounding, inefficient under the rim, and our pick-n-roll should be-...

"You say that, Diz, but it ain't like Coach didn't send your ass to do suicides everytime you went off-scheme."

Idris quips instantly at Darryn - having just emerged from the showers, a towel capping his shoulders, and another loosely wrapped around his waist. Strings of cool water thread umber taut skin, heated and still recoiling from the hellish practice and lifting we undergo every weekday. Thin, shoulder-length, braids framing the right-half of his face, casted into the blinking weak light of the room.

"Heyo, Dris! You say that, but I showed up, didn't I? Sink in them threes. Nobody can't say nothing."

Darryn rebutted, peeling himself off the couch with a cloyingly wet nasty sound that makes me cringe. He might as well just take another shower by this point.

And as much as he is annoying, I give it to him. He has been trying harder in practice as of lately. Everyone, in fact. So that only adds another layer of frustration - makes me seethe, sizzling lava ready to erupt from under my fingernails, my teeth gums, my eyes, and ears, and pores.

Even so, Darryn be talking outta his ass for one reason.

"I sucked. OK? Ok. Airballed all day. Fine. But this ain't about me and Celeste. So stop dragging it, man."

I didn't think it was, at very least. Celeste posted yesterday an insta story - some hella scenographed thing of her having a spa day with her cheermates and the 'single girl day off' line in bold with sparkles and everything else. It was kinda funny, not gonna lie.

Darryn looked at me over, as if not buying it, muttering a 'If you say so' while slipping on his Crocs and chugging half a blue Gatorade.

But it was not the case - I was a-ok with mine and Celeste's status. Sure, the timing kinda sucks but people will just find another hot topic to flicker about in no time. Some TikTok beef, some breakup drama, a good meme, their own shit. It always is something else.

It was not that. This thorn of mine - hooked around my flesh, raveling my sinews, poking the ends of every innervation - no. This thorn has been with me for longer than that. If anything, breaking up with Celeste, made my breath easier against the thorn's stab.

My thoughts stumble.

Was I relieved cuz of it? Why?

A lapping swash of warmth yanks me back to myself and I face Idris, already dressed, hand on my shoulder. So warm.

"Rian, you good?"

I have known him long enough to pick on the muted shifts in his voice and gaze - he dresses me up in willowy concern, a question lingering in the glaring underlight of his irises - one I have no patience for.

"Yeah. 'M good. Stellar."

I rinse my grainy voice with water and pack my stuff. By now most of the guys already left, only a handful still around. Usually, I'd more prompt on showering and heading off, but today was an exception, thanks to my nerve-wrecked performance.

"You ain't goin', D?" Zane asks, already half out the door.

I shake my head.

"Nah. I gotta see Coach."

"Ya gonna get grinded." Darryn cracks, sneaks in one hand and handbag in the other. "And hey, look - dis might be a good thing for ya, D. Now that you got laid off, time to explore the market, dawg!"

To make it ten times worse, he flexes while saying that.

I roll my eyes so far out they might as well get taped there. Why are you still around, Diz? Don't you got something else to do? Play 2k and lose big time there as well??

"Thanks for the offer, but am good. And certainly I won't be taking advice from your sorry ass. How long since you and Mila broke up? 10 months?"

You started it, my man, so this is fair-game. Darryn immediately almost chokes on his own spit and stammers his words.

"8 months! And she still into me!"

"Bruv, she unfollowed yar ass and ya don't even got invited at her Homecoming after." Zane adds in, tugging at Darryn's shirt for him to hurry up.

"Nah ah she didn't unfollow me!"

I swallow a chuckle down as the two clear out, last thing me and Idris hear being Zane's 'Main account don't be counting' which cracks up both of us.

Our laughter ricochets the freshly painted locker rooms, the jiggered couch and chairs, the grimy floor (that needs a good wash asap), swiveling its way back to us.

"Sorry ya gotta wait for me."

I am self-conscious about it, cuz I promised Idris we'd head to my place to finish some assignment for Spanish class then tutor him for AP Lit stuff. I hope Coach Truck won't be on my ass too much.

But Idris wears an easy expression, shaking his head at me with a slight eye-roll.

"Don't you worry about that. We got all time. Ma is off work today so she picked up the lil ones while grams is at the doctor's."

He shoots me a reassuring look, even if something akin to... guilt? Shame? Something undoes my seams - creeps up beneath me like the cold autumnal air nesting in alleyways and damp corners.

I flick off the feeling and tighten my grip on my equipment bag, spare personal ball resting between my hip and elbow.

"How's your mom's new job working out?"

"Good. Well, as good as working double night shifts can go. But the pay is nice, and the health insurance is good so that's always great - or at least that's what she says."

He shrugs it off nonchalantly, as if any second thought will be eluded the way a doused wet animal shakes off the rain water effortlessly.

In that moment, my dad's words resurface indulgently - a memory of him telling me that some jobs be so gruesome that the people in charge will just have to actually pay you for it, some meager bonus, bones with sucked out marrow; Until you crumble. Until free-dental coverage might prove insufficient. Until you forget that sunlight used to lay its hand and caress you too. But if not for you, then for your family. For your people. So it works all the same. All the same, all the time.

We exit the locker room and head out of the gym. Knowing I have to stop by the staff room, I pass Idris my car keys.

"Won't be long... If I come out alive, that is."

I grin and he lets out a brief laugh.

"As if. You are Truck's gold child. Probably received another scholarship offer for ya."

"Yeah. Yeah. Don't drive off."

If only. Is what I'd like to say, but I know it won't be something wholesome like that. In fact, my scholarship offers began to dwindle and run cold - when I should begin receiving now even more. My ranking took a hit since I transferred here as a junior - the team is alright; but we had a mediocre season and a sprain sidelined me during some key games. EYBL was a shitshow too - but I managed some nice highlights, endorsements and networking. My socials exploded, I was doing great there. I think I improved overall a whole lot as well - but not enough. The anxiety was a worming parasite - edging me at every chance. Yet I was dreading seemingly for no reason (maybe I was, maybe I am).

I take a deep breath and breeze my way to the staff room, dabbing people up and saying hello, to check with Coach.

Coach Joel "Truck" Hyland was definitely, absolutely, irrefutably, not alike any coach or trainer I have ever had. Honestly, if I saw him pass me down the streets I'd figure he was some accountant for a bakery chain, or Santa's preppy nerdy brother. Definitely not a highschool basketball coach of a somewhat respectable program. A 5'7" heavyset of a man in his 50s, with a bristly grizzled beard and thinning hair, a passion for checkered flannels (I am now 99% sure these are the only type of shirts he owns), and perhaps an even bigger passion for all that is sweet and savory - even if he solely swore to cut down on the sugar and his wife made us, the team, keep an eye out on him.

"You wanted to see me, Coach?"

Wearing his iconic round spectacles framing his ruddy visage, Coach did a 180 from his spinning chair and met my gaze.

"Yes! Tell me, Darian, my boy, are you in love?"

I blink. And blink again. And again.

"Uhmm.. no? No. Uuu.. Coach, what is this-.."

"You sure? Cuz you have been laying bricks in today's practice like Bob the Builder himself!"

He said with a heartful laugh, the gruffed type, which shook and vibrated through the air. But once that was that, his expression settled into something more serious and careful.

"That tells me your head wasn't there. And that is something that won't do, Darian. If you can't focus, you can get hurt much more easily, even in practice. Is everything alright?"

"I know, coach. But everything is cool."

I tried to gloss it over, but Hyland's furrowed bushy brows told me a whole different story.

Even if upon first impression Coach Hyland wasn't I-don't-know-what, he quickly, and terrifyingly-so, proved himself to me. First, as a coach - because, goddamn, the man knew the game; knew how to draw up practice regimes; playing schemes; make use of everyone's abilities. I never seen anything like it before - and I attended basketball camps of NBA players which only sucked out my parents' money. And second, as a person - because what I grasped instantly about Joel Hyland was that his grandpa-ish rang just as true and imbued his character like the deep folds and creases that anointed his face. So, last year, when he made sure to have a student suspended for spitting transphobic crap about how my brother, Izan, shouldn't change for PE in the boys' locker room, he won himself a first gold star. He was a good dude. Solid. Kinda cringe at times, but also endearing in the way a boomer can be and win you over.

I sigh, and plant myself in the spinning chair facing his own.

What even was the problem?

"Dunno, coach. I am anxious. I feel like my game isn't developing, my ranking and scout report don't reflect my skills. And my offers-..."

Coach Truck rose a meaty calloused hand to stop my self-berating and criticism.

"These things take time, Darian. You have been doing everything you can, the way you should. Speeding things up now will only hurt you in the long run. Just stay focused, work as you have done until now - and the results will come. You are a coachable prospect, Darian, with plenty of potential and raw skill. College coaches love that. It isn't all about the ESPN rankings, Peach Jam results, or making the McDonalds All-American-..."

I know. I know. I know.

But by all pantheons of all fictional gods, I would have given my all for any of those; even be just a nominee for Gatorade Player of the Year. But I know that is and was far-fetched credulity on my end. The kind that sends prickles down my spine, which boils bitterness until it distills in rage that feeds your drive. Makes you leap further, condense your muscles for even 0.1 more spent risen above ground.

"As for your offers, you have plenty of great schools. Though, I do know you want to go to a-..."

"Big 10 school yeah." I throw in, Coach continuing briefly after.

"The Big 10 Conference, yes. So, your full-ride Yale offer, which is in the Ivy League-..."

I shake my head. "No good, coach. I don't have time to waste at Yale."

Coach hardens me with a look for a second but rescinds. It was still facts for me. I needed to - I WILL - make it to the league. That means I need to compete in a tough conference, not some nepo-baby whiteboy glazing contests in the fucking Ivy League. I needed to go to the best in Big 10. Go there. Be a student-athlete. Which meant picking some Independent Major shit for classes for minimum credits and focus my all on the game. I was done with education. Fuck them books. I grinded my ass all years for my GPA and SATs - hell, I will make the honors roll upon graduation. Magna cum laude-whatever. Point was, I didn't need any of that; to hell with Shakespeare. I will finally be able to focus my whole into basketball.

There is impatience lacing every thought - hunger for the near-future that is yet-to-be. An ache to devour every volume of time, gulp it down in manic mouthfuls, until I arrive there. There, where I can plant my feet on the glistening hardwood of the promised land. Finally.

"Then..." Coach Truck continues, clearing the rust from his throat. "You still have your Illinois and Northwestern offers. Those are exceptional, Darian. Education-wise too, you know. Coach Enfield from Illinois is an old pal of mine. He is a bit of an old-school hardass but knows everything. And everyone. You'd be in great hands."

I nod, reluctantly. Illinois was a good program - great even. Northwestern too. Even so, greedy as it might sound, I was hoping for more. Rutgers. Penn State. USC. UCLA. Go back on the West Coast. Exorcise the flatlands outta my body, the weight of gunmetal clouds bruising the skies. Twist the thorn out of my flesh, even if it leaves me bleeding.

"I know, Coach. I just-..." I am at a loss, post-practice fatigue sliding in.

Coach doesn't press any further, as I only hear the squeal of his chair and then feel the heavy but comforting hand of his rested on my shoulder.

"You are a special kid, son. Be patient. You will get where you ought to arrive."

It sounded like a bit of a maxim I was not in the mood for, but coming from Coach Truck, it rang genuine, in the way few things do as of lately. Especially corny banal lines, if you ask me.

I sigh and inhale, gaze flicking around the staff room absent-mindedly, finally landing on an opened takeaway Dunkin Donuts box. Six glazed, frosted, toasted, sprinkled, you-name-it fat doughnuts glaring at me.

"Coach?"

"Yes?"

"What happened to that vow of renouncing junk food?"

"....We are not perfect, son. We are not. Do you want one?"

~~~

"Sorry for making you wait."

I call out the moment I get to the car and pop inside the driver's seat, Idris on his phone, a 4batz song playing low.

"No probs-... the hell? When did yar ass head to DDs?"

I crack up, my bottom lip probably smeared with vanilla cream by this point. I hold open the box for Idris to choose one from the remaining 5.

"A donation. No further questions. Now grab one."

A bit of guilt-tripping helps you a long way. World's greatest grift tactic.

I watch Idris go for the strawberry frosted one, and I know three will go to the triplets, with one donut remaining for the rats.

"So? What did Coach want?"

Idris asks, mouthful of pink strawberry creme, a stray sprinkle stuck to his bottom lip. It is a pale blue sugary sprinkle - the likes of a single snowflake that chose simply not to melt - garnishing fleshy contours.

I reach for his face, and whisk it away.

"You had sum there. And, oh, nothing really. Just checkin' in. To see if I am doing alright."

Which I am. I am blazing through and will keep at it until everyone can see it.

"The donuts actual-... yo, you good, Dris?"

He faces me with an expression I can't quite place - as if stuck somewhere between two equally burdensome boulders. He snaps out of it and reverts to his usual serene one, just as easily - a lick of newly-formed light layering his smile.

"What?"

I return back, the fresh easiness playfully in place.

He stares at me and I stare at him and we both just burst out into laughter. The loud, genuine, unhinged type of laughter - cracked, syncopated, and effusive. I keep at it for a bit longer and feel it dilute the pressure inside my lungs, the lethargy in my bones, the swell in my joints. Let it unhook the thorn even; oh-so-slightly.

And when we are done, we smile and head to my place.

Notes

(there is gonna be a lot, but I did promise that if any of you stick with this story, then by the end of it you will be fully immersed into basketball. I promise you!)

pick-and-roll - in basketball, it is a play in which a player sets a screen and then cuts toward the basket for a pass.

suicides - in basketball, suicides are a conditioning drill practice, consisting of having the players sprint different lengths of the court continuously. Cardio hell basically.

airball - an open shot that completely misses the rim and backboard.

bricklayering - same as airballing.

2k - refers to NBA 2k which is a series of basketball sports simulation video games. Basically FIFA for basketball.

EYBL - refers to Nike EYBL (Elite Youth Basketball League) which is a basketball circuit for teams of highschool players composed of AAU (Amateur Athletic Union) travel teams. So the teams are not a highschool's official team - rather the teams are formed under sponsorships and scouting and there are plenty of NBA players organizing their own youth teams. It generally offers a lot of media visibility and opportunity to show-off.

Peach Jam - is essentially the Nike EYBL championship where the top grassroots teams meet up and compete. It usually takes place in July.

The Big 10 Conference - is a Division 1 collegiate athletic conference. It originally consisted of 10 prominent universities, but as of 2024 it consists of 18.

The Gatorade Player of the Year awards - are given annually to up and coming highschool student-athletes showing great promise. In basketball, the likes of Lebron James or Karl-Anthony Towns have won it.

McDonald's All-American Game - McDonald's All American Game is the all-star basketball game played each year for American and Canadian boys' and girls' high school basketball graduates. Consisting of the top players, each team plays a single exhibition game after the conclusion of the high-school basketball season, in an East vs. West format.

Independent Major - an independent major allows a student to design an interdisciplinary course of study that is uniquely suited to their interests and goals.

Author's Note

(( also, does anyone wonder what happened to TJ - that bum that elbowed Darian by mistake? well he definitely apologized a million times and Darian kinda forgave him, cuz they are teammates, but because Darian is petty he gets no 'screentime' from his POV in this story so far. selfish narrator, smh ))

2. if you say so

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