Page 39 of Stone

Mendez’s stare fell on Isaiah. “What about you, Jones?”

My pal sat up straighter. “Played a game or two in my time, Sir.”

The Sergeant’s lips thinned. “The DIs of 2nd Battalion 2051 have challenged us to a game of basketball. I want all of you out on the courts, ready to play. Your downtime just got reduced. It’s time to practice, ‘cause, believe me, boys, if you lose, I won’t be a happy drill instructor. 1st Battalion’s got a rep to protect. Do you understand?”

We looked at him blankly.

“Do you understand?” he roared.

A chorus of “Yes, Sir” went up as we all stood, chairs scraping across the tiled floor, and headed for the door.

Isaiah fell into step beside me. “Bet he thinks I’m good at basketball ‘cause I’m black.”

My lips twisted in thought. “Maybe, but it’s probably more to do with the fact you're six foot six. No fucker’s gonna reach that hoop as well as you.”

Isaiah chuckled. “Never thought of that.”

The evening sun warmed our backs as we made our way to the makeshift court situated close to the assault course. The air felt heavy with anticipation as the DIs split us into two groups before lining us up opposite each other.

Mendez stalked down the middle of the teams, eyeballing us closely as he passed. “This isn’t just basketball practice, men. This is a test of teamwork and how well you all gel together. There will be no standout star players in your team. No man works alone.”

We all snapped our backs straight and shouted, “Yes, Sir,” before making our way onto the court.

Isaiah stood tall, his muscles tense beneath his sweat-soaked shirt. Determination shone from his eyes as he turned to me and nodded.

The basketball felt rough against my hands. I started to dribble the ball, the stiff leather cracking through the ether as it bounced from the ground. A whistle pierced the air, and the game began. The bellows of the officers and the shouts from my teammates all faded along with the sound of drills being conducted in the distance.

I looked around the court with a small smile playing around my lips, reveling in the warmth of the sun and the enjoyment of finally doing something I loved.

“Are you ready, Stone?” Isaiah asked, beckoning our team over. The instant we got in a huddle, Isaiah cleared his throat. “I went to college on a basketball scholarship. Does anyone else play?”

Coop, one of our buds, nodded. “I grew up on a court in Detroit. There was nothin’ else to do in my hood. I play decent.”

“I was on my high school team,” I informed them. “Probably not to your standard, bro, but I can shoot a hoop.”

The game began with a whistle, and everything else faded away. The shouts of the spectators, the harsh commands of our instructors—even the distant sound of drills being conducted dissolved into the background as we moved like a cohesive unit, taking cues from each other. Finally, I managed to break away from the guy marking me and dribble the ball to Isaiah.

He darted across the court, swift and agile, his movements almost graceful as he weaved. Aiming, he took his shot, and the ball soared through the air and cleanly through the hoop. A loud cheer went up, and we all rushed at Isaiah, high-fiving and clapping his shoulder.

We all knew deep down that this game was more than just friendly rivalry. It was a test of our unity, a measure of how well we trusted one another and worked as a team. As I clocked Isaiah basking in the adulation, I couldn’t help but feel a little envious of how effortlessly he seemed to fit in. Then my stare slid to Coop, and Calder and the other guys’ sweat-soaked brows and unsure expressions.

That was when a revelation hit me. I wasn’t alone. We were all here searching for the same thing—a sense of brotherhood. I was connected to these men in ways I’d never experience again, and for the first time, I realized I’d done the right thing by coming here.

“Alright, 1st Battalion,” Morley bellowed. “You can line up and suck Jones’s cock at lights out. Right now, you’ve gotta game to win. Get your asses back into position.”

Heart swelling, I went to regroup and prepare for the next play with a grin on my face and a newfound sense of camaraderie filling the void inside me.

Week Four

Swim Week was notorious for taking outstanding recruits, chewing them up, and spitting them out. More men dropped out of boot camp on swim week than any other in the program.

We’d been marched to the swim tank and lined up in full uniform—boots and rifles included—at the side of the Olympic-size indoor pool. Mendez and Morley had taken seats in the bleachers, their clipboards at the ready, to allow the swim instructors to take over.

The pressure weighed down on my chest even though I knew I was a good swimmer. This exercise had been described as a living hell by more than one brother who used to tell me about their time in the boot camp. I’d been dreading it since week one. The smell of chlorine filled my nostrils, mingling with the acrid scent of fear permeating throughout the room.

One of the instructors stood at the top of the line to address us. “I’m Sergeant Pascoe. Welcome to the swim tank, recruits. Is there anybody here who can’t swim?”

Two recruits gingerly raised their hands.

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