Page 3 of Isolation

Though Pearson looked annoyed, he pulled out his earbuds. “Got it, Coach.”

The team moved along the sidelines while we moved to center court. Everyone knew their roles. Pearson was supposed to shut me down to show me why he was a starter and I wasn’t. To prove the current pecking order was correct, I was supposed to try hard and fail. Fuck that.

“Bryant, show me something,” Coach ordered, tossing the ball. It sounded like a challenge and opportunity at the same time.

I bounced the ball, getting into a rhythm as I studied Pearson. He was in a defensive stance—weight back on his heels, hands out but not extended fully. For him, this was a formality. He didn’t respect my game.

Pearson had quick hands and was around six foot three, but his right ankle had been bothering him for a while. I’d noticed him wincing when he cut hard to the left, favoring it during games. Information was currency, and I’d been banking while on the bench.

“Any day, old man,” Pearson taunted, flashing a smile. I had about seven years on him at thirty-two. I was ancient in basketball terms.

I kept my dribble steady, ignoring the bait. Everyone was watching, and the gym was quiet except for the ball hitting the hardwood.

“Clock’s running,” Coach Von stated.

Jab step left, Pearson shifted his weight. I made my move. His eyes dropped to my midsection—rookie mistake. Fast but not rushed, I crossed over right as he tried to recover. When his weight shifted, I changed directions again, taking a hard left toward the baseline.

I had to give it to him. Pearson was quick. Body to body, he stayed with me. His hot ass breath was on my neck. He played the obvious move, expecting me to continue to the basket or pull up for the jumper.

Instead, he bumped against my back when I stopped on a dime. He was off balance momentarily. That’s when I spun, putting all my weight on my right foot. It was a tight pivot; my elbow extended naturally as part of the motion.

My elbow caught Pearson right where his abdomen and ribcage met. There was contact—not too much but just enough. His momentum did the rest. Then came a sound, a mixture of a crack and a pop followed by a sharp intake of breath. Pearson hit the hardwood hard, hitting his head. He didn’t get up. I stood frozen. My eyes locked on his twisted leg.

The trainer sprinted from the sideline as the gym exploded into motion. Coach Von knelt next to Pearson, whose face had gone pale. Everyone crowded around with their expressions full of concern.

“Call the squad. What happened?” Coach Von demanded.

I stepped back, raising my hands with the universal sign of innocence.

“I didn’t touch him. He undercut me on the spin.”

After what felt like the longest time, the medics showed up, loaded Pearson into the ambulance, and drove away.

“Back to warm-ups, everyone. Tray, you’re with the first team today running point,” Coach instructed.

The team dispersed, and after everyone was out of earshot, Coach Von turned to me. “Bryant, what really happened?”

I looked at him. “Basketball happened. He was playing me tight and lost his footing on the cut. I made my move to the basket. You can check the film,” I noted, keeping my voice level reasonable.

Coach studied me with narrowed eyes for a long moment. He’d been in the game too long to be fooled, but he was practical. I got it. With his star player down, the season was in jeopardy.

I took off in a slow jog back to the court. Lowe gave me a subtle nod. I wasn’t sure if it was a warning or respect. However, the rookies seemed to be reassessing the quiet guy who’d been riding the bench.

After retrieving the ball from where it had rolled during the commotion, I resumed my shooting routine. On the inside, my mind was racing, but outside, I moved as if nothing significant had happened.

There would be a film review and questions. If Pearson pushed hard enough, maybe even an investigation would be conducted. Accidents happen every day in competitive sports, and it would be my word against his.

I sank another jumper. The net snapped crisply. Coach was watching me. His expression was unreadable.

“Bryant. Don’t make me regret it, but you’re running with the starters today.”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded.

I joined the team for drills. I didn’t think about Pearson or how I studied his weakness for weeks from the bench. I did think about how Mason’s face would shine when he found out I was going to play for real.

It waslittle fingers poking my face that woke me, not the alarm for 6:30 a.m. that never went off. I opened my eyes to Mason’s face and his gap-toothed smile inches from mine. The space beside me confirmed that Mateo had already left for the early practice he’d mentioned last night.

“Are you awake yet, Mommy?” Mason whispered loudly. However, I wasn’t sure how that combination was even possible.

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