Page 8 of Isolation

“I was only keeping my options open,” I responded coolly.

“Is it too much for me to ask to keep them open a little longer?”

I could have pushed back and reminded him I’d kept my options open too long. Instead, I loaded the dishwasher.

“I gotta get back and get warmed up. See you there?” he asked.

“Yeah. Congratulations, babe. You earned it!”

Back at the gym,the sound of sneakers against the polished hardwood became white noise after so long, same with the ref’s whistle and the coach barking. After two years on the bench, I learned to tune it all out. Still, DeAndre’s knee popping in a way that was unnatural before his head hit the floor—that shit cut through everything.

My body moved faster than my mind could catch up. I peeled off my warm-up jacket. It had been two years since my last meaningful minutes in a game that mattered. There was a flutter in my chest, but I kept my face neutral. I couldn’t let them know that somewhere underneath my concern for DeAndre was a spark of opportunity.

Coach Von gripped my shoulder. “This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

No, that’s what I’d been waiting for. But I nodded. “I’m ready.”

“Nothing heroic. Just play your game. Move the ball and find your spots. Make them respect you. Defense first.”

“Got it.” I bounced on my toes and rolled my neck. My muscles were tight, but there was no time to overthink.

“Let’s cook. DeAndre is down, but we’re not out,” Tray, our point guard, said as I checked in.

“Facts. Let me get my bag.” We fist bumped.

“No cap. Glad you’re off that bench.” He grinned.

The ref handed me the ball for the inbound pass. I took in the atmosphere and harsh lights. Things I hadn’t noticed until I was back in it. I could feel the crowd’s skepticism.

I bounced the ball hard. It felt good, and my hands were steady. I inbounded to Tray and jogged to my position on the wing. Some lanky kid, my defender who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, gave me extra space as if I weren’t a threat and could be ignored.

Story of my fucking life.

I cut hard toward the baseline, using the center’s screen to create separation, and Tray hit me with a bounce pass. The ball felt right in my hands. I rose for a mid-range jumper before my brain could process—muscle memory from thousands of shots in empty gyms. The net barely moved. The ball dropped through clean.

“Good bucket, baby.” Tray nodded as we moved back on defense. I was already locked in, assessing and scanning. This wasn’t just a chance to play. It was my chance to stay in the game, proving what I’d known all along—that I belonged here.

During a free throw, my eyes drifted to the stands. It only took me a second to find her—Danica, my person, my rock. Shewas the only person who knew the toll the bench had taken on me. She was wearing my old college sweatshirt, and her hair was pulled into a messy bun. Even from here, I could read her expression of pride. She knew all too well what this meant to me.

I gave her a slight nod. We’d celebrate later.

Coach called a timeout after the free throw. We huddled up. Sweat was thick in the air as we formed a circle. Their eyes were on me, wondering if I was for real or a lucky shot.

“Bryant, they’re going to test you. Twenty-three is going to try to ISO you every opportunity he gets. Show him why that’s a mistake.”

I nodded, absorbing the offensive sets and defensive schemes. Basketball had always been easy for me to understand. I understood angles, how to exploit weaknesses, and anticipate movements. That shit came naturally. However, it was the politics of the game I couldn’t master—the ass kissing or, as some called it, networking without seeming hungry.

The whistle blew, and we broke from the huddle.

“Let’s get this bread,” I muttered.

Back on defense, I was matched up with their lead scorer just as the coach predicted. Dude was quick too. I had to give him that. He smirked at me before launching into his dribble sequence. The ball seemed to be attached to his fingers by an invisible string.

Still, inside me, something cold and dark unfurled. I’d waited too long, sacrificed too much, and worked too hard to be disrespected by someone who wouldn’t have made the bench in college.

My stance was perfect. I crowded him with my center of gravity low. He attempted to cross me over, but I mirrored his movement. The shot clock wound down as frustration flickered across his face. He settled for a step-back jumper that clanged off the rim.

I grabbed the rebound and passed to Tray in one motion. As we pushed in transition, I found the seam in their defense and cut hard to the basket. Tray saw me. We’d practiced together long enough that he knew my tendencies. He floated an alley-oop that I caught and finished with one hand.

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