Page 17 of The Pass Protection
Alittle over a week has passed since I moved to Texas. It still feels a little surreal that this is my life now. The guys have been busy with football to the point where I never see them. But it’s okay. I didn’t move here to be dependent on anyone. I moved here for a fresh start and to rediscover myself.
This is why I stare up at the Central Texas Athletic Center. The large brick building is home to the university’s gym, sports, and recreational facilities for students. The main entrance is for those attending sporting events, graduations, concerts, and other events at the main gymnasium. The back of the building is the entrance for students. This is where all the recreational activities take place. However, the main wellness center with weights and cardio machines is inside the Union.
Climbing the stairs, I swipe my ID card and enter the student entrance. It’s a generic space with a long, minimalist hallway with signs directing you to whichever space you want. A large bulletin board hangs underneath a TV where flyers are placed. Walking toward the board, I notice a signup sheet for intramural basketball, which is precisely what I’m looking for.
I might have hung up my shoes on playing competitively, but the love for the game still runs deep. There’s a number listed to send a textto sign up, which I quickly do as I make my way down the hall to the open gym.
The sounds of shoes squeaking against the polished hardwood floor and dribbling basketballs echo off the walls, filling the space with a cacophony of rhythms that is my version of a symphony.
Spalding and I walk into the doorway as I take in the massive gym made up of four basketball courts with a walking track suspended in the air above the courts. Only one of the courts is occupied by a group of guys playing two-on-two. Not wanting to be bothered, I head to the vacant court in the far corner.
Placing the few items I brought with me on the bleachers, I lean down to lace my well-loved basketball shoes before tightening the ankle strap. A tingle runs through my veins; it’s the same feeling I always get when I’m in a gym. With the determination to pour my sweat out onto the hardwood, I let the thrill pulse through my veins. Some people get the rush of adrenaline by jumping out of planes or riding bulls. I feel it between the painted lines—the need to push my body to the limit and test my endurance.
With a flick of my thumb, my workout playlist begins with the thrumming beat of a popular hip-hop song whose beat matches the pulsating in my veins.
Jogging onto the court, I start with a few warm-ups, allowing my muscles to push and pull in that delicious feeling one can only feel when stretching. Each movement is slow and deliberate as I focus on warming up my cold muscles to prevent any sort of injury. I’ve had my fair share of strained muscles, and I’m not looking for a new ache right now.
Once my body feels like it’s ready for the battle I’m going to put her through, I stand on the out-of-bounds line underneath one of the baskets as I prepare for my first cardio session. Jogging to eachend of the court, I slowly build up my pace before I sprint each line as I reach down and touch the foul line, half-court line, opposite foul line, opposite end line before returning. The sound of my shoes squeaking mixes with my music in a perfect melody that only spurs my confidence to run faster and be more precise with my movements.
Sweat pours down my face as my ponytail swishes with each movement. With my heart rate pounding and breathing heavy, I move on to the next challenge of my workout. Starting at the lower block, I shoot ten baskets before moving to the next hash mark. I continue the routine until I make my way around to the opposite block. The bumpy grip has been worn off my trusty Spalding basketball, but my movements are still as fluid as ever. Each shot is simple as I let the ball roll off the tips of my fingers. The sound of the net swishing is drowned out by my music, but I can still envision the sound filling my ears.
Shot after shot, I find my rhythm and move to the three-point line, where I start in the corner and make my way around just like I did with the key. The added distance is a welcome challenge as I find my confidence to hit shot after shot like I did when I played the shooting guard position from junior high through high school. After each shot, I jog to the net to retrieve the basketball before returning to the line.
Muscle memory takes over, and I relish how my body remembers the routine of lining my fingers up to my sweet spot as I bend my knees and allow my ankles to work their magic by jumping off the floor. My arms hang perfectly as the ball arches in the air.
Swish. Over and over again.
As I make my way around the arc, the stresses of life start to slip away. My mind evaporates everything that is causing me problems. No thoughts of my parents or brother. No thoughts of Crew and the way his lips felt against mine. No thoughts of my haunted past that hadme running nine hundred miles. Only the strain of my muscles and the thrill of hitting shot after shot fill my mind.
Basketball has always been my sanctuary, my safe space. A place where I can blast music, clear my mind, and reconnect with myself. It’s different from the meditation I do every morning. Meditation allows me to sit in silence before the day’s chaos takes over. It’s a time to surround myself with a calm environment where I connect with my inner self as I sift through my thoughts and emotions. I can let go of chaos and noise as I find clarity in the moments of stillness. Meditation is my mind’s way of hitting the reset button to find a sense of peace and strength that I carry with me throughout the day.
But basketball? Now, that’s a whole different kind of therapy. As soon as I lace up my sneakers and step out on the court, I’m immediately transported to my oasis. The instant I feel the smooth leather as I dribble the ball, everything else melts away. The game’s energy, the rhythmic thud of the basketball hitting the floor, and the swish of the net—all of it grounds me. It’s an active form of therapy that allows me to channel as much energy as I need to express my feelings and release tension through physical activity.
Before I know it, an hour and a half passes as my phone’s alarm alerts me through my headphones, nearly giving me a heart attack. My arms feel like jelly as I return to the bleachers to gather my things.
I’m halfway to my Jeep when someone behind me yells out, “Yo! Nice moves back there.”
Turning around, I take in the two guys coming out of the building. I recognize them as two of the four from the opposite court. Much like every guy I seem to come into contact with at CTU, these two are tall—a few inches taller than me—with athletic builds. Was this a prerequisite for getting into CTU?
“Thanks!” I say with a jerk of my head.
“You looking for an intramural team to play on this fall?” the taller of the two asks. His dark ebony skin glistens in the sun from the sheen of sweat he accumulated in his game of two on two.
Brushing a loose strand of hair out of my face, I hitch Spalding higher on my hip as I cradle it between my elbow and hip. “Yeah, actually, I just texted the number on the board.”
“Cool. My buddy is in charge of setting the schedule up. If it’s cool with you, we could use another player on our team.”
“Count me in.” The guys move closer and the slightest surge of uneasiness washes over me. I hate that I have this reaction to strangers. It has nothing to do with these two guys, it’s the fact that trauma surges whenever I’m alone.
“I’m Kyrie, and this is Dylan. How have we not seen you in the gym before? Your shooting skills are unreal.”
“Thanks, I’m Bret. I transferred in this semester.”
Dylan stretches his phone toward me. “Care if we grab your number?”
“No problem.” Taking the phone from him, I type in my number and send myself a text. “I sent myself a text, so I have yours too. I’ve gotta get to class, but thanks for inviting me to join your team.”
“See ya around, Bret.” As I slide into the driver’s seat, the guys wave and go their separate ways.
