The ambulance ride to the hospital felt longer than the whole game.
Yuuto was strapped to the stretcher, his right leg locked in a bulky immobilizer, the scent of antiseptic and rubber gloves heavy in the air. The ceiling was a harsh, sterile white, softened only by the pale blue buzz of the fluorescent strip lights overhead. Every sway or turn shifted the weight in his knee, and each movement sent a burning spear of pain shooting through him, hot enough to bleach his vision.
The siren's wail rose and fell with each intersection. At first, it felt like a promise of help. But the longer it went on, the more it sounded like an alarm screaming inside his head. Something is wrong. Something is broken. Something is over.
Coach Takeda was wedged into the tiny bench seat beside him, one hand braced against the wall for balance, the other patting Yuuto's shoulder in a clumsy attempt at reassurance. His face was drawn tight, but he managed a thin smile.
"You've never been one to give up, Kai," he said, voice gruff. "I've seen you bounce back from things that would've made other kids quit. This…" He paused, searching for the right word. "…this isn't going to be any different."
Yuuto kept his eyes on the ceiling. His voice came out dry and rough. "Coach… if it's the ACL… how long?"
Takeda hesitated. Yuuto already knew the answer hiding in that pause.
"If it's only the ACL, maybe nine months. With good rehab." Another pause. "If it's the ACL and MCL, it might be over a year. And if the meniscus is damaged too…" His voice lowered. "That's a much harder road back."
A year.
To most fifteen-year-olds, a year was a long summer break. To Yuuto, it was a death sentence. In basketball years, it was enough for rivals to catch up, for his name to fade from conversations, for scouts to forget he had ever existed.
The ambulance slowed, then lurched to a stop. The rear doors swung open, and night air rushed in, cold and sharp against his sweat-damp skin. The paramedics moved with efficient speed, their short, clipped commands barely audible over the pounding in Yuuto's ears.
The hospital loomed ahead, its glass doors parting like the mouth of some vast machine ready to swallow him whole. Inside, the fluorescent lights were even harsher, the air tinged with bleach and something metallic.
They wheeled him through the ER, past curtained bays and murmured conversations, into a treatment room. A nurse with a buzz cut wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm until it squeezed uncomfortably, then clipped a pulse oximeter to his finger. Another nurse pressed cold ECG leads to his chest, making him flinch.
Then came the barrage of questions:
"How did it happen?"
"Sharp pain or dull?"
"Any numbness or tingling in your foot?"
"Previous injuries to this knee?"
Yuuto answered through clenched teeth, sweat beading down his temples, hands gripping the stretcher until his knuckles blanched.
They wheeled him to the MRI suite. The corridors were long and antiseptic, the air chilled enough that his breath misted faintly. The MRI bed was hard beneath him. As they slid him into the narrow tunnel, the edges of his vision seemed to close in.
The metallic thunk-thunk-thunk began almost immediately, vibrating through his skull.
He tried to distract himself with memories—his last perfect shot, the roar of the crowd—but his mind kept dragging him back. The pop. The fire in his leg. The way his body had betrayed him in front of everyone.
The world returned to Yuuto in pieces.
First, the faint beeping of a monitor. Then, the sterile scent of antiseptic. Finally, the blurry outline of a white ceiling above him.
His mouth was dry. His body heavy. But the ache in his knee was sharp, unmistakable, and still there.
"Yuuto?"
He turned his head slowly. His mother sat beside the bed, her face pale, eyes swollen from crying. His father stood behind her, hands buried in his pockets, jaw clenched tight.
"Where… am I?" Yuuto croaked.
"General Hospital," his mother whispered, brushing his hair back. "You passed out in the ambulance."
The door opened. A tall man in a white coat stepped in, clipboard in hand. His tone was calm, but it carried a gravity that made Yuuto's chest tighten.
"I'm Dr. Hasegawa. I've reviewed your scans."
Yuuto swallowed. "How bad is it?"
The doctor sighed and pulled up a tablet with the MRI image. "You didn't just tear your ACL. You completely ruptured it. The ligament is gone. There's also significant damage to your meniscus and partial tearing in your MCL. This isn't just a sports injury. It's a severe trauma."
Yuuto blinked. The words felt heavy and unreal.
"Can you fix it?" he asked, voice cracking.
"We can operate, yes," Dr. Hasegawa said carefully. "But recovery will be long. Eighteen months, maybe more. Even then, there is no guarantee you'll regain full mobility or be able to play competitive basketball again."
It hit him like another collision on the court. His stomach twisted. Eighteen months. No guarantee.
"What if I try to come back too early?"
The doctor's expression hardened. "Then you risk permanent instability in your knee. You would be lucky to walk without a limp for the rest of your life."
Silence settled over the room. The monitor's beeping was the only sound.
Yuuto's throat tightened. "So… you're saying… I might not be the same?"
"I'm saying it's possible," the doctor replied. "But you're young. That's in your favor. Your body can heal better than most. And for that, you'll need surgery."
Yuuto felt the floor drop out from under him.
His mother's grip tightened. "Surgery… how soon?"
"Within a week," the doctor said. "The sooner, the better."
When he left, silence closed in again, broken only by the soft beep of the heart monitor.
His mother spoke first, her voice trembling. "Yuuto… you've worked so hard. We're proud of you. But basketball isn't your whole life. Maybe it's time to think about your future. Beyond basketball."
"It is my life," Yuuto snapped before he could stop himself. His mother flinched. "Everything I've done, every drill, every shot, every morning practice, was for this. For the court. I'm supposed to be the prodigy. I'm supposed to make it big. Not…" His voice cracked. "…not end like this."
His father leaned forward, hands clasped. "Life throws curveballs. You can't control this injury, but you can control what you do next. You can rehab. You can adapt."
"You don't get it," Yuuto said, shaking his head. "You weren't there. My knee exploded. I couldn't even stand. You think Shun's going to wait a year for me? You think anyone will?"
His father's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Yuuto stared at the ceiling, his throat tight. He had lived for the game since he was a kid. Every hour of practice, every drop of sweat, now dangled by a thread of can I get some space.
His parents eventually slipped out, the door closing softly behind them.
In the quiet, he mouthed to himself, almost like a prayer:
This can't be where my story ends.