The gym was supposed to be empty because its an hour before training
But someone was still there.
Marcus.
His chest rose slowly, then sharply, as he stood at the three-point line, ball resting against his thigh. His shirt was half peeled off, hanging by a shoulder. His breath sounded ragged, uneven… almost angry.
Because today the gym wasn't silent.
It was full of echoes.
Whispers from last season when he was in primary school.
"Marcus sells the game in crunch time."
"Bro missed both free throws?"
"He's athletic but unreliable."
"Bad shot selection."
They weren't real voices tonight just memories slapping him across the head.
Marcus bounced the ball once.
Thud.
Again.
Thud.
"Shut up…" he muttered, jaw tight.
The ball slipped out of his hands for a moment—his palm was shaking.
Not from exhaustion.
From fear.
Fear he thought he'd buried. Fear he thought that victory yesterday erased. But fear crawled back the moment he closed his eyes.
He saw the scene again—
