Marcus woke up the next morning with sore legs and a sore throat from all the shouting on the court. But the ache felt good. It was the kind of pain that came from effort, not regret.
He lay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling. The game kept replaying in his head that final shot, the sound of the net, the cheer from the bench. He hadn't felt that alive in years.
Still, the old hunger was there. Not for the game, but for the drink. His body had grown used to it. On Sundays like this, when there was nothing to do, the thought of heading to the bar came too easily.
He sat up and rubbed his face. "Not today," he whispered.
Marcus tried to keep busy. He washed his laundry, cleaned the small apartment, even walked to the market for groceries. But as the afternoon crept in, so did the temptation. He passed the corner where the bar stood, and the familiar smell of beer drifted out.
For a few seconds, he slowed his steps.
Then he heard a voice behind him. "Marcus!"
He turned and saw Walt crossing the street, holding a paper bag.
"Good timing," Walt said. "I was just on my way to see you. Thought we could talk about yesterday's game."
Marcus smiled weakly. "Sure."
Walt glanced at the bar. "Were you heading in there?"
Marcus shook his head quickly. "No, just walking."
Walt didn't push. He just said, "Come on. I'll make you coffee at my place."
Walt's house was small but tidy. The walls were lined with old basketball photos teams from years past, black-and-white action shots, faded newspaper clippings. Marcus recognized a few players from local legends.
"You played?" Marcus asked.
"A bit," Walt said with a shrug. "Not as well as you, but I loved the game. Still do."
They sat at a small table. Walt poured coffee and slid a mug toward Marcus.
"You've got talent," Walt said. "But talent fades if you let it rot. The drinking… it'll steal the rest of what you have left. I've seen it happen to too many players."
Marcus looked into his coffee. "I know."
"Do you?" Walt asked gently. "Because I think you've been telling yourself it's just something you do to take the edge off. But it's not. It's something that's holding you by the throat."
Marcus didn't answer. He knew Walt was right.
The next week, practice felt harder. Not physically, but mentally. Marcus had promised himself he wouldn't drink until after the next game. The first few days were fine. Then came the restless nights, the pounding headaches, the strange dreams.
He didn't tell anyone, but the team noticed something.
"Hey," one player said during water break. "You look like you're about to pass out."
"Just tired," Marcus replied.
Daryl smirked. "Maybe you should lay off the bottle."
Marcus clenched his jaw but didn't answer.
By Thursday, the tension with Daryl boiled over. They were running a scrimmage, and Daryl kept ignoring Marcus when he was open. On one fast break, Marcus sprinted down the court, waving for the ball. Daryl took it himself, missed, and the other team scored.
When they huddled up, Marcus snapped. "You saw me. Why didn't you pass?"
Daryl shrugged. "Didn't think you'd make it."
"You didn't think or you didn't want to?"
Walt stepped in before it got worse. "Enough. Both of you. We play as a team or we don't play at all."
They finished the scrimmage without speaking to each other.
That night, the craving hit Marcus hard. His hands felt shaky, his thoughts restless. He walked to the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and stared at the bottle that had been sitting there for months.
He stood there for a long time.
Then he grabbed it, walked to the sink, and poured it out. The smell rose up, sharp and bitter. It hurt to waste it, but it also felt like cutting a rope that had been around his neck.
The next day at practice, Marcus moved with more energy. He made quick passes, chased rebounds, and hustled back on defense. Even Daryl seemed to notice.
After practice, as they were packing up, Daryl muttered, "Nice game today."
Marcus gave a small nod. "Thanks."
It wasn't friendship yet, but it was something.
On Saturday, they had another match, this time against a tougher team from the next town. The gym was fuller, the air thick with noise. Marcus started on the court this time.
The game was rough from the start. The other team pressed hard, trapping the ball handler and forcing mistakes. Marcus kept his cool, finding open spaces and making the smart pass. He didn't score much in the first half, but his teammates did, and that kept them close.
In the second half, Walt called a play that put Marcus in the center. The ball swung to him, and he drove into the lane. Two defenders jumped at him, but instead of forcing the shot, he passed to Daryl under the basket for an easy score.
Daryl slapped his hand as they ran back. "Good pass."
Marcus smiled. "Good finish."
They ended up winning by six points. The team crowded around, laughing and shouting. Walt stood back, arms crossed, watching Marcus with a quiet pride.
After the game, as they walked out of the gym, Walt said, "You're making progress. Not just on the court. Off it too."
Marcus knew what he meant. And for the first time, he believed he could keep moving forward.