The gym smelled different when it wasn't empty.
Sweat, rubber, the faint burn of the lights overhead—it all mixed into something alive. Jordan had been right: the coach wasn't a yeller. He was short, built like an old brick wall, with a calm voice that carried farther than shouting ever could.
"Alright, fellas," he said, clapping once. "Five-on-five to warm up, then we'll do rotations."
Asher stood at the edge of the court with his hoodie still on, pretending to retie his shoes. He hadn't meant to step inside. He'd only planned to watch, like last time. But Jordan had spotted him the second he came through the door.
"Hey, Holt's here!" Jordan announced. "We can run even teams now."
Coach Daniels looked up from the clipboard. "Holt, huh? You cleared to play?"
"Uh—yeah," Asher said before he could stop himself.
Jordan tossed him a ball. "Guess you're in, man."
The ball smacked his chest, familiar and wrong at the same time. His hands closed around it automatically, fingertips finding the grooves. His throat went dry.
"Take blue team," Daniels said. "You'll run point."
That one sentence dropped him right back into the old rhythm—commands, positions, expectations.
His heart started doing that off-beat stutter it hadn't done in months.
He pulled off the hoodie, tugged the drawstrings loose, and joined the other players on the baseline. Jordan slapped his shoulder.
"Just play," he said quietly. "Nobody's watching that hard."
Asher nodded, not trusting his mouth to agree.
The first few minutes felt like static. His feet moved because they knew how. Pass left, cut, fill the lane. The ball snapped through hands, sneakers squealed, someone shouted "Switch!" The noise swallowed him whole.
Jordan fed him the ball near mid-court. "Go, go, go!"
He dribbled past his defender, crossed over once—clean—and hit the corner. The muscle memory was still there; the way the floor pushed back under his shoes, the give of the ball on each bounce. He could feel the lane open. Someone yelled "Take it!"
He hesitated, flicked a pass instead. The teammate wasn't ready; the ball hit his wrist and rolled out of bounds.
"Nice dime," Jordan called, trying to sound encouraging. It didn't help. The red team inbounded and scored in two passes.
Coach Daniels blew the whistle. "Blue, you gotta move off ball. Don't stand and watch."
They reset. Asher rubbed his palms on his shorts. His breathing came short even though he hadn't run that hard. The court lines looked sharper than they should've been, the lights too bright.
He forced himself to dribble, to do something.
Half an hour in, they were down six. Sweat ran down his spine. His head buzzed. But he started to find a rhythm—not perfect, not smooth, but moving.
Jordan yelled for the ball. Asher gave it to him, cut to the wing, got it back.
"Shoot that!" Jordan said.
Asher caught, turned, squared. The rim was right there—fifteen feet out, perfect angle, muscle memory screaming release.
His fingers wouldn't open.
The ball sat in his hands, heavy as stone. The edges of the court blurred. The echo of sneakers fell away until there was only his heartbeat and that ringing sound that used to happen right before everything went wrong.
"Yo, Holt?" Jordan said, voice soft now.
He blinked. Everyone had stopped moving.
The ball dropped from his hands and bounced away, slow, loud. He took a step back like it might burn him.
Coach Daniels walked over, voice steady. "You good?"
"Yeah," Asher said automatically, though his throat felt like it was closing. "Just slipped."
Daniels looked at him a second longer, then nodded once. "Take five."
Asher headed for the bench, grabbed his water bottle, sat. The gym noise came back in like floodwater—shoes, voices, whistle. He drank, but it didn't help. His hands still trembled.
Jordan jogged over between plays. "You alright, man?"
"I said I'm fine."
Jordan crouched in front of him. "You don't look fine."
"I'm just rusty," Asher said. "It's whatever."
Jordan held his gaze for a second, then nodded and went back out. The scrimmage picked up again without him. He watched the game move without him, the rhythm perfect and terrible.
The shot he hadn't taken kept replaying in his head—the ball glued to his palms, the rim waiting, the crowd that wasn't there but was there in his mind, roaring, whispering, laughing. His stomach knotted.
Coach finally called it. "Alright, good work. Stretch out, hydrate, we'll go half drills next time."
Everyone filed toward the locker room, talking and bumping shoulders. Jordan lingered at the baseline.
"You coming?"
Asher shook his head. "I'll clean up."
Jordan hesitated. "Don't disappear, yeah? Coach likes you."
"Why?" Asher asked. "I didn't even shoot."
"Exactly." Jordan smiled faintly. "He likes quiet guys. Means you think before you play."
Asher let him go. When the gym finally emptied, he stayed sitting for a while. The clock above the bleachers ticked from 5:58 to 5:59. He got up, walked to the free-throw line, and picked up the same ball he'd dropped earlier.
He spun it once, feeling the rough grooves under his fingertips. The rim looked ordinary now. The noise was gone.
He bent his knees, lifted the ball. Halfway through the motion, that same invisible weight hit—tight chest, slow hands, breath caught somewhere between his ribs. He froze again.
He let the ball fall, watched it roll away until it bumped the wall and stopped.
Outside, the air was cold enough to sting. The parking lot lights buzzed against the dark. Jordan's car was gone; so was the coach's.
Asher shoved his hood up and started walking.
Halfway home he stopped at the park. The chalk line he and Leah had drawn yesterday was still faintly there, half-washed by the rain. The hoop leaned to one side like it was tired of pretending to stand tall.
He walked to the top of the key and stood on their line. The sky above was gray-blue, the kind of evening that doesn't promise anything.
He closed his eyes and saw the gym again, the rim waiting, the moment his fingers refused to listen.
It wasn't fear of missing—he could live with missing. It was the feeling that if he took the shot, he'd have to be that kid again, the one who wanted it, the one who broke.
He exhaled hard enough for it to fog in the cold air. Somewhere down the street, a siren wailed, then faded.
A ball bounced behind him.
He turned. Leah, hoodie up, sketchbook under one arm, dribbling with the other. "You look like you're thinking too hard."
He blinked. "What are you doing here?"
"Taking a shortcut." She passed him the ball without warning.
He caught it—reflex. The sound echoed off the empty buildings.
"You were at the gym, right?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"And?"
He looked down at the ball. "Didn't go great."
"You play?"
"Tried to."
"What happened?"
He hesitated. "Nothing. That's the problem."
She nodded, not pushing. "So you froze."
He let out a small laugh. "You say it like it's normal."
"It is," she said. "It's just your body remembering before you do. You'll teach it new memories."
He bounced the ball once, then twice. The sound was steady again. "That simple, huh?"
"Never simple. But possible."
She reached out and touched the top of the ball, stopping it mid-bounce. "Just don't give it up again before it learns."
He looked at her, really looked. The light from the streetlamps made her eyes darker, steadier.
"I'll try," he said.
"Good. Because I already promised Jordan you'd be back."
"You what?"
She smiled, stepping back toward the sidewalk. "See you tomorrow, Holt."
She disappeared into the night before he could answer. He stood there a long time, the ball warm under his hands, the park silent except for the wind.
When he finally took a shot, it wasn't pretty. It hit the front rim, rolled out, bounced once.
But this time, the ball left his hands.