Page 96 of The Wrong Move

“Byron, if Jye spins to the basket and takes Kirk out of the paint, then give him the fucking ball. With Kirk out of the picture, no defense will stop Jye.”

“Got it.”

We head out to the court, jog past the screaming fans, and prepare ourselves for the next half.

“I’ll give you a minute’s rest soon,” Coach tells me. Usually, I only need a minute, but today, I hope for extra time on the benchifwe are winning.

Brandon makes the first two baskets in the third quarter, giving us a lead of eight points. If I can make a couple of three-pointers, it should mess with the Wolves’ thoughts.

I bring the ball down the court, dribbling past competitors as though it’s nothing more than a training drill. I yell out Brandon and Simpson. Instead, I pull up and take the three.

Swish.

I hold my hand in the air a little longer, eyeballing Stiner, my opponent. “Where were you, Stiner? Where were you?”

He ignores me, pushes off my shoulder, and leads for the ball. I stay with him, low in a defensive stance, placing extra pressure on him until he makes a crap pass. His teammate fumbles the ball, and it falls out of court.

I clap hard as I walk toward him, grinning and mocking.

Simpson scoops up the ball and stands off the sideline, ready to make the pass. Stiner gets up in my face, trying to deny me the ball. I get a break, and Simpson lands the ball a good distance in front to stop Stiner from intercepting the pass. I keep the momentum going and stride down the court, leaving Stiner in my wake.

Brandon claps his hands, demanding the ball.

I see him in my peripheral vision, although I’m focused on Jye, waiting for him to spin off Kirk and lead toward the key, all while I’m protecting the ball, dribbling and jab-stepping around my opponent, waiting for the ideal moment to pass. I’m not ignoring Brandon. It’s the play Coach wants. Yet Brandon is yelling at me for the ball.

Simpson jogs past me and yells, “To BJ.”

Realizing Jye can’t shake Kirk off, I switch the ball to the other hand to pass to Brandon, but in a split second, Jye breaks free and rolls toward the paint. Caught in the momentum, I twist to give the ball to Jye. My opponent runs at me, leaping into the air to block my pass. I push off my left leg to leap higher?—

Pop.

My knees buckle as my leg gives way. He lands on me with a heavy thud before I have aligned my body. I fall awkwardly, but his foot lands on mine, his knee jabbing into the side of my leg, and my ankle inverts.

Snap.

I fall to the hardwood.

“Fuuucckk.”

Agonizing pain shoots up my leg. I roll onto my side.No, no, no.I grab my shoe. My hands clamp around my ankle and heel, where it burns.No, fucking no.I slam my hand onto the hardwood.

“Jesus.”

The umpire blows his whistle to stop the game. I look up at the scoreboard.

Thank fuck Jye made the shot.

Holding my leg out straight, I scramble backward to get off the court. The doctor runs around the court and drops to his knees.

“Where is your pain, Byron?”

“My heel and ankle. I heard a pop, then a snap.”

He meets my gaze, his face showing no emotion, and I can’t gauge what he is thinking.

“I think it’s just a sprain,” I gamble. “Strap me up, and I’ll be right for the last quarter.”

“We’ll get you to my room, and I’ll assess you there.”

---