How’s your face #2
Then a defender shifts towards DJ, leaving the lane open. I accelerate. Another defender reaches for the ball and misses. I gather just inside the paint, take off and see the rim above Calebrie’s shoulder.
His forearm drives into my left side while I am still in the air. The contact arrives late and high, definitely not enough to look like a punch. But it is enough to empty my lungs at once.
Then his right foot moves beneath mine. I know it happens before I land. There is one suspended second in which my body understands exactly what the floor is about to do to it and can change nothing.
My right foot comes down on the outside of his shoe. The ankle turns. Pain tears up my leg.
I hit the floor on my left side, directly over the ribs Calebrie’s forearm has already introduced to suffering.
The sound that leaves me is not a word. The whistle screams through the arena.
So does somebody in the stands.
Maddy.
I know her voice.
I lie there with one hand around my ankle and the other pressed uselessly against my side while pain arrives from two directions and begins competing for priority.
Calebrie stands over me, looking directly at me then mutters. “Bad landing.”
“What the fuck was that?” Mason reaches him before anyone could.
DJ catches Mason across the chest and shoves him backwards while players from both teams crowd the lane.
Calebrie stands several feet away with both hands raised, wearing the expression of a man who has recently discovered innocence. There. The difference between a hard foul and a dirty one is often only the length of eye contact afterward.
The trainer reaches us and pushes the boys out. “Will, look at me.”
“I’m fine.” I wince.
“You’re holding two separate parts of your body. Your head?”
“Fine.”
“Can you breathe?”
“Yes.”
I attempt to demonstrate. My ribs object halfway through and winning over the ankle.
The trainer’s expression changes so fast I hiss another curse at my lungs.
Coach is speaking to the official. Leon has moved close enough to Calebrie that one of the assistants takes hold of the back of his jersey.
“Again.” The trainer orders.
“No.” I breath out, one.
“An ordinary breath is enough.”
The trainer and DJ help me sit. When I try to put weight through the right foot, the ankle folds beneath me and a wave of nausea moves through my stomach.
That answers the question of whether I am finishing the game. “Fuck.” I grit my teeth.
“We’ve got you,” DJ has one arm around my shoulder.
“I can walk.”
“No,” the trainer says. “You can be quiet.”
The crowd applauds as they take me towards the tunnel. I glance one last time towards the stands.
Maddy is standing at the railing now, all the radioactive brightness gone from her face. Mike has one hand near her elbow, though she does not seem aware of it.
Her eyes find mine. I look back to the tunnel ahead because I cannot stand the expression on her face.
“Go back to the game DJ. We need you on court.” I shove lightly at his arm.
DJ hesitates then he checks with the trainer beside me and jogs away after the trainer’s affirmative nod.
Thank fuck we are ahead.
Thank fuck it happened late.
Thank fuck Mason listened and walked away instead of turning one dirty foul into something that could damage the rest of the season.
————
Those thoughts repeat while the trainer examines the ankle, presses along the bone and asks me to describe the rib pain from one to ten in the medical room.
“Four.”
He presses again.
“Seven.”
“That is why we answer honestly the first time.”
The ankle is already swelling around the outside. The sight currently irritates me more than the pain, mainly because of the uncertainty that follows trainer’s assessment.
“Probably a mild sprain,” he says. “We reassess tomorrow after the swelling settles.”
“Friday?”
“You might sit.”
“No.”
“That was not a question.”
“I can tape it.”
“You can also make it worse and miss several games instead of one.”
“I’m not missing Friday.”
He gives me the look medical staff reserve for athletes whose competitive instincts have temporarily eliminated their intelligence.
“We’ll decide tomorrow.”
The final minutes continue somewhere beyond the wall.
I can tell what is happening only through changes in the crowd. A roar. A whistle. The band starting too early.
Sitting here is worse than the pain. Sitting on an examination table while everybody else finishes the win does not feel like leading a team into championship. It feels like absence.
The door opens briefly and a student manager sticks his head inside. “Up sixteen. Two minutes.”
“Who scored?” I ask eagerly.
“Mason. Corner three.”
I lean back against the wall. Good.
The arena erupts again.
Final buzzer.
A few seconds later, the manager returns. “Twenty.”
I release the breath I have been holding.
My phone has vibrated seven times on the counter. I glance at it. Four is already from Maddy.