The final minutes of the game were winding down. Bayview was ahead, 67–34, and the energy in the gym was electric. The crowd was on its feet, the bench was alive with cheers, and Darius felt the rhythm of the game moving through him. His confidence was steady, not inflated. He wasn't trying to prove anything. He was just playing.
He stepped forward with the ball, scanning the court. The defenders were shifting, trying to close the lanes, but Darius saw a route through the middle. It was clean. The timing was right. The spacing was tight, but manageable. He smirked slightly, calculating the angles and the steps he needed to take.
He started dribbling. His movements weren't flashy. His handles weren't sharp enough to shake the defender outright, but they were controlled. He slipped past the first man, leaned into the open space, and pushed forward. The paint opened in front of him. The rim was in sight. He had the lane.
Then his vision stuttered. The Hustle System flashed red across his field of view, displaying a single word: ERROR. His body locked up mid-stride. His breath caught. The court blurred around him. The system kept flashing — ERROR — repeating in rapid bursts, each one brighter and louder than the last.
A sharp pain pulsed behind his eyes. His head throbbed. Then a memory surfaced — fast and violent — of his body hitting the floor, of the moment everything went black. He tried to push forward, but his legs wouldn't respond. His balance shifted. He dropped to one knee, clutching his head. The crowd noise faded into static. The game continued, but the referee saw him and blew the whistle.
Coach Anderson ran onto the court and knelt beside him. His voice was urgent but steady. "Hey, what's wrong? Darius! George, help me out—"
"I'm fine," Darius whispered, barely getting the words out.
Anderson saw the truth in his eyes. He wasn't fine. He tried to help him up, but Darius collapsed again. His legs wouldn't hold him. Anderson turned to the bench. "Get someone else in. He's done."
He carried Darius off the court, through the tunnel, and into the locker room. He set him down gently on the bench, handed him a bottle of water, and knelt in front of him.
"How are you feeling now?"
Darius wiped his face, still holding his head. "I'm good. Just a headache. It hit hard."
Anderson nodded slowly. "It's probably the operation. I shouldn't have pushed you so hard. I'll take you home and explain everything to your parents."
"Come on, Coach. It's nothing. I'm fine now. Just let me get back out there."
"No. You're done for the day."
Darius looked up, panic creeping in. "Do you know how bad my mom's gonna react if you tell her? She might pull me off the team. I haven't even played that long."
"I get it," Anderson said. "But she asked me to tell her if anything goes wrong. And I have to."
Darius sighed and rubbed his temples. Anderson stood to leave, then paused at the door.
"I'll tell her you played well. Maybe that helps."
The door closed behind him.
Darius sat alone, staring at the floor. The Hustle System hovered faintly in front of him, no longer flashing, but still active. He spoke quietly.
"What happened?"
The system responded: Your conscious reacted to trauma. The last time you charged the paint with a defender behind you, you died. Your body remembered.
Darius clenched his fists. "Then can't you do something? Give me training methods or something to fix it?"
This is the one thing you must face alone. I can help with everything else. But not this.
He didn't respond. He just sat there, the weight of it pressing down. His first real game. His first real moment. And it ended like this.
The door opened. The team poured in, laughing and celebrating. Malik was smiling. Daren was chest-pumping teammates. A few players glanced at Darius, concern flickering in their eyes. Daren walked over and threw an arm around his shoulder.
"Don't worry about it. Just a tiny setback." He grinned. "You played well. I don't know what happened, but don't let it tear you down. Be happy we won."
Darius forced a smile and nodded. Daren jogged off to join the others.
Malik came and sat beside him.
"You good?"
"I don't know," Darius said quietly.
Malik dapped him, then sat in silence.
After the celebration, Darius and Malik followed Coach Anderson to his car. The ride home was quiet. Malik gave directions. Darius stared out the window, replaying the moment again and again.
They arrived at the house. Coach walked in behind them. In the living room, Mr. Kingsley and Mrs. Kingsley were watching TV. Zuri and Caleb were playing on the carpet. Uncle Theo was on the phone, pacing near the window. Grandma Nandi sat in her chair, sewing.
Coach explained everything. The parents listened, worry growing on their faces. He apologized, said he'd be more careful, and asked if Darius could still play.
After he left, the room fell into silence.
"Listen guys," Darius said, trying to sound light. "It's nothing crazy. Just a headache after running too much. You heard Coach — he'll tread carefully from now on."
Mrs. Kingsley looked at him, eyes soft but sharp. "Are you sure you're fine?"
"Yes, Ma. I'm good. It's not that crazy. It might even happen again, but I'll be fine."
She frowned. "That worries me. What do you mean it might happen again?"
"If this happens again," she said firmly, "I'm going to start questioning whether you should be playing basketball."
"Come on, Ma," Darius groaned. "You're exaggerating."
Mr. Kingsley leaned forward. "No, she's right. If this happens again, we're pulling you out. And you and I are going to the doctor tomorrow. Just to be sure."
Darius sighed and nodded.
Uncle Theo, still on the phone, looked over. "Why are you even playing basketball?"
"Because I like it," Darius said.
Theo laughed. "You're not even that good."
Darius rolled his eyes, but the smile didn't come.
He sat back, head still aching, unsure what tomorrow would bring.