A singular drop of sweat snaked its way down Ky Kaito's earthy complexion, wrapping around his poised, cat-like eyes, pooling beneath his chin, and dripping six and a half feet down to the hardwood floor where he stood. The puddle formed by that droplet was no larger than a nickel, yet it rippled alongside the booming voices and tromping feet of the crowd packed inside the gymnasium like sardines. Despite their ferociousness, Ky couldn't hear them; or rather, he ignored them.
Within the confines of his brain, anything past the boundaries of the court was nothing more than a silent black void, spanning infinitely. There were no external sounds. No outside smells. He couldn't even feel the ground trembling. It was as if both mind and body had been transported to an entirely different plane of existence as he focused on what was before him. Like a lion stalking prey, he glared at his opponent who stood with a toe mere millimeters away from the free-throw line. In just a second, Ky's eyes scanned and assessed the entirety of the court in front of him– his inner voice speaking at a million words per second.
7.8 seconds left on the clock. We're down two. This is his fifth time at the line. He's 5 for 9. He was 4 for 8 before making that last shot. Statistically, he's shooting fifty percent at the line. He's left-handed; his missed shots tend to skew toward that direction. If he misses, the ball will end up on that side of the court, but where exactly?
The fifty percent shooter, wearing the number twelve on his back, spun the ball in his hands before performing his ritual.
One dribble.
Two dribbles.
Three dribbles.
His brown eyes, quavering, locked onto his target– that bright orange rim. His knees bent, Number Twelve settled for a second, and he raised the ball above his forehead. His gentle fingertips parted with the ball; right then, the world around Ky advanced in slow motion. The black haze of the void thickened– only the ball and the rim were visible in Ky's mind.
It's veering left.
He could imagine a white line that showed the ball's precise trajectory, deflecting off the rim and showing the direction in which the ball would bounce. The blackened fog opened up and Ky could see a spot on the hardwood floor gleaming as if a spotlight was shining atop it. The instant leather clanged against metal, Ky pushed off the ground as if he intended on cracking it, stepping into the imaginary spotlight concocted by his brain.
Ky leaped toward the heavens, the fingertips of his right hand gripping the ball before he clasped it with both hands. Ky's feet planted, the clock started to run, and Ky's mind began calculating the winning play as his eyes darted around every inch of the sprawling court surrounding him.
7.8 seconds. I'm the fastest on the team, and Andrew is second.
Like a drag car, Ky took off toward the opposite side of the court, pounding the ball repeatedly atop the hardwood. Wearing number two, Andrew was on the opposite end of the court, speeding toward the basket like a bullet. His raven-colored, shoulder-length hair flowed behind him, his enthralled eyes visible as his gaze connected with Ky's.
But the fastest one on the court is that damn number three on the enemy team!
Just as the thought ran through Ky's mind, Number Three infiltrated the passing lane, denying the pass to Andrew. His eyes, a deep blue, pierced through Ky's feline-esque eyes, searching through his soul.
Damn it! There's only 5 seconds. Even though he's fast, he can only guard one of us. Either he leaves me open and I drive to the basket to tie, or he leaves Andrew open for a corner three to win. Statistically, I am more likely to score at the basket, the odds are practically one hundred percent. Number Three knows this; if anything, he's going to guard me, leaving Andrew open. But can I trust him to make the three? He's two for two at the corner, but still…
Number Three was practically attached to Ky's hip, denying his attempts at driving toward the basket. Ky dribbled toward the basket nonetheless, forcing his way through and seeing Andrew in his peripheral vision. However, suddenly within the confines of Ky's mind, Andrew faded into a black mist, leaving only Ky and Number Three on the court.
Ky's eyes widened, he could feel a chill going down his spine, and the corners of his mouth raised ever so slightly.
Or, I can stop on a dime and sink a three in his face. My hot spot, the elbow of the three-point line, is right there… I'm two for two tonight. I'm confident I can make this shot!
Ky stepped past the three-point line, dribbled the ball between his legs, and then swiftly stepped backward, finding himself behind the three-point line once again. As predicted, Number Three didn't expect the stepback three, taking two steps before stopping and turning toward Ky.
The world moved at a snail's pace from Ky's perspective; only one thought crossed his mind.
Got his bitch ass!
Ky planted his feet square to his shoulders, ready to sink this open basket as Number Three desperately raised his lengthy arms toward him. All Ky could see was the basket, begging for Ky to feed it the ball through its gaping orange mouth. Just before Ky began to take the shot– something broke through the void he'd placed around the basket.
"Ky!" said Andrew's voice, breaking through the black smoke as he cut down the baseline.
That's right! Since I drew Number Three to the three-point line, Andrew has a free drive to the basket!
Andrew held up both hands; Ky could imagine a target and bullseye at their center. He passed the ball like a missile; those watching could've sworn they saw a smoking trail following a flaming ball before it was caught in Andrew's steady hands. With just a second on the clock, Andrew lept into the air, finger-rolling the ball toward the basket in textbook fashion.
As the buzzer chimed, the ball bounced from one side of the rim to the other before swirling around the rim like a whirlwind.
The Earth in its entirety felt as if it had frozen.
Ky.
His teammates.
His opponents.
The crowd.
Even the referees could feel their hearts throbbing.
The ball began to lose momentum, spinning atop the rim as it contemplated its fate– then, it fell.
The crowd erupted and the winning team began sprinting up and down the court cheering with their fists held high.
Ky was not among them.
He watched as the missed shot fell to the cold, hardwood floor. His team had lost and he could only think one thing.
I should have taken the shot.
Minutes later, sulking in defeat, the losing team sat quietly in the locker room. Their coach was giving a speech, but Ky had checked out. A white noise emanating in Ky's ears blocked all sounds. Still, through it all, he could hear a singular voice– his inner voice repeating the same phrase.
I should have taken the shot.
I should have taken the shot.
I should have taken the shot!
The world around Ky opened up as he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Ky," said an acquainted voice– it was the coach. "You've shown extraordinary leadership and growth throughout your four years as a member of this team. Because of that, I choose you as this year's honorary MVP!"
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Ky was surrounded by a wave of applause; rather than feeling joy, he felt anguish and hatred.
Shut up…
All of you…
Shut the hell up!
We lost! We couldn't even make it to the playoffs! And now, my chances of becoming a professional player are down the drain! My one chance at getting scouts to finally notice this god-forsaken team stuck in this backwater town is gone! I'm a nobody! A nobody with a pointless, ugly piece of shit of a trophy to take home!
The corners of Ky's lips looked as if they were being pulled by strings, forcefully painting a phony grin across his face. "Thanks," he told his teammates. "This means so much to me."
I hate myself.
Time passed; one by one the players left the locker room, leaving Ky alone to clasp onto his pointless award. It wasn't until the lights turned off that Ky rose to his feet, shambling toward the exit like a reanimated corpse.
Ky walked alone, his trophy nearly scraping across the ground.
It's all over. At least I'll have more time to play Super Guilty Fist 15…
"Well, well, well if it isn't Cam Kaito!" said an unfamiliar, confident voice. Ky stopped in his tracks, lifting his low-hanging head. The voice's owner had greasy, slicked-back hair, his perfect teeth beamed as he smiled at the boy.
"Are you talking to me?" Ky asked, raising a finger to his chest. He looked the man up and down, noticing his business attire, wondering if he'd finally been scouted. "My name is Ky Kaito. Not Cam."
"Of course, yeah!" the suited man said dismissively. "Kid, I got a few questions for ya. Are you interested in playing professional ball? I'm talking about the big leagues. The American Basketball Association." Ky's curious brows rose slightly; a slimy, distorted grin grew across the businessman's face.
"That got your attention, didn't it?" he teased. "Name's Dante Ryder. I own a startup company for a sports drink and I think you're the prime candidate to show my stuff to the world."
Ky folded his arms and furrowed his brows. "Show it to the world how?" he asked, voice full of suspicion. "I've gotten zero college offers. My career as a basketball player is over."
Dante chuckled. "It otherwise would be, but lucky for you, I'm here to give you an offer you can't refuse. Have you heard of Project Crossover?"
"I can't say that I have."
"Well, it's the codename for a reality TV show airing this summer. It will be staring some of the best prospects in the entire world; all of them will be competing against each other for the grand prize. A contract to the big leagues." Dante flourished his arms, gazing toward the heavens with that slimy grin still plastered across his middle-aged face. However, his smile faded once his gleaming eyes met Ky's skeptical gaze.
"This sounds like total bullshit," said the ball player.
"I'll admit, it does. It's under NDA and all that so I can't get into too much detail. Here's my card. Take it, shoot me a text, and we can talk about it some more. I figure after a loss like that, seeing your hopes and dreams vanishing before your very eyes, you must be going through a lot. Contact me by tomorrow if you want all this to change." Dante's eyes found Ky's cheap trophy. "Maybe you'll win some real trophies."
Dante walked away, leaving Ky by his lonesome once again.
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A heart monitor chimed; that heartbreaking sound bounced off a hospital room's sterile white walls. Beside a middle-aged man, eyes shut and monolid, sat Ky Kaito. His eyes were half-shut, solemn, and his hands were clasped atop the hospital bed.
"Hey, Dad," he whispered. "We lost today; it was a close one. It was uh… it was my last basketball game as a high schooler. I guess now that high school is over, I'm a real adult now, huh? I wish you could've been there to see it." Ky's voice trailed away as he stared blankly at his father's resting face; that heart monitor still chimed.
"I haven't gotten any college offers yet… Hard to get your name out there where we're from, huh?" Ky's brows settled as he spoke then rose as his posture shifted. "I did get an offer from some guy. He said I'd be his representative for a basketball competition. It'll be on TV and if I win, I'd get an ABA contract... apparently. He seems kinda shady, but… I've been thinking about going for it. What do you think?"
There wasn't a response; his father didn't even react.
"Yeah, right. Who's gonna take care of Kyla while I'm gone," Ky whispered. Just as those words were uttered, there was a knock on the door behind him. Ky reared his neck, finding what looked like the girl version of himself, cat-like eyes and all.
"What are you talking about? I don't need you to take care of me, Kyle," said Ky's twin sister, her arms folded as she leaned against the open door. "You said something about an ABA contract?"
"Yeah. Some agent approached me about entering a basketball competition. It's some sort of reality TV show. The winner gets a sum of money and a professional contract."
"That's great!" Kyla said, smiling brightly. However, the corners of her mouth slowly fell as her gaze met her brother's. "But you don't want to do it?" she asked.
"I do want to do it…" Ky told her. "But for one, it all sounds too good to be true. Secondly, who's going to take care of you and Dad while I'm gone?"
"Dude. I don't need you to take care of me. You aren't my big brother just because you were born point zero three seconds before me." Kyla sat on the bed beside her father, just in front of Ky. "I can work more shifts to cover Dad's bills."
"No, that's too much."
"It's not too much!" Kyla yelled. "You've sacrificed so much already. You almost quit basketball to take a second job for me and Dad."
Tears welled beneath her quivering eyes. "I don't want to see you give up on your dream, Kyle. You've wanted this ever since we were four years old. You're my twin, I love you more than anyone else. I can't stand watching you throw away the one thing in this world you're passionate about!"
Ky said nothing, staring at the ground as he fiddled his fingers.
Kyla exhaled, then she playfully punched her brother's shoulder. "Stop worrying. I'll be fine, alright? I'll be fine. Besides, if you win and become a big-shot professional player, we can afford Dad's treatment. That's why we've been working so hard in the first place, right? You work hard and win that tournament and I'll work hard to pay for Dad's bills. We're a team; don't forget who your best teammate ever is!"
Ky chuckled, thinking back to when he and Kyla played on the same basketball team in elementary school. "Why did you end up quitting basketball anyway?" Ky asked.
Kyla hummed playfully, her eyes scanning the white ceiling. "I dunno. I guess it's because I realized I don't really like basketball all that much. I just wanted to play with you. Once I had to play for an all-girls team, the fun was gone..."
"Anyway, I have almost just as much fun watching you play, so you better do that TV show," Kyla ordered.
Ky chuckled. "Are you sure you're going to be alright?"
"I'm positive."
Ky stood up, placing his hands in his jacket pockets. "Then I'll do it. I'll do the competition. It can't hurt to try."
"And I'll be rooting for you," Kyla told him. "And even though Dad doesn't say anything, I know he can hear us and he'll be rooting for you too!"
"Thanks, sis," Ky told her. "I'll see you later. I'm gonna go talk to that guy about the offer."
Kyla pumped her fist. "Yay! Good luck."
Ky left the hospital, clasping Dante's business card until he found himself standing in front of the reflective, modern building listed on it. After being pointed in the right direction, Ky knocked three times on the door of Dante's office.
"Cal!" said Dante with his arms spread wide. "Come on in!"
"It's Ky…" said the high school baller, following the agent reluctantly into his office.
"Apologies," Dante told him, hand over heart. "So, you've had a change of heart."
"I'd like to hear more about it," Ky said quietly.
"Great! Have a seat, my friend," Dante told him excitedly, sitting at his desk while gesturing toward the chair across from him. Ky plopped onto the cushy chair, sinking into its surprising softness.
"I'll get straight to the point. I did not stumble upon you by accident. I sought someone unknown, so I searched the most backwater places in the state to find the one. And then… I found you."
"Why someone unknown?"
"It's all marketing, kid. Picture this, a nobody from a nobody town begins drinking a certain sports drink. Suddenly, this nobody becomes a star, beating even the best players all around the world! Millions of people in all corners of the planet will flock to their nearest grocery stores, and like the impressionable drones they are, they will snatch that sports drink off the shelves in hopes that they too can go from a nobody to a star!"
"So, I'm just a glorified advertisement?"
"I'll be honest, yes. However, it's a give-take relationship. You give me the platform to promote my product and you get a chance to go pro. At the end of the day, you and I are like business partners!"
"That still doesn't explain everything. Why me? You said it yourself, I'm a nobody."
"You're right, you are a nobody. However, I noticed something about the way you play the game. You see things that other players typically don't, it's almost as if you have a sixth sense. Don't you agree?"
"I wouldn't call it a sixth sense. It's just simple math and physics."
"Well, if it was simple, then everyone would see the court in the same way you do."
"So, what's your point?"
"It's because that mathematical and analytical brain would pair perfectly with our company's product. You see, its ingredients are still under NDA, but they are said to enhance and stimulate one's prefrontal cortex. That's the part of your brain responsible for all that analyzing you do."
"That sounds illegal."
"Nope. All the ingredients are totally legal."
Ky was silent for a moment, resting his hand on his chin and staring blankly at the wooden desk in front of him. "So, all I have to do is drink your drink."
"In front of the cameras. And play your heart out," Dante added.
For a moment, Ky contemplated. He pictured his life ten years from then. He saw the fame, the fortune, and the women; however, none of that moved him. The moment he thought of his father, his shoulders relaxed and a gentle grin rested on his face. He and his father were shooting hoops behind the mansion Ky bought for his father. Ky had children and a beautiful wife. Not all the children in this dream world were his own; some were Kyla's. They were his nieces and nephews. Kyla was there too, playing alongside them.
I don't like this guy or any of this for that matter. Still, thinking about Dad and Kyla; hell, thinking about people that don't even exist yet... I have to take this chance to change our lives.
"I guess I'll do it."
Dante clapped his hands together. "Great! Do you have a passport?"
"Uh, no," Ky muttered.
"No worries, kiddo we can get all that settled right now. Come on, let's go." Dante stormed out of the room.
"Wait, now!?"
"Yes, now! Your flight to the Bahamas leaves tonight let's go let's go!"
Ky jumped out of his seat and followed Dante out of the office, taking his first steps toward the competition that could quite possibly alter the trajectory of his life.