I have to remind myself to be selfish, standing in front of a semicircle of guys, scavenging for the best pick for my team. Above me, the ink black sky is speckled with stars. Here in the cage basketball court, the air smells like cigarette smoke and sweat. Crickets chirp. Mosquitoes whir past our eyes. The old playground looms in the darkness a few feet away.
The other captain, Walker Stevenson, scowls at the group with dark hollow eyes, hands at his hips. Every inch of Walker is menacing, from his tattooed forearms to his dyed black hair. Two metal studs are drilled above his left eyebrow. When he grins, I see those rotting teeth, yellowed from a smoking addiction. His back muscles flex under his gray T-shirt, which clings to his torso.

I follow his eyes until I realize that it’s someone that he’s scowling at. Cole Jennings, a tall, broad-shouldered boy with auburn hair and a round jaw, returns the glare. Animosity burns in their eyes.
“I’ll take Juan,” Walker says, while still looking at Cole. Suddenly, I feel nauseous.

“Your turn, Logan” Walker says, spitting his gum onto the concrete. He repeats it thrice before I respond. I gulp down a lump, pushing the vomit back into my throat. I focus on which player I should select. Unintentionally, I pick Cole Jennings.

Often, I watched the two of them saunter side-by-side in the school hallway, devilish smiles played on their lips. They ate lunch together, alone at a cafeteria table. They shared food. Splitting their chili sandwich, dividing their chicken nuggets equally, drinking from the same soda can. Once, at lunch, I spotted Walker fish from his jean pocket a metal pocketknife, holding it under the table. With a flick of the wrist, the blade slid out. Walker turned the object in his hand. Grazed his finger across the silver surface and thin edge. He raised the object to show Cole. Cole smirked and they continued their conversation.
One day, the vice principal caught Walker bouncing his basketball against a wall of lockers. The vice principal—short, well-dressed, with thin-rimmed glasses—yelled at him, scribbled on a yellow notepad, ripped the page, and handed it to Walker. That afternoon, on my way to lunch, I passed the detention room. There, I saw not only Walker, but Cole too. Both spent detention leaning back in the chairs, legs propped up on the desk, laughing at a tiny phone screen.

Ten minutes into the game, Walker makes the first shot. I jump shot the second one. Walker maneuvers around the court with concentration and skill. He blocks shots. Runs fast breaks. Shoots three-pointers. I’m not surprised. Walker plays center on our school varsity basketball team. He has good upper body strength, an aggressive defensive presence, and is a natural sharpshooter. But Walker doesn’t play for the thrill or the escapism like the rest of us. He plays to win, at all costs.
Cole, on the other hand, plays point guard. He possesses the correct skillset: speed, impeccable passing, and court vision. Unlike Walker, Cole owns an easy smile and mild nature. I wonder how he got along so well with Walker. Since I’m the tallest player on the team, I play power forward—usually blocking or rebounding. But today, I’m sick of being confined to the role of my position. Today, I’m playing center.

Walker tosses the ball to Juan, who barrels past my defense. The air is hot and thick. I feel I’m baking in a sauna. Rivulets of sweat roll down our faces and necks. Juan flings the ball up and it lands perfectly into the hoop. I bite my lip.
One of my players, Adam, catches the rebound and passes to Cole. Cole dribbles past Juan, who blocks him. I wait near the basketball hoop, waving my hands in the air. Cole meets my eyes, nods, and launches the ball. The ball soars across the court. Quickly, I catch it, turn, and hurl it up. The ball bounces off the backboard and Walker snags the rebound. I swear under my breath.

I remember when I found them in the gym after basketball practice. I had finished showering and had wrapped a towel around my waist when I heard shoes squeaking against flooring and the pounding of bouncing basketballs. In the locker room, I pulled on a clean T-shirt and jeans and skulked through the hallway. I stood hidden behind the wall of the entrance. They were shooting free throws, boxing each out for rebounds.
Without realizing, I had watched them for thirty minutes. After they finished, there was Cole, bent at the waist, palms on kneecaps, panting. Walker had rolled up his jersey over his head and tossed it on the ground. I watched as Cole dug through his backpack and pulled out a water bottle and a bag of potato chips. Cole chugged half the water and tossed Walker the rest. Uncapping the bottle, Walker sluiced the water over his head. It trickled down his neck, across his bare torso, onto his red basketball shorts.
Cole sat on the ground, back against the gym wall. Walker plumped down beside him and they each took turns, grabbed a few chips from the bag, and munched together. They were talking. I wondered what they were saying. In that moment, I told myself how much I envied their talent. Walker—the best player on our team—never seemed to miss a single free throw. Cole almost always boxed Walker out for the rebound, speeding past him for the ball.
But maybe, I had envied more than just their talents. Maybe I wanted something more than playing basketball.

Adam blocks Walker. Effortlessly, Walker bounces the ball three times and passes it straight to his teammate, Jalal. Running a hand through his dark hair, his metal studs flash in the moonlight. Soon, Walker is bolting across to the side of the court. I hurry to guard him.

“Don’t count on winning,” he whispers to me. I remain in a low defensive stance, guarding him.

The basketball travels from one player to another until it reaches Matt, a player of mine. Walker sprints toward Matt and steals the ball like an invisible thief. Suddenly, I’m fuming. I want the ball. Cole yells something but I don’t hear him. I don’t care. I want the ball. Now.

Just as Walker lurches to the basket, I corner him and swipe the ball from his hands. I bounce it four times, and then throw it to Cole. The ball bounces off his head. I slap a hand to my forehead.

“Cole! Focus.”


“What the hell were you thinking?”
After the state championship, they raged at each other. Once again, I stood where they didn’t see me. Walker paced back and forth, a hand rubbing his forehead. Cole stood in front of him, chest heaving, soaked in sweat.
“You didn’t catch the ball!” Walker barked.
“Me. What about you? You left Gerald hanging. You could’ve thrown him the ball,” Cole shouted, beckoning with his hands.
“How’s this my fault?” Walker pointed a finger to his chest.
“Well? You’re knit picking my flaws,” Cole counterattacked.
“Seems like you forgot to pass to Gerald. Didn’t you read the timer? One minute left.”
“I didn’t pass because you were supposed to pass it to him. You were closer,” Cole stepped forward. I wrung my hands together, steadying my breathing. Every inch they moved closer to each other, I fought the urge to cremate into ash.
“Bullshit! I was busy defending the opposing team! If you didn’t see?” Walker clutched a hand to his basketball short pocket. In it, my eyes deciphered the shape of a small object. Then, I remembered. The pocketknife.
I swallowed, my Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Panic inflamed me, cobbled me up. I ran a hand through my chewed up blonde hair. Felt my arms and legs and muscles go numb.

“You’re blaming me for losing the game! What the hell?”

Then, abruptly, Walker inched forward, until they were practically nose-to-nose. My heart thrummed in my chest. Walker squeezed his pocket, clenching his fingers around the pocketknife. I waited. Waited for the moment he would whip it out. Waited for blood to splatter across the bench, the lockers, and the floor. But, to my relief, Walker unclenched his fingers, pivoted on one foot, and marched away.
They had several arguments the following week. Slowly, I noticed as Cole sat alone at their cafeteria table. I watched Walker thunder down the hallways alone, cradling his basketball. Neither trained in the gym after practice. Sometimes, neither would show up to regular practice. When the coach questioned me about it, I lied and told him I didn’t know. I knew too well.

In a second, Walker has the ball and drives it down the court again. I run after him. In my head, all I’m thinking about is winning. I sway my arms around Walker, blocking his pass. He knots my shirtsleeve in his fist and, with one motion, shoves me to the ground. I skid across the concrete.
“Move, *sshole!” he snaps.
When I look at my leg, a thin red line runs down my calf. Warm blood tricks through the crevice. But I don’t care. Because Walker has the ball. He runs to the hoop. Lifts his legs off the ground and for a moment, he looks like a superhero flying. He dunks the ball, gripping the rim for a brief second before jumping off. My insides crack open.
“Game,” he shouts.
I’m on the ground, leg bleeding, outraged. I didn’t have time to call a personal foul. Walker’s team won six to two.
Walker wipes the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt. His expression is emotionless, like he didn’t just execute a perfect slam-dunk. My teammates are stunned, open-mouthed and grieving. Walker’s team beams and hoots, laughs at my pathetic figure. All of them. Except for Walker.

Just this week, I had caught Walker talking to our science teacher, Mr. Phelps, after class. The door was ajar so I stood outside, silently eavesdropping. I know. I have a problem. But the curiosity got the best of me. It always seems to.
“I just wish he would talk to me again,” I heard a voice say softly.
When I peered through the crack in the door, I saw Walker, sobbing. Instantly, the eyebrow piercings, tattoos, and the pocketknife stripped from his figure. All I saw was a boy who had lost his best friend. He looked so helpless, so child-like. Mr. Phelps rose from behind his desk, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and reassured him that everything would be okay. Walker hung his head low and buried his face in his hands.
I darted away. Back against my locker, regret roiled in my core. I told myself to shove the regret and guilt back down. I told myself to be selfish. Think of the benefits, I thought. Who would be the new center if Walker bailed—if Walker even bailed? Nausea snaked up my throat and I wrapped my arms around my stomach. Don’t do this. Control it. You can’t do this. Not here. Then, my stomach rumbled. I bolted to the bathroom, rammed into the stall, knelt down, and retched all the contents from my stomach.

After the other guys have left, only Walker, Cole, and I remain. I wash my cut by pouring water over it. I don’t expect Walker to apologize. I don’t want him too. I deserve this cut. Perhaps I deserve more.
Walker lingers aimlessly, toying with his water bottle, his eyes wandering. He sits against the cage, knees drawn up. He takes small sips so he can pretend to stay longer. I watch his eyes settle on Cole.
Cole is reorganizing his backpack for the fifth time, checking to make sure his snacks, extra water bottles, pairs of socks, casual shoes, are there.
I rip part of my shirt and wind it around the gash. When I look up, I see Cole sling his backpack over his shoulder and begin heading out. Walker rises, cradling a basketball, and slowly moves toward him. I clench my teeth to prevent from gagging.
Images and thoughts flood my mind. They don’t know. They don’t know.
How I confused Gerald into changing positions.
How I lied to Walker, telling him that Cole wanted him to play defense.
How I “accidentally” shoved Cole so he wouldn’t catch the ball.
How I envied them?
I now know why I envied them. And it wasn’t for their talent.
Walker taps Cole’s shoulder. Cole whips around. Walker gives him a sheepish grin, gestures to the ball in his hand. He bounces it once on the ground, then through his spread legs, and catches it with his free arm.

“You still suck at between the legs dribbling,” he says. But he doesn’t say it in a mocking fashion, rather one that suggests encouragement and good-natured humor.

The corner of Cole’s lips lift in a faint smile. I avert my eyes. Pretend to inspect my cut. A mixture of contentment and sadness swell inside me. A feeling for something I never had. But could have had if only I had quit playing with other people’s lives. I close my eyes and the nausea recedes.
I think I’ll just stick to playing basketball instead.