CHAPTER THREE
Damon’s POV
Two years later...
“Welcome to California, Damon. Home to the top basketball club in America,” Coach Day
announces as we step out of his blue convertible.
I gaze up at the imposing stadium. Playing here was one thing, but now it’s my home. I’ve
battled against Lionscore before, and now I’ll be playing for them. This massive arena will be my
new home—maybe.
The walk from the parking lot to the stadium feels like a tightrope walk, knowing the challenges
that await inside.
“Newcomers aren’t always welcomed with open arms in sports,” Coach Day had warned me.
“Team dynamics are delicate, and a new face is often seen as a threat.”
Approaching the entrance, I notice a few people with cameras. I can’t tell if they’re here for me
or for today’s game.
We check in and are greeted by none other than James Wilkes, Lionscore’s renowned coach.
The two men embrace warmly, clearly old friends.
“Long time, James. Long time,” Coach Day says.
James Wilkes steps back, grinning. “If you’d accepted my golfing invitation last week, it wouldn’t
be so long.”
“Flying from New Jersey to California just to listen to rich guys talk about their fancy lives? I’ll
pass.”
James chuckles and they hug again before turning to me.
“Damon Torrence, let me introduce you to the team.”
As we head to the locker room, I try to take in the grandeur of the place without getting
distracted. I still can’t believe I’ve been scouted by Lionscore.
“The guys are eager to meet you,” James says as we enter the locker room. Familiar faces look
back at me, and they’re less hostile than I expected.
“Everyone,” James announces in a friendly yet authoritative tone, “meet Damon Torrence.”
Eric Shaw, the team captain, steps forward and shakes my hand. “Great to have you here,
buddy. Let’s make it work.”
I shake back firmly. “Thanks. I’ll do my best.”
“Don’t overdo it,” Eric warns with a smirk that’s hard to read.
Coach James places a hand on my shoulder. “Call me CoachJames. I’m eager to see if you live
up to the hype.”
Coach Day, with his trademark intense look, suggests, “Instead of practice this weekend, why
not let him play today?”
James laughs heartily while some players chuckle. I stay silent, knowing Coach Day is serious.
“I know he’s impressive,” James says.
“Two years, fastest rising career in NBA history—impressive, but even the best needs to
understand the game plan.”
“Teach him the plan,” Coach Day insists.
James raises an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”
“I am,” Coach Day confirms. “Teach him the plan, let him sit out the first half, and put him in for
the second.”
James looks skeptical. “I’ve never seen you this confident in a player since Harvey, and even
then, he didn’t play until the third game.”
Harvey Scott is the Panthers’ highest jumper, holding the NBA record with a forty-five-inch leap.
“And look at Harvey now,” Coach Day says confidently. “Teach him the plan, and if he doesn’t
meet expectations, I’ll take him back to New Jersey and whip him into shape.”
My heart races. If I don’t impress today, I could lose my spot.
James turns to me, waiting for my response.
“You agree with him?”
With all eyes on me, especially Eric’s, it’s clear this is a make-or-break moment. Coach Day has
shown unwavering faith in me over the past two years, and that’s what got me here.
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
The first half of the match ends, and I scrutinize each player, assessing both my future
teammates and potential rivals. I take note of their strengths and weaknesses, and by halftime, I
understand why James was hesitant to put me in. The team's cohesion is flawless, and I'm
starting to doubt whether I'll be able to keep up.
“So, Damon,” Coach Day asks, “are you going to go all in or wait for another chance?”
I don’t fully grasp the analogy, but I get the gist. Coach Day hands me a jersey with a look that
says,
“Stop overthinking it.”
I grab the jersey and head to the court. As the second half progresses and Lionscore wins, I
catch a glimpse of James’ impressed smile—one that mirrors the look Coach Day gave me
when he first saw me play.
There’s a note on my duffel bag from him: “Heading back to New Jersey to get the rest of the
guys in shape. Enjoy California.”
Three breaths in, three breaths out.
In moments like this, I feel transformed. My senses sharpen—every sound, every scent, and
every movement is heightened. On offense now, I’m in the prime scoring position every coach
dreams of. I hear commentators praising my rapid rise in basketball.
“In just two years, Damon Torrence has made unparalleled progress. He even made the cover
of...”
I block it out. With all eyes on me, I focus solely on the hoop, visualizing it clearly while the other
players blur into the background. I need to find the path to make the shot.
The whistle blows, and my body moves almost instinctively. I dribble towards the goal, feeling
like my body is acting on its own. Coach Day used to call it the spirit of basketball—an elusive
quality only a few players possess.
As I see my opening, my lips curl into a grin.
“Uh-oh! Damon Torrence’s signature move. He’s going to...”
I prepare for the shot, a move I’ve executed flawlessly countless times. But something’s wrong.
Just before the ball leaves my hand, an obstacle appears. I miss the shot and find myself
crashing to the floor.
“Oh my goodness. What just happened?” the commentator exclaims.
The arena goes silent as sharp pain shoots from my ankles through my entire body. I bite my lip
to keep from crying out. This was no accident. I look up to see the opponent who blocked
me—wearing a Black Lionscore jersey, number seven.
“Are you okay?” Eric asks, crouching beside me. His touch makes me flinch. His slight smile,
combined with the pain, makes me question reality.
“Don’t touch him!” James yells. “Where are the paramedics?”
Both teams crowd around as the paramedic arrives and starts assessing my injury. Every touch
sends pain shooting through me.
“Is he alright?” James asks, anxiety in his voice.
The paramedic’s pitying look hurts almost as much as my injury. He shakes his head.
“Damn it!” James curses, turning away. “Accidents happen,” he mutters.
“I’m sorry, Damon. I didn’t see you there,” Eric says, his voice laced with remorse.
“You didn’t see me?” I manage through gritted teeth.
“I was going for a rebound in case you missed, and...” Eric trails off as the stretcher arrives. “I’m
really sorry.”
My heart races. I’m not sure if I imagined the earlier smile or if Eric is genuinely remorseful. The
pain is overwhelming.
“I’m sorry, Coach,” Eric says as I’m lifted onto the stretcher.
“It’s okay, Shaw,” James replies. “Accidents happen. Get back in position; the game’s
resuming.”
James pats Eric on the back before the latter jogs back onto the court. My other teammates give
me quick, sympathetic pats and join Eric. James places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
“You’ll be alright, kid.”
I nod but keep my gaze on the court. Eric is saying something to Banks, number four and then
they smile as I’m wheeled out. It feels like they’re celebrating.
“The good news is, it’s not broken.”
The doctor’s words barely register as I look at the projected scan of my ankles from the hospital
bed, propped up by a pillow. I nod, trying to absorb the information.
“So, it’s not broken,” I repeat. “What’s the bad news?”
The doctor points to a white line on the screen. “This muscle here is torn—a very sensitive one.
You’ll need rehab to recover fully, or else…”
He trails off, expecting me to fill in the blank. I press for details.
“Or else what?”
“If you don’t recover completely, you might not play at your full capacity again.”
“And how long for a full recovery?”
“Four to six months, depending on your commitment and the physical therapist.”
In other words, I’ll miss the NBA square match this year.
The doctor continues, “Alternatively, you could opt for surgery. Recovery is faster, and you might
make it for the square match.”
“But?” I ask, sensing there’s a catch.
He sits beside my bed, looking serious. “You know the saying: once you go under the knife, a
part of you stays on the table.”
I close my eyes, pushing away the image of Eric’s smile and focusing instead on my
ritual—visualizing her. Her long red hair, big brown eyes, and the smile that lights up my world.
You can do this. You can overcome anything.
I open my eyes to see the doctor watching me with interest. According to James, he’s been with
the team for years, so I trust his judgment, though my faith in the current team is shaky.
“Alright,” I say, making my decision. “Let’s go with the surgery.”
He nods.
“I’ll contact Dr. Berkeley. She’s your best shot at a quicker recovery."