Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 43

-----James Andrew Gray-----

The last morning at retreat smelled like burnt eggs, liniment oil, and grass still damp with dew. I sat on the edge of the long wooden bench, my elbows resting on my thighs, eyes half-closed from another night with barely a full sleep cycle.

We’d spent the past few days drilling new team members through footwork, trust exercises, and hours of strategy meetings where everyone pretended to listen but mostly just watched Coach’s expression like he was the final judge in a courtroom. At night, I’d steal away to the cabin porch, phone in hand, whispering into the screen until Betty fell asleep. Sometimes mid-sentence. Her breathing would slow, and I’d just watch her chest rise and fall through the pixelated frame. It was like watching peace. Like looking at something holy, a proof of life that the world hadn’t taken her away yet. Only then would I let sleep take me too.

“Rough week,” Tim muttered, dropping his tray of congealed scrambled eggs and powdered juice beside mine.

“You tell me. My shoulders are crying,” Drake said, rotating his arm like a creaky hinge. “I think I popped something yesterday.”

“Maybe it’s your ego,” I said with a grin.

“Nah, that’s still intact. Unlike your free throws.”

Laughter rippled around the table.

“You guys complain too much,” I said, stretching my arms behind my back, the joints cracking like knuckles in prayer. “Come on… it’s our last day here. Tomorrow, we go home.”

Tim raised his plastic cup like a toast. “To our broken backs and bruised pride.”

“To James not being able to shoot under pressure,” Drake added.

I rolled my eyes and bumped his shoulder. “God’s still working on me.”

“Bro, even God rested on the seventh day. You’ve been shooting bricks since last semester.”

“But He also resurrects the dead,” I replied, tapping my chest with mock reverence. “Maybe today’s the day my form rises again.”

Tim leaned back and snorted. “Man's quoting Scripture like it’ll save him from running laps.”

“I don’t quote Scripture to escape,” I said, quieter now. “I quote it to endure.”

They didn’t catch the weight in my voice. Or maybe they chose not to. Laughter moved on without me, and I stayed still in the hush that followed, like the silence between hymns.

Coach’s whistle pierced the air, sharp and final. “Warm up! Five minutes!”

We groaned in unison but stood.

As we jogged toward the field, the sky opened wider above us, gray clouds parting just enough for light to spill through in fractured gold. My legs ached. My breath came in steady waves. But deep down, beneath the soreness and the sweat, I felt something rising. A sense that something was ending. Or maybe… something was about to begin.

We made it to the court, sneakers scuffing the earth-worn pavement. The newbies were already there, flinging the ball at the hoop like it owed them something. Most missed, some by a mile. One hit the rim so hard it bounced back and smacked him in the face. Drake let out a wheeze-laugh. Coach barked a half-hearted correction. I leaned against the chain-link fence, arms crossed, watching. Not judging, just observing. There was a difference. Judging came with pride. Observing came with ache.

They had no rhythm yet. No trust in their limbs. They still thought basketball was about force, about getting the ball in. They hadn’t learned yet that sometimes you don’t score because you’re trying too hard. Because you’re thinking more about the outcome than the form. Because you're afraid you won't be enough if you miss. I used to think I had to prove something every time I touched the ball. My dad called me a basketball star when I was ten. Told me I could be the first in our family to "make something out of myself." Back then, I thought it meant the court would be my salvation. That if I ran fast enough, scored hard enough, if I kept my name in the box scores, the silence at the dinner table would go away. That he would look up at me, not through me. But I’ve been in this game long enough to know: sometimes, the people you're trying to save aren't watching. Sometimes, they’re not even looking at you.