Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 43

A ball thudded by my foot. One of the younger kids jogged over to grab it. “Sorry, kuya James,” he said, sheepish, wiping sweat from his brow.

“It’s alright,” I told him, kicking it gently back. “Follow through with your wrist next time.”

He nodded, then turned away.

I watched him go. His frame was wiry, clumsy. But there was hope in his posture. That hope you have before life teaches you about disappointment. I sighed, rolling my shoulder. The soreness hadn’t left. Neither had the quiet weight in my chest. The sense that something, some clock in me, was ticking louder lately. That every time Betty called, it wasn’t just a call. It was a tether. A reminder. A lifeline I didn’t want to lose. And yet… Olive. Always lurking like a storm on the edge of the map. Not loud. Not raging. Just… forming. I don’t know what she’s planning. But I know this: if she drops whatever it is she’s holding, whatever truth or lie or twisted version of both, Betty could hate me. And James.... me.... this James who’s trying so hard to be better, might not survive it.

I stared at the hoop.

No ball in hand. Just breath. Just thought. Just prayer.

"Lord, if You’re still with me… hold the things I can’t."

Coach blew his whistle again. “James! Run with group two!”

I jogged onto the court, hands raised. Time to move. Time to play. Time to pretend, for now, that the weight on my chest could be outrun.

Coach called a water break. The team scattered like birds freed from a cage, some collapsed onto the grass, others joked in circles, and the youngest grabbed their phones like they were oxygen. The sun had begun its slow crawl upward, brushing gold across the sweat-slick court. I wiped my face with the hem of my shirt, heart still pacing. Coach sat on the concrete bench under the acacia tree that bent over the side of the court. His clipboard lay beside him, ignored. He didn’t yell this time, didn’t wave me over. He just looked in my direction and nodded once.

So I went.

I took the spot next to him, the concrete cool against the back of my thighs, my water bottle still clutched in hand. The shade was soft, like God’s own exhale. For a moment, we didn’t speak. Just listened, to the ball hitting pavement, to the lazy buzz of cicadas, to the rhythm of life too slow for the city to remember.

“You’re playing quieter,” Coach finally said. His voice wasn’t critical. More like an observation, folded inside concern.

I gave a small, dry laugh. “Didn’t know basketball had a volume.”

He smirked. “You used to shout with your game. Every pass, every drive, every shot was an announcement. Now it’s… more like a question.”

I looked out to the court where the new guys were still messing up drills.

“It’s because I’m not sure what I’m playing for anymore,” I admitted. “Or who.”

Coach didn’t look surprised. He just nodded, as if that truth had been sitting on my shoulder for days and he was only now giving it a name.

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” he said. “Sometimes when we’re too sure, we play for the wrong gods.”

His words hit like a psalm. Unexpected. Low. True.

I turned toward him. “You ever feel like you’re losing the game before it even starts?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back, resting one arm along the bench, watching the trees sway. “I once built my whole life on the idea that I had to win to be worthy. Marriage, career, fatherhood… even coaching. I kept waiting for the scoreboard to say I was enough.”