When Two Become One

1

This is where his heart went to live or die.

Stephen Rice dribbled the ball up court, eyeing the defender waiting beneath the three point line. The raucous crowd clapped their hands in exuberance, gym rumbling, their feet stamping against the stands. The score was tied at 82, a minute left on the clock.

"Go Kings go! Go Kings go!" Cheerleaders on the sideline waved their pom poms, encouraging the roar of voices, sound gurgling together into a mess. His heart pounded in his chest, but he kept his posture steady, eyes stern. I'm ready.

The shaggy haired boy guarding him was positioned well, but he was a horrid defender; Stephen had been attacking his weak side all game, 32 points coming from it. It was probably a bit too easy, actually. He'd been hoping for a challenge.

In position ahead of the halfway line, 50 seconds on the clock, Stephen made his move. He hesitated to the left, stepping closer to the arc, then glanced at the rim for a moment, feigning a shot. The guard raised up to contest, closing in too quickly, allowing Stephen to blow by him easily. In a second he was in the paint, crowd cheering louder, two of the team's big men closing in to trap him, but he dribbled out their way, threw up the ball for a layup. A grin soared to his lips as it sounded crisply through the net.

The gym shuddered in ecstasy as the student body jumped up at once, voices compounding upon one another. Stephen allowed himself to take it in, throwing his hands up in the air, calling for more. He clapped hands with his teammates as they walked down the court, all exchanging their own encouragements, getting ready to defend. The horrible defender brought the ball up, eyes narrowed into a frown. I guess he's not too happy I just embarrassed him in front of the whole school. Oh well.

Then the shaggy haired point guard, out of a sense of pride perhaps, or just because he was stupid enough to try it, decided to take a shot for three, a few feet behind the line. Stephen didn't bother to contest it, raising a lazy hand in defiance, looking back at the basket. Then, inexplicably, unbelievably, the ball went through, the crowd going silent.

Fuck.

Stephen dribbled the ball back up, 42 seconds on the clock, a point behind.

Shit, shit, shit.

He ignored the smile spread across the point guard's face, pretending to look for his teammates to pass to. But there would be no passing for this play. The boy's three point shot had made things personal.

Stephen crossed the half-court line and glanced at the front stand, finding one person amongst the sea. Lucy was next to the bench, cheering and clapping with everyone else, blue eyes wide and excited. Stephen smiled at her.

As he walked, dribbling slow, he acted like he was about to make a play. And when his defender looked calm, relaxed, he made his move. Stephen crossed the ball over and sprinted past him, and the boy fumbled to stay in front but was too slow, slipping on the squeaky hardwood floor. The lane to the hoop was clear, everyone else paying all the attention to the rest of his team. The crowd was going ballistic, louder than before, the ground beneath Stephen's feet rumbling. This was it. This was his moment. The moment he'd been born for, and trained for his entire life. He jumped into the air, ball in hand, outstretched towards the basket. The atmosphere around him buzzed with electricity.

And then someone slammed into him.

He was thrown off course, ball in his left hand, flying through the air, nowhere close to the basket. A whistle sounded for the foul, but Stephen barely had time to feel relieved. Because he was heading for the stanchion underneath the hoop. He tried landing normally, pushing his legs out, but that was the wrong move.

His right leg landed first, balanced just before the stanchion, but the momentum pushed him past, leg stuck behind, body slamming into the side. There was a snap, a searing hot pain at his ankle, and he cried out in a short hot gasp.

He fell to the floor, the pain moving up his leg and thigh, pulsing as if someone had smashed it with a baseball bat. The crowd was silent, and he even heard a few gasps. Footsteps rushed towards him, his teammates trying to assess the situation. Coach was pushing between them all, running through, bending over to check what was wrong.

'Stephen, you okay? What happened? What did you hurt?'

Stephen just pointed at his leg, at his ankle and said nothing, gritting his teeth. Coach was silent inspecting the injury. His expression grew dimmer as he did, lips a thin line. It's just a simple injury, right? Come on Coach, tell me it's all good.

'It's going to be alright, Stephen.' Coach's eyes didn't leave his ankle. 'We're getting a stretcher to help you out, it'll be here in a few minutes, be tough. It's going to be alright.'

The way he said it, the tone it was in, told him everything he needed to know.

Nothing's going to be alright. Nothing's going to be alright ever again.