Antwan Dixon walked up the path to the old concrete court that Jayson and he had played together on as children. It was the same court that Chew Lewis had made him run suicides on until he was drenched in sweat. The same court he’d spoken with Gus Harris on all those weeks ago. He felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him as he approached it and saw the sweaty figures sprinting up and down the length of it. He recognised some of them but not all of them. Some were former players that had carried water under Coach Calhoun but weren’t good enough for the league and others that were good enough but had their careers cut short by this place. If it wasn’t crime then it was drugs. No needle or spell in prison could take your love of the game away from you. Losing Jayson hadn’t robbed Antwan of his love for it either.

Jayson’s mother Alicia had been the one to suggest it to him. He’d barely left the house since Jayson’s funeral and she’d started to get a little worried about him. So here he was, lugging a carry bag full of basketball gear to the old court in an attempt to get his mind off of what had happened to his best friend. The closer he got to the court the thicker and faster the memories of playing on it with Jayson came. Finally he stopped at the chain-link fence and threaded his fingers through it whilst he watched the men running up and down the court. One of them swished a three pointer and ran back on defence whilst unfurling an arrow from an imaginary bow by way of celebration. It brought a smile to Antwan’s face and he made his way around the fence slowly and set his bag down.

One or two of the men looked in his direction and Antwan nodded at them in recognition. “I got next.”

The men played for a few minutes longer before finally one of them lifted up a sweat-drenched hand and gestured away from the court. He said his goodbyes, dapping a few of the men along the way, picked up his gear and headed out with a nod in Antwan’s direction. Antwan began some last minute stretches when one of the taller men, one Antwan recognised as a former Calhoun player, approached him and smiled at him. He had to be six foot eight, six foot nine at the last, but was as skinny as a rail and an angular, unspectacular face upon which a goatee sat squat upon.

“Hey man,” The man muttered, turning away from the other players and out towards the fields on the other side of the court. “I just want to say that I’m sorry about what happened to Jayson, man. I didn’t [i]know him[/i] know him, but I bumped into him around the way a little and he seemed like a good kid. He deserved better than what happened.”

The man extended his hand in Antwan’s direction and Antwan looked down at it for a few seconds. A knot had worked its way into his throat at the mere mention of Jayson’s name. He forced it out and shook the man’s hand and then strode onto the court alongside the man. The other men looked at Antwan with heavy eyes. He could tell from the way they looked at him they knew who he was and what had happened. He grimaced disapprovingly at the thought of being at such a disadvantage. He was here to get away from that. He was here to play the game he loved.

Antwan clapped his hands together loudly and pointed towards the ball. “Are we going to play ball or what? You boys aren’t that scared of being put on a poster, are you?”

The tall man laughed and called for the ball from one of his friend’s and passed it towards Antwan. “We’ll see about that.”

They played for what felt like hours. The freedom that Antwan had hoped basketball would afford him eluded him. Having a ball in his hands, driving at people, and contesting every shot came naturally to him. He’d never forget how to do it. For the first few minutes though Antwan felt the weight of Jayson’s absence. With each shot he put up that bricked against the backboard, with every misplaced pass, Antwan couldn’t help but feel the sense of loss on his shoulders that he’d hoped to shake. It came, slowly though it might have been, but it took more work than Antwan imagined. He ran until his lungs felt like they were on fire, until sweat drenched his clothes until they clung to his body like spandex, and until his feet cried in pain. Somewhere in all the running Antwan felt free of his pain and troubles.

He accepted an inbound pass and blew by a defender using a triple-threat move that Chew had taught him. On his drive to the layup he saw the tall man rolling towards him to contest his shot. They made contact, hard contact at that, but Antwan rose above the tall man and [i]kept[/i] rising as he moved towards the basket. He thundered the ball home with a sickening crunch that was met with howls from the other men. There was an equally sickening crunch as Antwan came down with all his weight on his right leg and felt it crumple underneath him. As he landed his head clattered into the ground and his ears rang as he pushed himself up to look towards his leg. The ringing drowned out the murmuring from the men as they approached him. Antwan’s blood ran cold when he saw it.

His leg had broken at the knee and was laid limply beneath him in an unnatural position. Halfway down his shin he could see bone jutting through his skin. A wave of light-headedness ran over him as he reached down to push the portion of bone poking out of his shin back into place. Before his hand made contact with it he felt his world go black and he leant backwards and placed his head against the concrete.

[center][b]*****[/b][/center]
Everything had happened so fast. When Antwan had opened his eyes he was in hospital with Coach Calhoun at his side. They assured him everything would be okay and shortly after a doctor came in to speak to Antwan about what had happened to his leg. [i]His leg[/i]. Antwan hadn’t even thought about it since he’d opened his eyes. Somehow he’d forgotten what had happened. The doctor told him he’d sustained a heavy concussion when his head contacted the ground and that his leg was broken in several places. A clean break was bad but not fatal, Antwan thought, he could come back from a clean break. But it wasn’t a clean break. Antwan had torn both his MCL and ACL. Upon hearing that Antwan’s eyes became bleary with tears and he sat in his hospital bed with his head slumped. Coach Calhoun patted him on the back supportively but Antwan wasn’t there. He was somewhere else, somewhere he didn’t have to listen to a doctor assure him that he would [i]likely[/i] walk again, and that they wouldn’t have to amputate.

That last detail grated on Antwan and he looked to the doctor with an angry frown. “Is that meant to be a good thing?”

The doctor was a round man with a thick white beard and a perfectly hairless head. He looked in his fifties, perhaps slightly older, and from his expression seemed to understand Antwan’s anger at his predicament. He placed the clipboard in his hands beneath his arm and rested his weight on the end of Antwan’s bed with a heavy sigh.

“I know it might not seem like it but this could have been [i]much[/i] worse, Antwan.”

Antwan’s face grew red with frustration and he opened his mouth to speak but Coach Calhoun cut across him. “Could you give us a minute, Doctor?”

The doctor nodded and stood up. “Of course.”

Once he’d left the room Coach Calhoun pulled his chair closer to Antwan’s bed and placed his hand on Antwan’s forearm. Antwan could see from Coach’s eyes that he’d been crying though he couldn’t quite fathom why or when. They were red and raw and Coach’s voice, oaky and weary, seemed strained as he tried to impart what little wisdom he had. The words weren’t enough, Henry Calhoun knew that before he opened his mouth, but he little more to offer the boy than words at this juncture. So offer them he would.

“Listen, kid, I know you’re in a bad way but there’s no need to take this out on the doctors. They’re the ones that are going to put you back together and [i]make sure[/i] you’re up and about again in no time. If the man says it could have been worse then it could have been worse. Whilst you were out he said that he’d seen less complicated breaks than yours where amputation had been considered, Antwan. If these past few weeks have taught you anything it should be that there are things more important than basketball.”

Once Coach was finished speaking Antwan looked towards his broken leg that was hidden beneath a thick cast. “Will I play again?”

The expression on Henry Calhoun’s face told Antwan more than the coach’s words could. He saw him swallow nervously at the question, saw the shaking hand that reached to rub at his mouth, and finally heard the indecision that laced his voice. “If anyone can come back from this it’s you.”

A month ago it might have been like a hammer blow to Antwan’s chest but Antwan couldn’t find it in him to cry about it. He simply stared down at his cast impassively whilst he let the ramifications of what had happened sink in. Basketball was gone, the one thing that Antwan had loved in this world, the thing that was going to help him get the people he loved out of Norman. In less than a month Antwan’s life, his dreams, and his relationships had been scattered to the wind by fate. Jayson was dead, Chew was back in prison, Roland had almost died because of Chew and Dante, Yolanda Thomas [i]had[/i] died because of Chew, and his mother… at the thought of her he felt an icy hatred make its way into his chest.

“Alicia was here whilst you were out,” Coach said as he reached into his pocket for his cell phone. “You want I should call your mom?”

“No,” Antwan said with a shake of his head. “Not her, [i]never[/i] her.”

Antwan extended his hand for the phone and Coach Calhoun placed the phone in his hand and then gestured towards the exit. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

[i]Roland[/i].

If there was anyone that could make this okay, anyone that could bring a smile back to Antwan’s face, it was Roland. Roland was only friend that Antwan had left. Antwan took a glance over his window at the darkness and then to the clock. It was late but not too late. Roland would still be in his office at this time. Antwan was surprised he’d not already heard and been in contact but was dialing Roland’s number before he’d had a chance to question why that might be. He pressed the phone against his ear and waited whilst it dialed. Antwan’s face crumpled in disapproval as he heard it go through to voicemail.

“You’ve reached the answering machine of Roland Spencer of Spencer’s Tires and Rims. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Roland always had his phone on him and he [i]always[/i] answered it within seconds. Antwan shook his head and dialed the number again and pressed the phone to his head. It dialed out again and Antwan’s face crumpled in disapproval once more. He wondered whether something had happened, whether Roland had been in some kind of accident, before pressing the phone to his ear again.

“You’ve reached the answering machine of Roland Spencer of Spencer’s Tires and Rims. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

It was on the fifteenth time of trying that a thought crept into the back of Antwan’s brain. It was doubt. The very same doubt that Antwan had felt that day that Gus Harris had visited him at the court. Hours had passed since Antwan had started calling Roland and he’d not heard a word from him. It was out of character. At least, Antwan thought it was out of character. Sat there in the darkness in his hospital bed with only Coach Calhoun’s phone screen for a light a realization dawned on Antwan. Gus had been right. Roland [i]didn’t[/i] care about him. He had heard about what had happened and now he didn’t care about Antwan. 

He shook his head in disbelief and dialed Roland’s number one last time. 

“You’ve reached the answering machine of Roland Spencer of Spencer’s Tires and Rims. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”