Rain tapped gently on the rooftop as Jalen lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling. His muscles ached from hours on the court, but his mind wouldn't rest. He kept replaying the missed shots, the way Coach's voice cracked with disappointment, the silence of the locker room—and then, always, her face in the crowd.
He sighed and turned toward the nightstand where a framed photo of his father stood. Smiling, jersey raised in triumph. Jalen reached over, tracing the number on the jersey through the glass.
His father had been through the fire, too. He had told Jalen the story a hundred times.
[FLASHBACK - His Father's Story]
One night, when Jalen was just eleven, they'd been sitting on the porch after practice. Jalen had been near tears after missing a game-winner. His father had rested a big, steady hand on his shoulder.
"Listen," he'd begun, voice calm, "there was a semi-final game I'll never forget. I choked. Bad. Four points. Couldn't hit a shot to save my life."
Jalen had looked up, wide-eyed. "You? You choked?"
His dad nodded. "Worse than you can imagine. Fans booed. My coach benched me for the last quarter. I thought I'd never wear that jersey again."
"So what happened?"
His dad's eyes had gone distant, remembering. "I showed up the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that. Until my pain turned into power. Son, that's what separates players from champions."
The memory burned in Jalen's chest. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, unable to lie still. He had to move. He had to do something.
The next morning, Jalen avoided the crowded cafeteria. He walked out to the bleachers instead, headphones in, drowning out the chatter of classmates. But when he looked up, he saw her—Ava—alone again, sketching in a notebook.
He paused. Swallowed. Then forced himself to walk over.
"You always sit here?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
She looked up, meeting his gaze with those calm, steady eyes. "Only when I'm thinking."
He nodded. "Yeah. Me too."
Ava tilted her head a little. "You're Jalen, right?"
He felt a hot flush creep up his neck. "Yeah. That's me."
She gave a faint, knowing smile. "I watched your game."
Jalen tried to laugh it off. "Yeah… didn't go great."
She closed her notebook, considering him carefully. "You have the fire. But you forgot why you were playing."
Her words cut straight through him. "What do you mean?"
She shrugged lightly. "Most people play for the crowd. Some play for trophies. But a few… a few play for the love of it. You looked like you forgot."
He stared, caught off guard by how precise she was. Nobody had ever said it so plainly.
"You play?" he asked.
Ava hesitated, then nodded. "I used to."
"Why'd you stop?"
She looked away, lips pressing together, as if searching for an answer. Finally, she sighed. "That's a long story."
He opened his mouth to say more, but she stood up, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.
"Maybe another time," she said, giving him one last quiet smile before heading down the steps.
"Ava!" he called after her. She turned.
"Thanks," he blurted. "For, you know… telling me the truth."
She nodded, then disappeared into the building.
That night, Jalen walked back to the old outdoor court, the place he'd first fallen in love with basketball. The night was still, the rim a silent witness. He could hear his dad's voice in his mind.
"The pain turns into power."
Jalen dribbled slowly, breathing in the night air. He closed his eyes. Visualized the shot. Felt the weight of the ball in his hands. Then he let it fly. Swish.
Again. And again. And again.
For the first time in weeks, he wasn't trying to prove anything to his coach, or his teammates, or the girl in the stands. He was just playing for the joy of it, for the same reason he'd first picked up a ball years ago.
Hours passed before he finally stopped, sweat dripping, arms burning. But he was smiling.
The next day, Jalen stepped into practice with a different energy. Coach Reilly eyed him cautiously as he laced up.
"You ready to work?" the coach asked.
Jalen nodded. "Yeah, Coach. I'm ready."
Reilly raised an eyebrow. "Prove it."
Jalen stepped onto the court, every muscle alive. The other players watched, some still skeptical after the last game. But Jalen didn't flinch. He ran drills, dived for loose balls, set hard screens. Slowly, the team's energy lifted with his.
After practice, Coach pulled him aside. "That's the Jalen I know," he said gruffly. "Keep it up."
Jalen nodded, breathing hard. "I will."
Later that afternoon, Ava showed up by the bleachers again, sketchbook in hand. Jalen walked over, wiping sweat off his brow.
"You came to watch practice?" he asked.
She smirked. "Maybe."
Jalen laughed. "I think I owe you a real introduction. Jalen Carter."
"Ava Williams," she replied.
"Why'd you really stop playing?" Jalen asked, voice gentle.
Ava's eyes grew distant, her pencil pausing. "Sometimes… life doesn't let you play the game you love. But maybe you can find your way back."
Jalen nodded. He understood. "Thanks for helping me remember."
She smiled, and for a second, Jalen felt something shift inside him. A spark. Hope.
That night, he sent a text to his dad:
"Hey Dad, I get it now. Pain into power. I'm gonna keep fighting."
His dad wrote back a single line: "Proud of you, Mamba."
Jalen set the phone down, heart lighter than it had been in weeks. Tomorrow, there would be new challenges. New games. New dreams.
But tonight, he knew who he was again.