The King of the Court
Championship game night, the Northwood University gym was a thundering beast, crackling with a raw, electric energy. The air was thick with the smell of popcorn and nervous energy, and the boom of stomping feet on the bleachers was a pulsing heartbeat that never stopped. I found a seat high and in the back, a lonely island in a sea of painted-on faces and waving banners. It was the perfect place: close enough to feel the energy, but far enough away to be anonymous. From there, I could watch him without anyone watching me.
When our Northwood Timberwolves took to the court, the crowd roared. But even amidst the mayhem, my eyes located him immediately. Adrian didn't stride onto the court; he claimed it. There was a confident ease in his gait, a small smile playing on his lips as he absorbed the cheering crowd. He fed on this atmosphere, gaining strength from the adoration, the pressure, the challenge. He was king in his domain, and this was his court.
The game was a vicious, high-speed affair from the opening whistle. Our opponents, the Ridgeway Vipers, were a physical, hard-hitting team, and they made it immediately apparent that they were gunning for Adrian. Their top player, a towering forward named Derek, appeared to have a personal grudge, following Adrian, throwing elbows, and muttering whatever it was he muttered, but I could tell whatever it was, he intended to rile. It didn't work. Adrian played with a calm, almost clinical precision, dodging, weaving, and hitting shots with an easy, effortless elegance that made Derek's brute strength look clumsy. He was a blur of motion, his reflexes so quick they seemed to border on the superhuman.
With two minutes remaining in the game, the score was tied. The tension in the gym was palpable. Adrian was brought the ball and drove towards the hoop. He leaped, a beautiful, fluid arc, and just as he was about to sink it, Derek dived into him in mid-air. It was a dirty, vicious foul, meant to cause pain.
Adrian fell to the ground, coming down on his whole body weight on his left wrist, which bent back into a horrid, unnatural position.
A collective gasp from the crowd was followed by stunned silence. I leapt from my seat, my heart freezing. I had the shot. I recognized the look of a broken wrist. A cold, queasy fear washed over me. The coach and the trainer burst onto the court as Adrian sprawled out on the slick wood, his face a mask of pure, undiluted agony. It was all over. A season-ending injury.
The medics dropped down beside him, but Adrian waved them off, his eyes squeezed shut. He was struggling to breathe, his body rigid with pain. I stood there, frozen with fear, from my lofty height. And I saw it. So fast I might have missed it had I blinked. For an impossible instant, while his eyes were screwed shut in pain, a pale but distinct golden light appeared to pulse from behind his eyelids. He took one huge, shuddering breath, and the mask of pain just. vanished.
He opened his eyes, and they were clear. He moved his hand, then sat up. He stood and moved the wrist through a full circle. No wince, no sign of pain. He wasn't even favoring it.
"I'm okay, Coach," he answered, his voice entirely flat. "Just shaken it up a little bit. Let me take the free throws."
The paramedics, the coach, his teammates—everyone gazed at him in awestruck horror. The crowd, sensing a miracle, began to whisper, and then they cheered. They saw the strength of a hero, a testament to his incredible toughness. I saw an impossibility. I saw a wrist that shouldn't have been intact, a pain that shouldn't have been anywhere close to bearable, and a flash of golden light that had no earthly explanation. The churning cold fear in my gut became a deep, gnawing unease.
Adrian hit both free throws with cold, concentrated anger, landing our team in the lead. At the last thirty seconds, the Vipers scored, taking one point in the lead. When there were three seconds remaining on the clock, Adrian received the ball. He did not pass. He sprinted across the court, a blur of power in control, and from just beyond the half-court line, he threw. The ball flew through the air in a perfect, soundless curve as the last buzzer sounded.
Swish. The gym exploded. The crowd was a single, deafening mass. Teammates swarmed Adrian, placing him on their shoulders. He was the king, the hero, the legend, pumping his fist overhead, a triumphant grin on his face. He was the sun in all its glory, and the entire university was bathed in its light. I was alone at the back of the bleachers, my own cheering dying on my lips. My heart was a whirlpool of pride, love, and a new, sickening suspicion. Because I knew what I'd just witnessed wasn't just an incredible win. It was a goddamn miracle. And I had no clue what it meant.