The gym echoed with the sharp squeak of sneakers on polished wood. Enzo dribbled past the free-throw line, eyes locked on the hoop. He released the ball — it clanked hard against the backboard and rolled toward the bleachers. He set his jaw and chased after it.
He lined up again. From the left corner — miss. From the right baseline — miss. He bounced the ball once, twice, then stepped to the top of the key. This time the arc was perfect. The ball swooped through the net with a crisp swish, and a grin split his face.
During warm-ups, a defender closed in fast. Enzo drove hard for the layup, but a tall hand blocked it. The ball bounced off the backboard and滚 into the stands, coming to rest near the water cooler. Enzo watched it go, his shoulders sagging.
The ball rolled to a stop beside the silver water cooler near the bleachers. Enzo stared at it, shoulders drooping, fingers digging into his jersey. Then he looked up — the clock on the wall was ticking down. Tip-off was coming. He took a breath and turned back toward the court.
Late in the fourth quarter, the ball came to him. Five seconds left. He caught it, drove past one defender, then spun past the second. Two hands rose to block, but Enzo rose higher, releasing the ball at the peak of his jump.
The ball kissed the iron twice. Once. Twice. It teetered on the edge of the rim, hanging for a breathless moment — then dropped clean through. The buzzer screamed. The entire gym erupted.
His teammates piled onto him, hands grabbing his jersey, chanting his name. The coach stood nearby, giving a sharp thumbs-up and tapping his own chest in approval. Enzo laughed, the sound weaving through the roaring crowd.
He glanced up at the scoreboard, then picked up his water bottle from the sideline. He wiped his brow with the back of his wrist and set the bottle down. Tomorrow, he would be back on this court. The squeak of his sneakers would start all over again.