Chapter 2 — The Weight of Expectations

Christian

The squeak of my sneakers echoed through the empty Fieldhouse, slicing through the silence like the sharp intake of breath before a storm. The ball rolled off my fingertips, arcing high through the air before sinking into the net with a clean, satisfying swish. I didn’t need to look to know it was good. It always was. Muscle memory had become second nature after years of nights like this—just me, the ball, and the endless repetition.

I retrieved the ball, bouncing it against the hardwood in a steady rhythm as I glanced up at the banners hanging from the rafters. Their bold letters and numbers—1968, 1984, 2010—marked decades of victories and a legacy I was expected to uphold. Carrying it forward wasn’t just a goal; it was a demand.

The ball hit the floor harder on my next dribble, the sound ricocheting back at me with the edge of my father’s voice from earlier. “Scouts aren’t just looking for talent, Christian. They’re looking for grit. For heart. You’ve got to show them you want it more than anyone else.” The words looped in my head, relentless, until their weight pressed against my chest like a hand squeezing the air from my lungs.

I moved to the free throw line. This had always been my reset spot—just me and the shot. The one place where I could block it all out. No fans, no cameras, no expectations. Just the quiet swish of the ball sliding through the net. My knees bent, my eyes locked on the target. The ball left my hands, spinning perfectly, and sank into the net. Another clean shot. Precision. Control. But it didn’t feel like enough. Not tonight.

The bleachers loomed around me, empty and cavernous, like hollow pews in a church built to worship the game. On game nights, this place buzzed with energy—the roar of the crowd, the pounding adrenaline, the weight of the moment. But when the final buzzer sounded, and the gym emptied, it was always just me again. Me and the expectations that hung here long after the fans had gone.

I dribbled to the baseline and leaned against the wall, letting the cool surface press into my back. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I didn’t need to check the screen to know who it was. Sliding down to sit on the polished floor, I pulled it out and answered.

“You still at the gym?” my dad asked, his tone sharp and matter-of-fact. No greetings, no pleasantries.

“Yeah,” I said, running a hand over my face. “Just finished drills.”

“Good. You need to stay sharp. The scouts are looking for consistency. Focus. They’ll notice every crack in your game.”

“I know,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even. The tension in my jaw betrayed me. We’d had this conversation too many times, and it always ended with him reminding me—and my own doubts filling in the gaps.

“You know doesn’t cut it,” he said, his tone sharpening. “This is your shot, Christian. You’ve worked too hard to let it slip away.”

The ball in my hand felt heavier somehow, its grooves pressing into my palm. “I get it, Dad,” I said, the edge in my voice slipping out before I could stop it. I exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I do.”

There was a pause on his end, a space just long enough for regret to creep in. “You’ve always had more heart than anyone else on that court, Christian,” he said, softer now. His voice wavered, just slightly, as though he was searching for the right words. “You’ve got what it takes. You just have to make them see it. I’m proud of you.”

I leaned my head back against the wall, letting the words settle over me. Proud. The word felt hollow, like a ball that didn’t quite bounce back. Not because I didn’t believe him, but because I wasn’t sure I believed it for myself.

“Thanks,” I managed, though the word stuck in my throat.

When the call ended, I let the phone fall to the floor beside me. My grip tightened on the ball until the worn leather bit into my fingertips. Its surface was rough and scuffed, familiar in a way that nothing else seemed to be. I stared down at it, thinking about the day my dad gave it to me after my first big win in high school. “This ball’s yours now,” he’d said, pride in his voice. “Carry it to bigger places than I ever could.”

Back then, those words had felt like a promise. Now, they felt like a weight.

I pushed myself to my feet, jogging to the narrow staircase that led to the observation deck. The decision to go there wasn’t conscious—it was instinct, a ritual. The door creaked as I stepped into the small, enclosed space. Dust clung to the air, and the faint scent of old wood lingered. The view up here was perfect: a bird’s-eye perspective of the court, every line and edge symmetrical, orderly. It was the only place on campus where I could breathe.

Dropping into one of the worn chairs, I spun the ball slowly in my hands, tracing its grooves. The truth was, I loved basketball. I loved the way it felt to sink a three-pointer with the clock ticking down, to feel the crowd’s energy ripple through me, to carry the weight of it all and deliver anyway. But lately, that love had been tangled up with something else. Fear. Doubt.

I thought back to the championship we’d lost in high school, to the way my father had looked at me afterward. Not angry—just disappointed. Like the air had been knocked out of him. That look had haunted me ever since, a shadow that crept into the corners of every game, every practice. I never wanted to see it again. But the harder I tried to avoid it, the more it seemed to follow me.

The ball stilled in my hands as I stared out at the court below. The banners, the empty seats, the hoop. All of it was part of the same dream I’d been chasing since I was a kid. But the dream had grown bigger over the years, heavier, stretching beyond what I could carry.

I leaned back, letting my head rest against the chair. The quiet wasn’t comforting. It was the kind of silence that left too much space for everything I didn’t want to think about. My chest tightened as I imagined the scouts’ eyes boring into me, the whispers of fans questioning my ability, my father’s voice reminding me that failure wasn’t an option. The fear rose unbidden, clawing at my ribs, until my breathing grew shallow and uneven.

The ball slipped from my hands, rolling to a stop against the railing. I didn’t reach for it. Instead, I closed my eyes, focusing on slowing my breaths. Inhale. Exhale. The rhythm steadied me, little by little.

My thoughts drifted to tomorrow’s chemistry lab. I didn’t know much about my new partner—Abby Ryan, I thought her name was. She wasn’t part of the basketball crowd. That much was obvious. Maybe that was a good thing. Or maybe it didn’t matter. Either way, it was one more thing to juggle, one more unknown in a world already teetering on the edge of too much.

Below me, the court was still and silent, a stage waiting for its players. Just a game, I told myself, even though I knew it wasn’t. For me, it was everything. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if everything was too much.