Page 4 of On Merit Alone

Chapter Three

Merit

One decision can often be the judge of fate. One shot, one play, one second. It’s almost never the one you think it’ll be, either. Never the big moment or the split at the crossroads, but often the decisions you make before you even get to that great divide.

Today, my one was choosing to think about everything that could go wrong if I missed a free throw when I stepped up to the line.

Grandpa told me not to think too much when I was up there.

He said there was nothing my mind could tell me in that moment that my body and muscle memory didn’t already know.

‘ Just let it fly, Mer. Ain’t nothing you can think about now that you haven’t already practiced.’

Lately, all I could do was think. Stress . The lessons Grandpa had taught me were the furthest thing from my mind. I guess he was officially gone long enough for me to start forgetting them.

I sure as hell hadn’t taken his advice when I needed it at the bottom of the second.

Given a foul and two shots at the line to follow.

Instead of ‘letting it fly’ , I’d let it sink, and though we’d kept it tight for the rest of the game, we were never able to get ahead, losing by two at the buzzer .

My hands fisted around the edges of my stool in a tight grip.

I was sitting at the bar of my kitchen island stewing; ruminating on my bad decisions and missed opportunities and feeling helpless about them.

The countless mistakes of the game were bouncing through my head as much as my knee bounced in impatience under the table.

The game played like my own personal horror film behind my eyes.

That last buzzer beater being the unsuspecting twist at the end.

That was stupid. I was stupid.

There was no twist. If I had done what I needed to do at the line before halftime, we wouldn’t have fallen behind, and we wouldn’t have lost by two. Sure, everyone else had moments where they could have tightened up too, but this was on me. It was all on me.

“ Damn ,” I whispered to myself, spearing a glance at the clock on the oven.

5:20 PM.

Ten minutes. The men’s practice slot would be over in ten minutes.

But it wouldn’t actually be that soon. After, they would have a huddle and some of them would have recovery with trainers.

Bench players might have to do extra shooting practices, and God knows whatever else those egotistical gym-hogging assholes did.

And then I could finally have the gym to myself.

I rolled my eyes. Would it kill management to give the women’s team at least a scrap of time between our game and the men’s self-important parade?

Sure, they were in the playoffs and that was a huge deal, but we were a competing team just like they were, and we should be afforded all the perks and accommodations they got.

Especially when it was our season the men were running into all because they couldn’t close out a playoff series in less than seven games.

Whatever . They’d be leaving for their next couple of games soon. Which meant I’d at least have some time to practice without having to maneuver around their schedule for a while .

I looked at the clock again.

5:25 PM…

Dammit, I could have sworn more time had passed. My knee continued to bounce. I bit my lip.

I just wanted to shoot around a bit. I only needed about an hour, maybe two.

I looked around my dimly lit apartment. Everything was clean and in order.

The white marble countertops were spotless, the cream-colored cabinets wiped down.

There were no dishes to do since I usually ordered takeout, no mail to sort since I paid all my bills automatically online, and there was no one to send me any actual mail. Nothing.

I didn’t need to look around the rest of my apartment to know it was dark too. Nobody was home. There was nobody to be home with me, and I wasn’t in the mood for TV, so not even that was on to light up the space. Silence echoed louder than any background noise could. It was deafening.

At least on the court I would have the sound of my shoes scuffing the fresh polish, and the roar of my breath as my heart rate began to pick up. Here, there was just silence—silence and the smothering of my regrets.

5:28 PM…

Fuck it. I’d just wait in the locker room if the courts were taken. I needed to warm up my knee first, anyway.

Hopping down from my chair, I grabbed my bag off the floor. By the door, I paused near the large picture frames on the wall like I always did.

“Bye, Grandma. Bye, Grandpa,” I said, touching their photos like I was touching their memories. A few steps further down, I touched another frame. “Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad.”

Just like always, I rushed out the door before I could dwell over not getting a response. Not getting a goodbye.

I never had, and I never would.

Jesus, it took them long enough. Satisfaction at finally getting out on the court washed over me as I wheeled out the cart of balls to the far side of the gym two hours later.

Even after a short warm-up—a few laps around the court, some high knees, butt kicks, leg swings, and ample stretching—my body felt sluggish. I was tired, I knew that. And my knee didn’t feel the best, I knew that too.

But I also knew that I’d choked in the heat of the moment today.

If I was going to start turning this season around, I couldn’t make a habit of that.

Never mind that the missed free throws and other easy mistakes whenever the pressure seemed to be highest had become my norm this season. I couldn’t let it continue.

“One hundred buckets to earn a shower, Jones,” I said aloud.

Grandpa used to challenge me to the same test after practices or after an especially hard loss I needed to work out of my system.

He wouldn’t coach me then. He’d always coach me on my technique, mentality, or strategy, but during those last hundred shots, he’d just talk to me.

About anything, really. He’d tell me a story about Grandma, contemplate what we’d have for dinner, or even ask me questions sometimes.

I hated when he did that, wanting nothing in the world than to make those last one hundred shots perfect.

When I asked him why he never said anything about basketball, he just shrugged and said, “We’ve been on this court for hours, Mer.

You know what to do with the ball and that there hoop.

I can’t always coach you. You gotta coach yourself sometimes. ”

I laid a hand on the first ball on the rack, taking a shuddering breath.

I’d been coaching myself without him for a while now, but it didn’t mean I missed him any less.

It was times like these, when I felt as lost as I would if it was my first time on a court rather than my millionth, that I wished he could have stuck around a little longer to coach me through the hard parts.

Not just with basketball. But the hard parts of this world or this life… of losing them.

“ One hundred baskets, Merit, ” I whispered, trying to shake myself out of this funk.

Swiping a hand across my damp eyes, I lifted a ball and began.

Ten more.

My body was screaming at me to stop. My muscles ached in a way that was past productive, the burn becoming near constant with every one of my movements.

My breath was becoming more labored than normal, even after taking a few five-minute breathers.

I was nearing exhaustion, which didn’t bode well for the morning game in my future, but it was okay.

I’d be sure to recover well and eat right.

Plus, I had nothing else to do at home. All my work was done, all the chores completed.

So even though I had surpassed my initial one hundred shots by about ninety, ten more good baskets wouldn’t kill me.

“Okay,” I huffed as I picked my hands up off my knees. Instantly, another wave of fatigue slipped over me, and my body begged for a couple more minutes of rest. I gritted out my next words like a command. “ Okay, Merit . ”

My body wasn’t having it, though. It was over my mind trying to strong-arm it into action.

Gingerly, I slipped to the ground, letting my back lay flat on the cool flooring.

My breath puffed loudly, pushing in and out of my lungs like a levy as my chest inflated and deflated rapidly.

Letting my eyes slip closed, I began to count.

Two more minutes of break, then I’d shoot these last ten shots, and then I’d be done. Promise.

One, two, three, four …

The number quickly trailed off as visions behind my eyelids began to play like game tape. All reminders of mistakes I made this morning, all haunting me with the knowledge that I could have done better. Should have done better.

Maybe thirty seconds was enough rest after all. My breathing had slowed and the ache in my muscles had become dull after finally letting them keep still for longer than ten seconds. I could get up now.

Slowly, I lifted up on one elbow and then the next. I was still utterly exhausted but was already on my way up. Might as well get this over with.

Correction. I thought I was on my way up. That was until I peeled my eyes open and was immediately met with the looming figure of something dark and huge standing over me.

“Agh!” I yelped and bounded upward, trying to get away. The night was not on my side, however, because as I rose, my quads pained hard and sat me back down. A deep ache overtook the muscle and left me nearly immobile. I found enough mobility to scoot back several paces on my ass, anyway.

Sore muscles be damned, I couldn’t get ax-murdered tonight. I had a game in the morning!

But the further I got from the figure, the less it looked like a scary glob and instead started looking like a person. A man. A player .