Extra Basket-Chapter 87 - 74: 4 Days Since the Incident

July 10, 2010

Location: 829 Grayson Highland Ln, Mouth of Wilson, VA 24363

3:00 PM

The late afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, casting soft dappled shadows across the grass. The countryside air was quiet—peaceful in a way that almost felt unnatural after what they’d been through.

Charlotte and Ethan sat on the wooden steps of the porch, overlooking the gentle hills that stretched out in the distance. The cicadas hummed in the background, a slow rhythm that filled the silence.

They hadn’t said much at first. They didn’t have to.

Charlotte sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes distant.

Ethan leaned back on his palms; head tilted toward the sky.

"...It doesn’t go away easily." Ethan finally said, his voice low, not forcing the conversation—just opening a door.

Charlotte didn’t answer right away.

But she didn’t close it either.

"...Every time I close my eyes," she whispered, "I see Greg falling. I hear the shot. I hear that man’s voice."

Her hands trembled slightly. "I thought I was over what happened to my dad... but now..."

Ethan turned his head slowly, looking at her.

"Pain like that doesn’t just... fade," he said gently. "You live with it. You carry it. But it doesn’t have to break you."

Charlotte glanced at him—eyes red but steady.

"You say that like you’ve... lived it."

Ethan offered the smallest smile.

"I have. In a way."

She looked at him for a long moment. "You’re... different. You’re younger than me, but you feel older. Wiser."

Ethan chuckled softly, though it carried a sad edge.

"I’ve seen a lot. Too much, maybe. But I’m here now... and I’m not going to run from any of it."

Charlotte’s gaze dropped to her shoes. "...It’s easier when you’re around."

He looked at her, a little surprised.

She smiled faintly. "You get it. You don’t push. You don’t pretend like everything’s okay."

"...Because it’s not," Ethan said simply. "But it will be. Eventually."

The wind rustled through the trees. For a moment, neither spoke again.

Then Charlotte shifted slightly closer, resting her shoulder against Ethan’s arm.

Not romantically. Not awkwardly.

Just human to human.

Wounded to wounded.

Healing in silence.

"...Thanks for being here." she said softly.

Ethan nodded. "Anytime."

From a distance, the sound of gravel crunching under footsteps broke the quiet.

Lucas and Louie were returning—Lucas with a couple bottles of Gatorade, Louie holding bags of chips and a box of cookies.

"Yo!" Louie called out, his voice carrying across the field like a trumpet blast. "Hope no one cried while we were gone!"

Charlotte let out a short laugh and turned her face slightly, hiding her smile in her shoulder. Lucas rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

Ethan turned to face them, his expression relaxed but focused. He extended a hand to Charlotte.

She hesitated only a second before taking it, pulling herself up gently from the porch steps.

(He really does feel older than the rest of us...) Charlotte thought as she dusted off her shorts.

The four teens gathered under the shade of the porch roof, a moment of peace tying them together like unseen thread.

Louie popped open his drink with a loud click and looked between Ethan and Charlotte. His curiosity lit up his round face.

"So what’s the agenda? What are you two talking about?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

Ethan gave a small, calm smile. He glanced at Charlotte briefly before answering.

"Um... we were talking about... you know, the tournament."

Charlotte nodded quickly, almost too quickly. "Yes, uh... the tournament."

Louie’s eyes widened, mouth half-full of chips. "Oh shoot— the tournament... It’s July 28, right? The district tournament?" His gaze bounced between Ethan and Lucas now.

Lucas nodded, brushing a hand through his dark hair. His eyes were focused, serious despite the casual setting.

"Yeah... The first match hasn’t been announced yet, but Coach said it’s definitely on July 28."

Charlotte added softly, "So the men’s division starts July 28."

Lucas turned to her. "Yours, sis?"

She replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Uh... we’re on July 29. The girls’ division plays the day after."

Louie scratched his head, furrowing his brows like a kid trying to solve a math problem. "I still don’t get the bracket of this thing. What even is this tournament? Like—how does it work?"

He looked at Ethan with genuine confusion now.

Ethan’s expression shifted—he straightened a little and looked around at the group. His voice dropped into a slightly more serious tone, teacher-like.

"Well, let me explain. First of all, we still have to go through the Local Trials. That’s the Qualifier Phase."

The others leaned in slightly as he continued, Charlotte even sitting back down on the porch step, elbows resting on her knees.

"Middle school teams from every city or district have to qualify through those. Only the top 2 teams from each local area move on to the next stage."

Louie nodded slowly. (Okay... I can follow that.)

"Then comes the Division Cup." Ethan’s voice stayed calm but steady. "Teams are split into four regional divisions—North, South, East, and West. Each division holds a round-robin tournament. The top 4 teams from each of those regions—so sixteen in total—advance to the next stage."

Louie’s mouth opened slightly. "Sixteen teams left by then... Damn."

Lucas folded his arms. "Yeah, that’s when it starts getting serious."

Ethan nodded. "Right. That’s the National Sweet 16—Knockout Stage. Single-elimination. You lose once, you’re out. First it’s Round of 16... then Quarterfinals... then Semifinals... and then the Final match."

Charlotte’s eyes were locked on Ethan now. She hadn’t heard it broken down so clearly before.

"And then what?" Louie asked, the excitement slowly lighting up his face.

Ethan’s eyes hardened, a spark flaring behind his blue irises.

"Then... The Grand Arena. The National Middle School Championship."

He paused.

"The Final 4 teams get to play in a huge arena. Crowds, lights, cameras. The games are broadcast live. College scouts, maybe even pro development scouts, come watch. It’s the biggest stage for our age group."

Louie’s jaw dropped slightly. "That’s... insane."

Lucas clenched his fist, nodding. "That’s why Coach keeps saying this tournament is a turning point. Not just for our team... but for us."

Ethan looked down, then back up at Lucas.

(A turning point... That’s what we need right now. After everything that happened.)

A breeze rustled through the grass as the four sat in quiet contemplation. The tournament wasn’t just a competition—it was their escape, their path forward, their way to make sense of the chaos they’d survived.

....

Meanwhile, at the White residence...

The air inside the house felt heavier than usual, even with the soft hum of the air conditioning running through the vents. The quiet was unfamiliar—no distant chatter, no clinking dishes, no blaring TV. Just the weight of thoughts and words unspoken.

John White stood in the doorway of his son’s bedroom, one hand resting against the frame. The man looked tired—his blazer was off, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and the loosened collar of his dress shirt made him seem more vulnerable than usual. His phone, always buzzing, was nowhere in sight.

For once, John had chosen to be here.

Noah sat on the edge of his bed, one socked foot dangling over the side, the other lightly resting on the floor. A soft breeze from the window stirred the curtains, and a basketball sat by the foot of the bed, dusted but still well-used.

John looked at his son for a moment before speaking, as if searching for the right tone.

"I heard what your mom said... That you’re going to play in your high school again."

Noah glanced up. His dark eyes were thoughtful, slightly guarded. He shifted slightly, giving a small nod.

"Yes... I uh... I think my ankle’s healed now. And I can play basketball again."

John gave a small hum. "Ah... okay."

The silence that followed stretched long. Awkward. Tense.

(Noah’s grown taller... when did that happen?) John thought. He could see himself in the boy’s jawline, in the stubborn set of his shoulders.

Noah fiddled with the hem of his shorts, unsure of what to say. He didn’t look directly at his father, but he didn’t shy away either.

John stepped a little further into the room, his voice quieter this time.

"...I’m sorry."

It hung there, heavier than the silence before it.

Noah blinked. The words didn’t come out grand or dramatic—they came out simple. Plain. And somehow that made them feel more real.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Noah exhaled, almost a whisper.

"It’s okay... Father."

There was no anger in his voice, but there was distance. Not from hatred—but from time lost.

John gave a slow nod, as if acknowledging more than just the words. The tension in his shoulders eased a little, and he looked down at the basketball on the floor.

(That ball’s been through more pain than I’ve noticed... Just like him.)

He walked over and crouched, resting a hand gently on the ball before standing up again.

"If you’re really going to play again..." he said slowly, "then I want to come see your first game."

Noah looked at him then, really looked at him.

"You will?"

John nodded. "I missed enough already. I don’t want to miss anything else."

For the first time in what felt like a long while, Noah gave a small, genuine smile.

.....

Meanwhile, in the kitchen downstairs...

The sound of a spoon gently stirring a cup of chamomile tea filled the quiet space. Panny White stood by the sink, sunlight streaming in through the window and reflecting off her silver wedding band. Her shoulders were slightly tense, eyes distant as she watched the tea swirl.

She hadn’t touched her cup.

Across from her, Aiden sat at the dining table, his elbows resting on the polished wood, a notebook in front of him filled with doodles, notes, and half-sketched basketball plays. His short curls were a little messy, and his face carried that signature teenage frown—not from anger, but from thought.

He kept glancing at his mom.

"You’re not drinking it," he said, his voice soft but cutting through the silence.

Panny blinked and looked down at the tea like she’d only just remembered it existed.

"Oh," she smiled faintly, "I just... forgot."

Aiden didn’t respond right away. He just kept watching her. The way her hands trembled slightly when she brought the cup to her lips. The way her eyes never quite met his.

"Mom..."

She looked at him then. For real.

"Yeah?"

"Did you talk to Dad?"

Panny set the cup down gently, letting the clink echo just a bit.

"...Yes," she said after a moment. "He’s trying. It’s hard for him to say things... but he’s trying."

Aiden gave a small nod, then went back to tapping his pen against his notebook rhythmically. The silence returned, this time softer, almost comforting.

"Aiden," Panny said suddenly, her voice firmer, more present.

He looked up.

"I want you to know... what happened that day— With Greg, with everything... I should’ve protected you and Noah better. I should’ve gotten you both out faster."

Aiden shook his head.

"It wasn’t your fault, Mom. None of us saw that coming."

She sighed. Her lips trembled just a little.

(She blames herself. Every second.)

"But I froze," she whispered. "When I saw him—Greg—I didn’t know what to do."

Aiden stood up slowly and walked over to her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"But you still fought. You still protect me remember"

Panny closed her eyes, one hand gently resting on the back of her son’s head.

"...I just keep seeing it in my sleep. That mask. That gun. The screaming."

Aiden’s voice was muffled in her shoulder.

"Me too."

They stood like that for a long time, wrapped in shared silence and the faint creak of the old wooden floor beneath their feet.

From the hallway upstairs, John’s footsteps could be heard. He didn’t interrupt—he only stood at the edge of the staircase, watching his wife and son through the bannister, unseen.

To be continue