The bar was a dive, all neon lights and stale beer, a far cry from the stadiums Trace LaRose once dreamed of playing in. At 21, he slouched on a barstool, a untouched glass of whiskey before him, his reflection in the mirror behind the bar a stranger—hollow-eyed, unshaven, the promise of greatness long faded.
On the TV above, the NBL draft played out in high definition glory. Trace watched, each name called a dagger to his heart. Players he'd once outshone now stepped into the future he'd lost.
"Turn it up," he growled at the bartender, who obliged with a concerned glance.
"With the 15th pick in the NBL draft, the Atlanta Hawks select..."
Trace's hand clenched around his glass, knuckles white. That should have been him. In another life, another timeline, it would have been.
He shifted, and a familiar jolt of pain shot through his knee. The cane leaning against the bar—a cane, at 21—was a constant reminder of his fall, of dreams shattered not once, but twice. His hand twitched towards the bottle of painkillers in his jacket pocket, then stopped. He was already numb enough.
His phone buzzed. Again. He pulled it out, squinting at the screen:
Mom: Honey, please come home. We're worried about you.
Dad: Son, basketball isn't everything. Let us help you.
Coach Williams: Trace, the team needs you. Not as a player, but as a leader. Don't throw it all away.
Alicia: I miss you. We all do. Please don't shut us out.
Trace's thumb hovered over the screen. A lump formed in his throat, hot and painful. What could he say? How could he face them, face anyone, when he couldn't even face himself?
He put the phone face down, turning back to the TV. The draft continued, each name another reminder of what he'd lost.
"Tough break, kid," the bartender said, nodding at Trace's cane. "You were something else on the court. I remember that state championship game—"
"Don't," Trace cut him off, his voice raw. "Just... don't."
The bartender nodded, moving away to serve another patron. Trace was left alone with his thoughts, with the ghosts of what might have been.
He closed his eyes, remembering. The squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood. The roar of the crowd. The perfect arc of a game-winning shot. Then, the sickening pop of his knee giving out, once, twice. The end of everything.
"Is this it?" he whispered, his words lost in the din of the bar. "Is this how it ends?"
As if in answer, a strange sensation washed over him. The bar seemed to fade away, replaced by a swirling darkness. And then, floating before him, a screen materialized out of thin air.
On it, glowing in ethereal blue light, a message appeared:
"Trace LaRose. Your journey was cut short, your potential unfulfilled. But what if you could go back? What if you could chase that dream once more, armed with the knowledge you have now?"
Beneath the message, two options glowed:
"Would you go back to the past to chase that dream of yours again? Yes/No?"
Trace stared at the screen, his heart pounding. Was this real? Had he finally lost it? Or was this truly a second chance?
His hand trembling, Trace reached out towards the "Yes" option. As his finger touched the glowing word, he felt a jolt of energy course through him. The world around him began to spin, faster and faster.
The last thing Trace saw before everything went black was his reflection in the bar mirror—broken, desperate, a cautionary tale of wasted potential. Then, darkness claimed him, carrying him back towards a past he thought he'd lost forever.
In the now-silent bar, Trace's body slumped forward, his forehead resting on the sticky bartop. The bartender rushed over, shaking him gently.
"Hey, kid! You alright?"
But Trace was already gone, hurtling through time and space, towards a second chance that would test not just his body, but his very soul.
On the abandoned phone, a final message flashed:
Alicia: Trace, please remember—you're more than just a game. Come back to us.
The NBL draft played on, unaware that one of its lost stars had just been given an impossible opportunity to rewrite history.
Trace's eyes snapped open, his heart pounding like a bass drum in his chest. The familiar ceiling of his childhood bedroom swam into focus, posters of NBL stars staring down at him. For a moment, he lay frozen, his mind reeling.
Was it all a dream?
He sat up abruptly, his hands immediately going to his knee. No pain. No stiffness. He flexed it experimentally, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. His body felt light, responsive, whole.
A choked laugh escaped his lips, somewhere between joy and disbelief. He stood, marveling at the ease of the movement. No cane. No limp. Just the strong, limber body of his youth.
His gaze fell on the mirror across the room, and he stumbled towards it, hardly daring to believe. The reflection that greeted him was a shock – gone was the haggard, broken man from the bar. Instead, he saw himself as he once was: young, fit, eyes bright with potential rather than dulled by despair.
"Holy shit," he whispered, running a hand through his hair. "It worked. It actually worked."
A sudden knock at the door made him jump. "Trace? You up, honey? Don't forget, you've got the AAG Team USA meeting for all age groups today!"
His mother's voice. Young, unburdened by years of worry. Trace's throat tightened.
"Y-yeah, Mom. I'm up," he managed, his voice cracking.
"Okay, sweetie. Breakfast in ten!"
Trace's mind raced. The under 17 USA team. That meant... he was fifteen again, he thought he felt a little shorter! He was back before everything went wrong. Before the first injury, let alone the second. Back when the world was full of promise, when "ball is life" was still a motto, not a cruel joke.
He moved to his desk, picking up his phone. The date confirmed it – he was 15 years old again, on the cusp of that fateful Junior World Olympic Tournament in Beijing.
But as he scrolled through his messages, a cold wave of confusion washed over him.
There were no texts from Alicia. No flirtatious exchanges, no study date plans. In fact, her name wasn't even in his contacts.
Frowning, Trace opened his social media apps. His relationship status was single, and Alicia's profile appeared in "People You May Know" rather than his friends list.
"What the hell?" he muttered, a new kind of panic rising in his chest. This wasn't just a step back in time – something had changed. In this timeline, he and Alicia were strangers.
As if on cue, the air before him shimmered, and two translucent screens materialized. One glowed with a warm, golden light; the other pulsed with a deep, enticing red.
The golden screen whispered: "The past is not set in stone. Your choices shape more than just your future."
The red screen countered: "Why settle for an imperfect past? Mold it to your will."
Trace's hand hovered between them, trembling slightly. He had a second chance, yes, but it wasn't the clean slate he'd imagined. How much else had changed? And how could he navigate this familiar-yet-alien world?
Before he could decide, both screens vanished, leaving Trace alone with the weight of possibility – and the fear of an unpredictable past.
His phone buzzed. A text from Charles, his best friend and teammate: "Yo, T-Mac! Ready to dominate? I heard there'll be a scrimmage against the U19 team after the all hands meeting. Coach says college scouts are already buzzing about you for the tournament."
Trace stared at the message, emotions warring within him. Everything was the same, yet crucially different. He had knowledge of a future that might not even happen now.
He typed back: "Most definitely. Can't wait. Hey, quick question – do you know Alicia Chen?"
As he hit send, Trace took a deep breath. This was his shot at redemption, at rewriting his story. But the rules of the game had changed in ways he was only beginning to understand.
Ball is life, indeed. And now, armed with knowledge of a future that was no longer certain, Trace LaRose stepped into a game where even the past was up for grabs...even relationships, apparently.