Trace's fingers trembled as he scrolled through his phone, each swipe revealing a life both familiar and foreign. His social media and direct messaging feeds were a combined tapestry of basketball shots, team photos, comments, thoughts, and candid moments with friends—but Alicia's face was conspicuously absent from all of them. Not a single comment or message, no cute girl comments under his posts, no inside jokes in the captions of pictures they'd taken together. It was as if their entire relationship had been erased.
He tapped on the search bar, hesitating for a moment before typing "Alicia Chen." Her profile popped up, the "Follow" button a glaring reminder of their newfound distance. Trace's thumb hovered over it, a war of emotions playing across his face. Should he follow her? Would that be weird? In this timeline, they were strangers.
"Trace! Breakfast!" His mother's voice jolted him from his reverie.
"Coming!" he called back, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, surprised by how young he sounded to his own ears.
Sheesh! This is gonna take some getting used to. Funny to think I was 21 yesterday. Yesterday? The day before? Feh, worry about it later…
Trace padded down the stairs still in a shirt and pajama pants, the familiar creaks of the third and seventh steps were a comforting constant in this sea of change. The scent of pancakes and coffee wafted from the kitchen, and for a moment, Trace was transported back—or was it forward?—to lazy Sunday mornings after grueling physical therapy sessions, when his mom would try to lift his spirits with his favorite breakfast.
Those were actually enjoyable, when he still had an optimistic outlook…before the second injury to the same knee, in the same area as the first. When he'd discovered something new about his parents…that they were absolute card sharks.
Recalling those little moments had Trace feeling light of heart as he approached the kitchen, but then he heard his parents' hushed voices. He paused, not meaning to eavesdrop, but unable to help himself.
"...just worried about Silvia," his mother was saying, her voice tinged with concern. "She's having a hard time balancing soccer practice with her classes."
Trace froze. Silvia? Soccer? He didn't have a sister in his original timeline and no cousins with that name. His mind raced, trying to process this new information.
His father's voice came next, reassuring but with a hint of frustration. "She'll figure it out, Sarah. It's her first year of college. Everyone struggles a bit at first. Lord knows I did. It's not something we can help her through." Marcus spoke from the experiences that made him this family's torchbearer.
"I know, but she's putting so much pressure on herself. And she keeps comparing herself to Trace, saying she feels like she's letting us down because she's not a 'sports prodigy' like her little brother."
Trace's heart clenched, his face screwed in a mix of shock and confusion. A sister he'd never known, struggling because of him?
"Maybe we should talk to Trace," his father suggested. "See if he can give her a call, offer some encouragement."
"That's a good idea," his mother agreed. "You know how much she looks up to him, even if she doesn't always show it."
Trace took a deep breath, trying to compose himself before entering the kitchen. He had a sister. An older sister who played soccer, who was struggling in her first year of college, who felt overshadowed by him. It was a lot to take in.
He paused as he stepped into the doorway, drinking in the sight of his parents for the first time since his return - so much younger, unburdened by the years of worry and disappointment that prematurely aged them in his other life. His father, Marcus, sat at the table, newspaper in hand, while his mother, Sarah, flipped pancakes at the stove.
The contrast was jarring, and suddenly Trace's vision filled with memories that crashed over him like waves:
His mother's face, lined with worry, as she helped him up the stairs after his first surgery. "It's okay, honey. You'll be back on your feet in no time," she'd said, her voice quivering slightly.
His father, hair graying at the temples, pacing in the waiting room before Trace's second operation. The hope in Marcus's eyes had been replaced by a guarded wariness, as if he were bracing for bad news.
Hushed conversations behind closed doors, snippets floating through the house: "...may never play again..." "...college scouts have stopped calling..." "...what about his future?"
Trace, slumped on the couch, staring blankly at basketball games on TV. His mother tentatively suggested other hobbies, her voice tinged with forced cheerfulness. "Maybe you'd like to try painting? Or how about joining the A/V club? You always found interest in broadcasting…"
His father's attempts to connect, awkward and strained. "Son, there's more to life than basketball. Have you thought about business school?" The words meant to comfort, but they landed like lead in Trace's stomach.
Family dinners growing quieter, the silences stretching longer. The way his parents' eyes would dart to his untouched plate, to each other, back to him. The weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.
Trace over hearing his mother crying late one night, his father's murmured consolations: "We can't force him, Sarah. He needs to find his own way out of this. He's a fighter, all we can do is support him like we always have…"
The day Trace had finally snapped, hurling a framed photo of his high school team against the wall. Glass shattering, his parents rushing in, faces etched with shock and fear. "I don't need your pity!" he'd shouted, instantly regretting the words but unable to take them back.
His twenty-first birthday. A small cake, forced smiles. His mother's eyes red-rimmed from crying earlier, thinking Trace hadn't noticed. His father's hand on his shoulder, a gesture once comforting, now heavy with unspoken disappointment.
The memories faded, leaving Trace to catch himself against the banister as he lost balance. I'm so much scum for making them go through all that…
He blinked, quickly gathering himself, and focused on the present - on his parents as they were now, untouched by the years of heartache he remembered.
"Morning, champ. Look at you…the red, white, and blue definitely suits you, son." Marcus whistled, looking up with a grand smile that held nothing but pride and optimism. "Ready for the big team meeting today?"
Trace didn't respond immediately. Instead, overcome by emotion, he crossed the kitchen in two quick strides of his long legs. Before his parents could react, he had enveloped them both in a tight hug, one arm around each of them.
"Whoa, what's this all about?" Marcus chuckled, surprised but returning the hug.
Sarah's spatula clattered to the counter as she embraced her son, surprised by his strength as much as the rare show of emotion. "Trace? Is everything okay?"
Trace nodded silently, squeezing his eyes shut, and fighting back tears. "Everything's just perfect," he managed, his voice thick with shame and sorrow. "I just... I love you both. So so much."
"We love you too, honey," Sarah said, her voice soft with concern and affection.
Marcus patted Trace's back. "What brought this on, son?"
Trace pulled back slightly, taking in their faces—so full of love, so free from the worry lines and anguished looks he remembered. He managed a watery smile. "Nothing, I just... I guess I realized how lucky I am. To have you as my family, to have this once in a lifetime chance..."
He trailed off, knowing he couldn't explain fully, and feeling a little silly for his impulsiveness. How could he tell them about the years of pain that hadn't happened? About the gift of this second chance?
Sarah cupped his face in her hands, her eyes searching his own for something he couldn't define. "We're the lucky ones, Trace. You make us proud every day. You're a great son."
Marcus squeezed Trace's shoulder. "Your mother's right. Now, how about some breakfast? You'll need your strength for that meeting."
Trace nodded, letting out a shaky breath as he sat down at the table. As Sarah set a plate of pancakes in front of him with a mug of lightly sweetened, creamer tanned coffee, he made a silent vow to himself: this time, he would do whatever it took to keep that love and pride alive, to spare his parents the unnecessary pain he'd put them through with his selfishness in another life.
But even as he made this promise, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered a warning. That changing the future wouldn't be easy, and the price of success might be higher the second time around.
As they sat down, a family united around the breakfast table, Trace's mind was soon whirling again. As he sipped from his coffee, he tried to think of a way to ask about Silvia without raising suspicion.
"So," he began, trying to sound casual as he began cutting his pancakes into edible pieces, "have y'all heard from Silvia lately? How's she doing at college?" He asked, silently patting himself on the back for managing to sound like his normally smooth, charismatic self.
His parents exchanged a quick, silent glance that Trace wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been looking for it.
"She's…doing fine, honey," his mother said, a little too brightly. "Adjusting to college life, you know how it is. New situation, new challenges. Why do you ask?"
Trace shrugged nonchalantly, spreading a little syrup on his eggs and pancakes, being halfway mindful of his calorie intake. "Just thinking about her, kinda missing her silver streaked self." He joked, guessing at her name having something to do with her appearance, and thank goodness he was right. It was just too outstanding a name to be anything else. "Maybe I should just give her a call later, see how soccer's going."
The smile that lit up his mother's face told Trace he'd said exactly the right thing. "That's a wonderful idea, Trace. I'm sure she'd love to hear from you. Just be sure to keep that silver comment to yourself, you know how she is about her hair."
Marcus snorted, trying to retain his laughter as his wife elbowed him with a playful scowl on her face. "You're incorrigible! Sometimes I think I have three kids rather than two."
"Aw, don't say that." Marcus chuckled. Trace shook his head, grinning good naturedly. "She got her silver streaks from you, obviously. I don't have to remind you that silver-blonde hair of yours is why I fell in love with you to begin with." Trace's father said smoothly.
"Sheesh, you two…maybe wait til' I'm out of the house?" Trace snarked, shaking his head while his parents knowing laughter made him turn red faced.
As the conversation turned to other topics, Trace made another silent vow. Not only would he protect his parents from the pain he'd caused in his other life, but he'd also try to be the supportive brother Silvia needed. This second chance wasn't just about him anymore it seemed. His only concern was how should he act as a sibling?
After breakfast with his mother and father, Trace sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, and his heart racing as if it were moments before a big game. He'd promised his parents that he wouldn't put off calling Silvia. Whether they meant to or not, they let their concern for his big sister show just before they finished breakfast.
But now that the moment had arrived, he felt woefully unprepared, and more nervous than he felt he should be considering Silvia and he shared the same blood. Still, he kept coming around to the same problem… How do you talk to a sister you've never had? One who he'd never consciously met before and had no memory recall of?
Eventually he decided to just rip the bandage off and get on with it, he wasn't going to be able to finesse his way into this. So, taking a deep breath, he dialed the number his mom had given him.
Another red flag he realized as the phone began ringing. He didn't have his own sister's phone number saved in his phone! He'd also rechecked his social media and discovered they weren't friends…they didn't follow each other.
Trace knew he could be absent minded, but he was far from stupid. It was obvious from that much that their relationship was surface-level at best. Amicable in the family respect, but nothing more than that.
He tried to focus up as the phone line continued ringing. Each additional ring seemingly lasting an eternity.
"Hello?" A female voice, tentative and slightly annoyed, answered. Defensive, wary…she didn't recognize his number.
"Hey Silvia, it's your little bro, Trace." He winced at how awkward he sounded. Sheesh, that sounded lame… He thought with a mental sigh.
"Little Trace? Is everything okay?" Genuine concern immediately replaced the annoyance in her voice. A good sign…
"Yeah, everything's just fine. I was getting ready for a team meeting and just... wanted to check in. See how college life is treating you, that's all."
A long pause. "Mom put you up to this, didn't she?" Silvia asked, voice thick with suspicion.
"Nah, no!" Trace said, too quickly. "I mean, not really. I just thought, I was curious... with your soccer and all..."
Silvia sighed. "Look, I appreciate the thought, but I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me, Trace."
Trace silently winced but scrambled to keep the conversation going. "Well, how's the team looking? You guys finding your groove yet?"
"We're two and three," Silvia said flatly. "I've mostly been warming the bench." She added pointedly, as if she'd told him this before.
"Oh." Trace mentally kicked himself. Of course she wasn't starting; she was a freshman. If she were a 'red-shirt' freshman she would've sat out the entire season unless something serious happened. "Well, you're still getting some playing time…so… that's not bad for your first season, right? I mean, you're probably still putting down roots and—"
"Trace," Silvia cut him off, "not everyone can be born a natural prodigy like you, okay? Some of us actually have to work at it."
The bitterness in her voice took Trace aback. "I didn't mean... Look, I work hard too, you know."
"Right," Silvia scoffed. "Must be so tough being the family's bloom. Tell me, how many scouts came to your last game?"
Trace felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. "C'mon, sis…that's not fair. I'm just trying to help."
"Well, don't. I don't need your help or your pity. I'm doing just fine on my own."
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Trace struggled to find the right words, acutely aware that he was messing this up badly.
"Silvia, I'm sorry. I didn't call to make you feel bad. I just, ya' know... I care about you, okay? If you're having a rough time—"
"I'm not having a rough time!" Silvia snapped. Then, more softly, "I'm just... finding my place. On my own terms."
Trace nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "Okay. I get that. But if you ever want to talk, or need advice, or hang-out, or... anything. I'm here. Sometimes it takes time for things to, you know, take root..." He rolled his eyes, slapping himself on the forehead.
Another pause, shorter this time. "Thanks, I guess. Look, I've got to go. Study group."
"Right, for sure. Well, good luck with your next game. I'm pulling for you, big sis..."
"Thanks," Silvia said, her voice softer now. "And Trace? It's... it's nice that you called. Thanks…"
The line went dead before Trace could respond. He flopped back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, once again feeling lost. That could have gone better, but at least it was a start. He'd never had a sibling before, let alone one who seemed to feel overshadowed by his success. It was going to take time to figure this out.
As he lay there, replaying the conversation in his mind, a thought struck him. In trying so hard to be a supportive little brother, he'd forgotten one crucial and very important detail: in this timeline, he and Silvia had grown up together. His sudden, overt concern would seem completely out of character.
So sibling rivalries are a real thing. Trace noted, giving the situation deeper consideration and thought.
Intensified by the fact that we're both ultra competitive athletes on top of being siblings. Plus being lifelong competitors in high level, elite youth basketball and soccer. I know how competitive my father can be, and I know how I am. Based on that…Silvia, especially as my older sister, would refuse to show anything that could be perceived as weakness. Double that feeling because she feels less than me. Ma said she compares herself to me.
Trace sighed heavily, blowing long, thick, and black curls away from his face. Yeah, I really underestimated how difficult talking to Silvia would be. But she did soften up and thank me, so there's something. Dad's right, little wins matter as much as victories…
The factually stated obvious that he was more naturally gifted, naturally inclined to succeed on the brightest stages against the best competition that amatuer athletic basketball had to offer, and made doing so look easy… While Silvia struggled or rather, had to put in all the extra work that he didn't just to be regarded as a blip on the radar of the right people couldn't have settled well. Silvia probably felt like he did when he saw his friends go on to levels of success after him. Proud, but bitter, envious, jealous…angry.
Here he was, all of 15 years old, and attracting not only college scouts, but professional league scouts who were personally keeping track of his career trajectory. Because he was so highly regarded, they had ideas to use the present to install plans that stretched into the future to put their team in the perfect position to bring him to their franchise when he was of age.
Few athletes got that sort of attention so early in their youth years. That sort of commitment was nearly unheard of. It was up there with the likes of Kobe Bryant, Kevin Garnett, LeBron James, Lonzo Ball and his younger brother LaMelo Ball, "The Pistol" Pete Maravich, Sebastian Telfair, and all professional ballers who chose college despite having the chance to be drafted directly from high school before the rule changes.
He was highly covered, highly touted, and highly coveted as a basketball prospect for college and the pros alike.
In the back of his mind Trace suddenly considered that maybe…that was his problem. While he thought himself genuine and a team player, and others did too…perhaps…no. He was certain… He'd let it go to his head, it just didn't manifest in the usual and most obvious ways.
That train of thought brought him full circle. Back to his parents, and now, Silvia.
From what he'd been able to glean from his parents, Silvia didn't have scouts in attendance to see her play while in high school or while playing for the AAG travel teams, or even when she participated in Junior World Olympic competition. While she was offered a handful of scholarships, none of them were for her schools of preference.
Ma said they'd never heard of a few of them, meaning they were likely Junior Colleges or Division 3 universities. It was Silvia's luck that late in the recruitment period, their father's Alma-Mater offered her a partial scholarship after a few of their women lost their eligibility due to grades. She accepted the partial scholarship offer since she could always impress and earn a full scholarship later down the line. It was especially important to her because their womens soccer team usually made deep and impressive playoff runs. She was also keen on attending the same school as their father for some reason that Trace couldn't grasp.
A lot of their players went professional all across the world. It was just bad timing for Silvia that she was coming along as the team's last three years resulted in their historically best performances and they were looking to go even further in year 4.
Trace could relate. His younger years playing in the traveling Amatuer Athletic Group for basketball had been similar and he'd barely made the cut to his varsity team as a freshman. He also had good luck in getting noticed early as that year's team had some crucial injuries and academic ineligibility concerns at the position he played. It was all downhill from there.
I'm gonna have to slow my roll in that case. It's gonna take time and dedication before I get anywhere with Silvia…
Trace groaned. Navigating this new reality was going to be harder than he thought. He'd have to be more careful, more subtle in his attempts to connect with Silvia. But he was determined to make it work. After all, isn't that what second chances were for?
After all that worrying, Trace stretched a little and did some breathing exercises to prepare for the all hands meeting. He pulled on his team jacket for the second time, this go around he chose to savor the moment as the fabric felt both familiar and strange against his skin. As he zipped it up, the air before him shimmered. Dual screens materialized forebodingly before him once more.
The golden screen pulsed gently: "Every change ripples outward. Consider the consequences…"
The red screen flickered enticingly: "The past is clay in your hands. Mold it as you see fit. Master your domain…"
Trace squeezed his eyes shut, willing the screens away. When he opened them, they were gone, but their messages lingered in his mind.
What have I gotten myself into? He asked himself, slightly worried.
The drive to the sports complex was a blur of conflicting emotions for the recently transmigrated ball-a-holic. His tragic past, hopes, and dreams. His unknowing parents, his new older sister, his second chance playing out for a second time, those ominous glowing screens and their cryptic messages, and now…former teams he'd let down and teammates he'd turned his back on.
One teammate in particular. Charles… My road dog… I was really diabolical towards him. I'm starting to think I don't deserve this second run. Unless this is a revenge setup. Hell, right about now I think I deserve it… Trace sighed internally. Facing his parents had been one thing, but Charles was going to be another.
His leg bounced nervously in response, his heart racing uncharacteristically with anxiety and faintly with excitement. Meanwhile, as his dad navigated the familiar streets, pointing out landmarks as if Trace hadn't grown up here - hadn't lived an entire life here, in another timeline.
"And there's where you made your first three-pointer in a real game," Marcus said, gesturing to a small park. "Remember how excited you were?" He chuckled whimsically. "Almost feels like that happened yesterday, we cheered so loud!"
Trace nodded, a lump forming in his throat. "Yeah, Dad. How could I forget?"
As they pulled into the parking lot, Trace's heart rate spiked. This was it. The moment where his path had first started to diverge in dramatic fashion. He took a deep breath, steeling himself.
"You've got this, son," Marcus said, giving Trace's shoulder a squeeze. "Just be yourself. You've gotten this far, nothing can stop you now."
If only you knew, Trace thought, managing a weak smile before climbing out of the car.
The complex was a hive of activity, filled with the chatter of excited teenagers and the squeak of basketball shoes on polished floors. Trace made his way down the long hallway to the meeting room at the end of the facility, after the row of offices, hyper-aware of every face he passed. Who among them had been there when he'd first injured himself? Who had sent messages of support during his recovery, only to drift away as his comeback chances dwindled?
"Yo, T!" A familiar voice cut through the noise. Charles jogged up, all easy smiles and boundless energy. "Ready to show these scouts what real ball is?"
Trace grinned, the expression feeling more natural than it had all morning as a little relief actually washed over him at the sight of the always optimistic Charles Sinserri. His number two. His right hand man. "You know it, man."
As Charles fell into step beside him, Trace felt a sudden rush of memories once more - not from this timeline, but from the future he'd left behind.
Charles Sinserri…
The perpetual - Sixth Man…
Always first off the bench but rarely in the spotlight…
Despite that, what struck Trace so very vividly in this moment, at this time…right now…with the clarity of hindsight…were all the moments he'd overlooked before:
Charles, drenched in sweat, still running drills long after practice had ended. The rhythmic thud of the ball and squeak of shoes on hardwood a constant backdrop to Trace's own workouts. "One-hundred…" He muttered to himself, draining another shot.
"Man, don't you ever quit?" Trace had asked once, half-admiring, half-exasperated.
Charles had just flashed that easy grin he was known for. "Can't afford to, T. Some of us gotta work for it."
Trace groaned, his hand shooting to his eyes as his mind reeled just like before, as more scenes flashed before him. Snapshots in time, vividly detailed, presented in real time clarity:
Early mornings before school, Charles already on the court, methodically working through his dribbling and shooting routine, refining his form. Trace, arriving for their usual one-on-one, realizing with a start that Charles had already been there for more than an hour.
Team weightlifting sessions, Charles pushing out one more rep when everyone else had called it quits. The quiet determination in his eyes as he fought for every ounce of strength and speed he could gain.
Charles, face set in grim determination, rallying the team in the locker room moments after Trace's second and career-ending injury. "We're not done yet. This is for Trace, for all of us. Let's show them what we're made of!"
The memories shifted to scenes Trace was sure he hadn't witnessed firsthand, but had heard about or seen in social media posts:
The state championship game, Charles sinking a clutch three-pointer in the final minutes, bringing them within striking distance. The agonizing one-point loss that followed moments later, but the pride that swelled in Trace's chest as he watched his friend leave everything on the court, the definition of 'Ball Is Life'.
News clippings of Charles' unexpected success at his Mid-Major college, coming out of obscurity, breaking records, and turning heads. Local media Interviews where Charles credited his success to "years of grinding when no one was watching."
The silent shock and grudging pride Trace felt seeing Charles' name flash across the television screen, his name called in the late second round of the NBL draft - a future that seemed fairly unlikely when they were in high school, but now felt like the inevitable result of years of relentless work and unquestioned dedication to one's craft.
Trace's step faltered, his stomach suddenly feeling weak as he leaned against the white walls of the hallway. The weight of these memories - and his own failings - hit him…hard.
He glanced up, bleary eyed, and vision swimming. Charles hadn't noticed, chattering along. He could be airheaded like that, but Trace silently thanked whatever powers above, after he stopped his breakfast from shifting into reverse, and out of his stomach.
A little saliva escaped the corner of his mouth that he quickly wiped away as he forced himself to stand and leveled himself out, catching up to his best friend as he rubbed the sweat from his forehead. He sighed in relief as the feeling of sickness began to fade away from his body.
What the hell is wrong with me? The flashbacks I understand, the first time wasn't so bad, but I think I nearly blacked out just then. I kinda…feel like…I'm weaker than I remember being at this age. A lot of things are right, even feels right, but at the same time…something is wrong.
Now that the moment had passed, Trace looked at Charles, the memories still vivid in his mind's eye.
He'd been so caught up in his own natural talent, his own tragedy, his own bitterness, that he'd never truly appreciated the quiet dedication and support of his best friend. Charles hadn't been blessed with Trace's innate feel for the game, but he'd more than made up for it with a work ethic that put the rest of them to shame.
How many times did I beg off extra practice to hang out with Alicia or the guys, while Charles stayed behind? Trace thought, a pang of guilt hitting him. How many times did I take my starting spot for granted while he fought for every minute of playing time?
"You okay, man?" Charles asked, noticing Trace's hesitation. His eyes, always keenly observant despite his easy going demeanor, searching Trace's face with concern.
Trace nodded, forcing himself back to the present - this new present. "Yeah, just... pre-meeting jitters, I guess. Hey, Charles?"
"What's good?"
"I'm really glad you're here with me, ya' know? For real, I think you're gonna kill it this season. I can feel it."
Charles' eyebrows shot up in surprise, then his face split into a wide grin. "Thanks, T. That means a lot, coming from you. But you know I'm just here to back you up, right? You're our star. Let's stay focused."
The words hit Trace like a punch to the gut. Here was Charles, perpetually in his shadow, still boosting him up without a trace of resentment. Trace silently vowed he'd be a better friend. He'd be more observant and be sure to recognize Charles' hard work, and his dedication. He wouldn't let his own ego blind him to the strengths of those around him. After all, there was no 'I' in 'TEAM'.
I'll make sure you get the recognition you deserve this time, Charles, I'm sharing the wealth. Trace promised silently. And maybe I can learn something from you about what it really takes to be great… Something you were telling me all along that I was too full of myself to notice.
As they entered the meeting room, Trace scanned the faces of his teammates—friends he'd lost touch with in his original timeline as his life had spiraled. And then he saw her.
Alicia Chen sat in the back corner, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, blue bangs framing her face, with a notebook open on her lap. She glanced up, her eyes meeting Trace's for a brief moment before flicking away, disinterested.
Trace's step faltered…another dagger to the heart... In his timeline, Alicia had been at this meeting to support him, already his biggest fan. Now, she was... what? Why was she even here?
"You okay, man? You look like you just got dumped." Charles asked quietly, noticing Trace's hesitation.
Not funny, Charles! Trace was forced to nod, swallowing hard, and forcing himself to look away from Alicia. "Yeah, just... hey, who's that girl in the back? The one with the notebook?"
Charles followed his gaze, then shrugged. "Alicia something. Chen, I think? She's doing some kind of story on the team for the school paper. Why?"
Before Trace could respond, Coach Williams strode in, his presence commanding immediate attention. "Alright, people, let's get started. We've got a lot to cover before Beijing."
As Trace took his seat, his mind raced. Beijing. The tournament where it had all gone wrong. Where it could all go wrong again.
The dual screens flickered in his peripheral vision, there and gone in an instant. Trace gripped the edges of his chair, his knuckles cracking.
This was more than a second chance. It was a whole new game, with rules he was only beginning to understand. And as Coach Williams launched into his speech about opportunity and representing their country, Trace realized what was at stake.
This time, he couldn't just play the game. He had to master it.