ELLIOT
Elliot was headingto the gym for his scheduled workout when he heard the echo of a ball bouncing off concrete.
The indoor training facility had two basketball hoops tucked in the back. Most people didn't bother, but apparently someone was using them.
Elliot glanced through the doorway as he passed and saw Hale, Reed, Novak, Fernandez, and Petersen. Hale had the ball, driving toward the basket with his usual competitive energy.
"Shaw!" Reed called out, waving him over. "We need another player. Even teams."
Elliot kept walking. He had a workout scheduled, a routine to maintain. Basketball wasn't part of the plan.
"Come on, man," Novak added. "One game."
"I'm good."
"Scared we'll beat you?" That was Hale, grinning in that cocky way that went straight to Elliot’s dick. Which was very inconvenient.
"In your dreams, Hale."
"Then what are you waiting for?" Hale tossed him the ball.
Elliot caught it on instinct, the texture of the leather familiar in his hands. He'd played basketball growing up, before his father decided it was a waste of time. He'd actually been good at it. Had liked it.
He eyed the ball, then Hale's challenging expression, then the other guys waiting on the court.
He should say no. Stick to his schedule. Maintain the distance he'd carefully constructed between himself and everyone else here. Instead he heard himself say, "One game.”
Hale's grin widened. "Now we’re talking."
Elliot pulled off his jacket and tossed it against the wall, rolling up his sleeves. The guys were already organizing teams—Elliot, Fernandez, and Petersen on one side; Hale, Reed, and Novak on the other.
"First to twenty-one," Hale said, bouncing the ball. "Winner's ball. Call your own fouls."
The game started fast. Hale was aggressive from the jump, driving to the basket with speed that caught Elliot off guard. But Elliot adjusted quickly, his body remembering movements he hadn't used in years. He blocked Hale's first shot, and grabbed the rebound.
"Luck," Hale said.
Elliot took the ball up, faked left, went right, and sank an easy layup. "Skills."
Reed laughed. "Oh, this is going to be good."
Elliot matched Hale's speed, anticipated Novak’s and Reed’s moves, trash-talked in ways he never did during actual training. The tension of rankings and evaluations faded into background noise. For the first time in weeks, Elliot didn’t think three steps ahead or calculate optimal outcomes.
He was just playing.
"Jesus, Shaw," Novak said after Elliot stole the ball for the fourth time. "Where'd you learn to move like that?"
"YouTube," Elliot said, surprised to hear himself joke. His body loosened without his permission.
The score was tied at 17 when Fernandez went up for a rebound at the same time Novak did. They collided mid-air, both of them coming down hard. Novak rolled and got up immediately. Fernandez didn't.
"Shit," Petersen said.
Elliot moved before he consciously decided to, dropping to his knees next to Fernandez. He was on his side, one arm cradled against his body, breathing hard through his teeth.
"Don't move yet," Elliot said, voice automatically shifting into the calm, controlled tone he'd learned from years of combat casualty training. "Where does it hurt?"
"Shoulder," Fernandez managed. "Fuck. I think I—fuck."
