Chapter 12: The Weight of Expectations I was ready to play, yet... I was empty. I was ready to face all the faces in the audience, yet... I was a shell. I was at the warm up, yet... nothing felt warm. The whistle blew, the game started, and Jamal "The Hammer" Henderson, a dude built like a brick shithouse with the speed of a goddamn cheetah, came at me from the jump. I tried to shake him with my usual handles, the stuff that usually made dudes look like they were ice-skating uphill, but he mirrored every move, his eyes glued to the ball. My crossover dribble usually works on every fool, but "The Hammer" wasn't fazed and instead, stole the ball from me. Shit. First possession, turnover. Not exactly the start I needed. Henderson drove to the basket, drawing a foul from Kenny. Free throws. Two points. They were up 2-0 before I even touched the ball again. The pressure was a goddamn physical thing, pressing down on my shoulders. Duke, Valeria, Miguel...it all swirled in my head, a toxic cocktail of expectations and betrayal. I usually thrive under pressure, but this felt different. This felt heavy. Next possession, I got the ball back and tried to force a pass to Zion in the post. Bad idea. Henderson read it like a goddamn children’s book, intercepting the ball and going for another fast break. This time, he dished it off to their shooting guard, who drained a three. 5-0. Timeout, Briarwood. Coach Harper’s face was red. "Jim, what the hell is going on out there? You're playing like you've never seen a basketball before!" "I’m fine, Coach," I said, even though I clearly wasn’t. "Just need to shake off the rust." "Rust? You're supposed to be leading this team, not dragging it down! I need you to get your head in the game, now!" I nodded, feeling the heat of his words. The team was looking at me, their faces a mixture of concern and disappointment. I was failing them. The game resumed, and I tried to force the issue, driving hard to the basket. Henderson was there again, bodying me up, forcing me to throw up a wild shot that clanked off the rim. He grabbed the rebound and launched another fast break. His teammate scored again, extending their lead. Shit shit shit. My shot wasn’t falling, my passes were off, and Henderson was having his way with me on defense. It was a goddamn nightmare. I could feel the eyes of the scouts on me, the whispers in the crowd. I was choking. Then, during a break, I glanced up at the stands. I shouldn't have. I wish I hadn't. There, two rows from my parents, was Valeria. And Miguel. They were making out. Not a quick peck, not a friendly kiss. Full-blown, tongue-down, hands-all-over-each-other making out. Something snapped inside me. The numbness evaporated, replaced by a white-hot rage. All the sadness, all the confusion, all the self-doubt…it coalesced into pure, unadulterated hatred. I didn't give a damn about Duke. I didn't give a damn about expectations. I didn't give a damn about leading the team. All I cared about was destroying everything in my path. The game resumed. I brought the ball up the court, my eyes burning into Henderson. He stepped up to guard me, a smug look on his face. I didn't bother with fancy dribbling this time. Just a hard crossover, a burst of speed, and I blew right past him. I drove to the basket, soaring through the air and throwing down a thunderous dunk over their center. The crowd erupted. The momentum shifted. I was a man possessed, my game was on, a damn video game. I hounded Henderson on defense, picking his pocket, stripping him clean. I hit three-pointers from downtown, fadeaway jumpers, step-back threes. I drove to the basket at will, dunking, laying it up, drawing fouls. The other team couldn't stop me, couldn't contain me, couldn't even slow me down. The score evened. Then we took the lead. Then we blew them out of the water. I didn't talk to my teammates. I didn't celebrate. I just played, driven by a furious, burning energy. Each basket, each steal, each defensive stop was a middle finger to Valeria, to Miguel, to anyone who had ever doubted me. By the end of the third quarter, I had 45 points. The score was 70-50, Briarwood. "The Hammer" Henderson was a broken man, his confidence shattered, his ego destroyed. Coach Harper tried to sub me out, but I waved him off. "I’m not done yet," I snarled. The fourth quarter was just a formality, a goddamn massacre. I kept attacking, kept scoring, kept humiliating Henderson. The final score was 95-65. I finished with 62 points, a new school record. As the buzzer sounded, I looked up at the stands. Valeria and Miguel were gone. Good riddance. I didn't acknowledge my teammates, didn't shake hands with the other team. I just walked off the court, a goddamn volcano of rage simmering beneath my skin. Rich Paul met me in the tunnel, a worried look on his face. "Jim, what was that? You were like a different person out there." "I just needed to get some things out of my system," I said, my voice cold. "Well, you certainly did that. But you can’t let your emotions control you like that. It’s not sustainable." "I don’t give a damn about sustainable," I snapped. "I just want to destroy everything." Rich sighed. "Okay, okay. Let’s just get you out of here." He led me to his car, and we drove in silence, the city lights blurring past the window. I felt empty again, the rage having burned itself out, leaving behind a hollow ache. "LeBron’s throwing a party tonight," Rich said, breaking the silence. "A bunch of people are gonna be there. Might be a good way to blow off some steam." I shrugged. "Whatever." We arrived at LeBron’s penthouse, the music thumping through the walls, the air thick with the smell of expensive cologne and marijuana. The place was packed with celebrities, athletes, and the kind of women who looked like they had been genetically engineered to be hot. I spotted Drake, Kevin Hart, and Ice Spice, all laughing and joking around. Bronny came over and gave me a bro hug. "Damn, Jim, what was that performance out there? You were a goddamn beast!" "Just had a little motivation," I said, forcing a smile. "Well, whatever it was, keep it up. You're gonna kill it at Duke." I nodded, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in my stomach. Duke was the last thing I wanted to think about right now. I grabbed a drink from the bar and started to wander through the crowd, my eyes scanning the room. Plenty of girls, like Rich had promised. Plump asses, big tits, the whole package. Exactly what I didn’t need. A girl with long blonde hair and a tight red dress caught my eye. She was standing by the window, looking out at the city, a bored expression on her face. I walked over to her, a predatory glint in my eyes. "Hey," I said, my voice low. "What’s a girl like you doing at a party like this?" She turned to face me, her eyes widening slightly. "Just trying to find some fun," she said, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Well, you came to the right place," I said, stepping closer. "I’m an expert at fun." I leaned in and whispered in her ear, "You wanna get out of here?" Her eyes darkened, her breath hitching slightly. "What did you have in mind?" I grinned, my hand sliding down her back. "I have a few ideas." I led her through the crowd, ignoring the curious glances and knowing smiles. We found an empty room at the end of the hallway, the door slightly ajar. I pushed it open and pulled her inside, slamming the door behind us. The room was dark, the only light coming from a small window overlooking the city. She leaned against the door, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "So," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "What happens now?" I didn't say anything. I just grabbed her by the throat, my fingers tightening around her neck. Her eyes widened in surprise, then fear. I slammed her against the door, my other hand ripping her dress open. She gasped, struggling against my grip. "Don't worry," I said, my voice a low growl. "This is gonna be fun." I pushed her down onto the bed, my hands rough and demanding. Her eyes began to water, but I ignored it. I pulled off my belt, looping it around my hands, and continued, stopping to spit directly into her face. I was going to use her. She didn't matter. Her pleasure didn't matter. My pleasure was all that mattered, right now. I had to get the anger out, get the hatred out, get the pain out. I had to purge myself of Valeria, of Miguel, of all the bullshit that had been weighing me down. I was going to fuck her until I forgot their faces, until I forgot their names, until I forgot everything but the raw, animalistic need to dominate and destroy. I kept calling her Valeria, and the pain in her eyes seemed to amuse me. I didn't stop. I was going to make her sorry. I was going to hurt her. I was going to show her what it felt like to be betrayed. I was going to choke her, and then I was going to…