Chapter 365: The Clown of the Year
Roam stopped at the corner, his hood pulled low over his forehead, hands buried in his pockets, watching from a distance what had once been, years ago, a simple patch of cracked asphalt wedged between two abandoned metro pillars.
Now, brand-new hoops stood where nothing but bent rims and torn nets used to remain.
The ground had been completely redone, fresh white lines marking out a real regulation court, low bleachers set up along one side, even a little snack stand with a blue and white awning.
A dozen kids were running around on it, shouting, laughing, a ball bouncing cleanly off a surface that had nothing to do with the wreck he used to know. An older man in a clean tracksuit blew a whistle from the sideline, notebook in hand, jotting something down after every play.
Roam took a step back, pressing himself against the wall of a nearby building, as if the mere light from the court could give him away from that far.
This is where we used to train before the real games, he thought, his throat tightening. Before everything.
Years earlier.
"You really think we’re gonna beat them with this bullshit plan," Kej had spat, arms crossed, suspicious, back when they were all gathered on this same cracked asphalt, night already falling around them.
Nash, sitting off to the side on an overturned plastic crate, hadn’t even looked up from his worn notebook.
"It’s not impossible. The idea is to cut off their only way of scoring. The twins double-team their best shooter the second he touches the three-point line. Tylo, you stay back, ready to grab every offensive rebound they’re gonna miss once they start panicking under pressure."
"And why should I listen to you," Kej had growled, shooting him a nasty look, his thick arms crossing even tighter. "You never dunked in your whole life."
Roam had stepped in, a confident smile on his lips, his hand slapping Kej’s shoulder with a certainty he hadn’t fully felt at the time.
"Trust him. Ghost never gets this stuff wrong. He already called three of their plays before they even ran them, the other night."
Kiel and Kael had exchanged a look, as always, without really talking, before one of them shrugged.
"Fine, let’s give it a shot."
They’d won that night. Crushed their opponents by twenty points, against every prediction. And it was Roam who got carried off the court in triumph, his teammates screaming his name, while Nash quietly packed up his things in his bag, nobody even thinking to come congratulate him.
Roam remembered noticing that, in the moment. Just a fleeting thought, quickly swept away by the rush of victory.
He should have lingered on it longer.
Roam closed his eyes for a second, pushing the memory away, before continuing on, hugging the wall, carefully avoiding the coach’s gaze on the renovated court.
A few streets down, a brand-new pharmacy occupied the space where an open-air drug spot used to be, guys in tracksuits always hanging around under a busted streetlight that flickered on and off, buying and selling out in the open for everyone to see.
Roam stopped dead, recognizing, through the big clean window, a familiar face in a white coat behind the counter, methodically arranging boxes of medicine on a shelf.
Deshawn?
The old neighborhood dealer, the one who used to push cheap stamina boosters and worse to every team before big games, was standing there now, clean, freshly shaved, a name badge pinned to his coat. He was helping an old woman find her prescription, patient, almost gentle in the way he spoke to her. Was that really the same guy?
Roam backed into the shadow of a doorway, his heart beating a little faster.
Years earlier.
"Don’t worry, this’ll get you through the whole second half," Deshawn had said, slipping a little bag into Roam’s hand on this same street corner, a smile stretching across his lips, his teeth yellowed from cigarettes. "Take it right before tip-off. Guaranteed."
"And the side effects," Roam had asked, hesitant, turning the little bag over between his fingers.
"Eh, you get a little woozy around the edges," Deshawn had laughed, waving a dismissive hand. "Nothing serious. I take it myself sometimes."
Roam remembered the time Tylo took too strong a dose before a crucial game, throwing up on the sideline at halftime, eyes glazed, unable to recognize his own teammates for a good twenty minutes, mumbling nonsense while Nash said they had to keep playing anyway, scrambling to come up with a plan B.
"He’ll shake it off," Kej had said that day, more annoyed than worried. "Not the first time."
Nobody really asked questions back then. That was just how it worked, in that world. You swallowed whatever they handed you, you ran, you won or you lost, and the next day you did it all over again.
Roam looked away from the window, a bitter taste rising in his mouth, and kept walking, faster now, almost like he was fleeing.
Further along, where a run-down bar known more for its prostitutes than its liquor used to stand, a warm little storefront now rose in its place, light wood tables set out on the sidewalk, the smell of freshly ground coffee drifting through the cool evening air, mixed with something sweet, maybe pastry.
Roam slowed down despite himself, recognizing, behind the counter, a woman with short hair he’d run into dozens of times in a life that now felt like it belonged to someone else.
Marisol.
She was laughing with a customer, leaning over the register, a spotless green apron tied around her waist, no trace of the constant exhaustion he’d always known her to carry, those deep circles under her eyes she used to wear like a second face.
Years earlier.
"Another round, Roam?" Marisol had asked, that night, leaning over their wobbly table, a tray of empty glasses in hand, her tired but polite smile, or rather, forced one.
"Yeah, put it on my tab," he’d answered, one arm carelessly slung around Saya, the whole team roaring with laughter around the table that was too small for all of them, chairs borrowed from neighboring tables, Kej already telling Tylo some vulgar joke.
"You know she’s never gotten paid for half those nights," Rin had muttered later that night, once Marisol had gone off to serve another table. "The owner keeps it all, she just works for tips and whatever extras we ask her nicely to do after closing."
"Like what kind of extras," Kael had asked, curious.
Rin had just shrugged, a knowing smile on her lips, never really answering.
Nobody had pushed it further. Nobody, except Roam, who’d felt a vague unease pass over him, quickly drowned out by cheap alcohol and the high of their latest win.
He also vaguely remembered seeing Marisol disappear into the back room with one of the sketchy guys that night, coming back twenty minutes later, her makeup slightly mussed, a frozen smile plastered on her face.
He’d never really thought about it again. Until now.
He didn’t approach the window, crossing the street instead, unable to stay any longer in view of this woman who seemed, for the first time since he’d known her, truly at peace.
He cut through a narrower alley, once Deshawn’s territory and the like, now lined by a small community center with lit-up windows, colorful flyers taped to the glass advertising free tutoring.
The contrast barely registered. His mind was already somewhere else, dragged back by force to a night he’d been trying to forget completely for months, without ever really managing to.
A few days before they kicked Nash out.
Back then, he was still King Roam, and everyone knew it. His court of clowns followed him everywhere, laughing at even his worst jokes, and Rin and Saya orbited around him with that particular kind of attention reserved for someone with a real shot at getting out of the Underground. A real Breakball star was the only honest way out of this hole, and Roam was captain. Top scorer. Headed for a future nobody else around him could even hope for.
He’d already gone around to the whole team, one by one, convincing them individually, planting the seed in every conversation. Kej had grunted his agreement without much pushback. The twins had exchanged a look and nodded together, as always. Tylo had even seemed relieved.
Saya was left.
He’d found her near the lockers, checking her phone, completely indifferent.
"We’re cutting the shrimp before the game," he’d said, almost casual.
Saya had looked up, one eyebrow raised, chewing her gum without much interest. "Why’s that?"
"He’s useless," Roam had said, shrugging. "He’s gonna slow us down once a real scout notices us. They don’t want some guy who can’t even run right on their roster."
"Okay," Saya had said, with no more curiosity, her attention already back on her screen.
Roam had smiled, a slow, mean smile spreading across his lips. It was almost too easy.
"I actually need a favor from you."
"Like what."
"Go out with him." He’d let the sentence hang for a second, savoring his own idea. "Just till the game. Make him think he’s got a shot."
Saya had finally looked all the way up, an amused interest crossing her face. "Seriously? Why would I do that."
"For the fun of it," Roam had said, a laugh already escaping him. "Just to see his face when you dump him the night we kick him out. Like a double hit. Cut from the team and dumped the same day."
She’d burst out laughing, a real laugh this time, shaking her head. "You’re actually insane, you know that?"
"I know," he’d said, proud of himself.
She’d crossed her arms, a smirk playing on her lips. "And it doesn’t bother you that the best girl on the team’s sleeping with a shrimp?"
Roam had stepped closer, pulling her against him with an arm around her waist, his smile widening. "Quite the opposite." He’d raised an eyebrow, already savoring the thought. "Can’t wait to find out just how bad a shrimp is in bed. That’ll be my personal mission after, washing his weakness off you."
Saya had laughed against his chest, dragging a finger along his jaw, a spark in her eyes. "You sure you won’t get jealous if I develop a taste for little shrimps?"
"Not a chance," he’d said, certain of himself, kissing her briefly before letting her go. "Just make sure he really believes you’re serious."
She’d shrugged, indifferent, her gaze already drifting elsewhere. "Yeah, yeah, no problem. Not like it costs me anything."
She’d agreed without giving it much more thought, and Roam had gone back to rejoin the rest of the team, a satisfied smile on his lips, not a trace of guilt, back then, to ruin his fun.
Roam had never really examined why he’d done that, back then. He told himself, in the rare moments he thought about it, that it was pity. One last kind gesture before the sentence, a way to give himself a clean conscience.
But the truth, and he only really admitted it now, walking alone through this unrecognizable alley, was that it had been guilt in advance. He’d already known, somewhere deep down, that cutting Nash was a massive mistake. He’d known that this invisible kid, this ghost they humiliated day after day, was the real reason their plans kept working, one after another, without exception. Every win pulled off against stronger teams, every strategy that seemed to come out of nowhere and always worked, came from him. From all that classic basketball knowledge he was always talking about. From all those hours spent alone studying opponents while everyone else just hung around.
But Roam couldn’t stand being seen, even by himself, as the simple executor of a mind sharper than his own. Him, the captain. Him, the one whose name they chanted. Reduced, in his own head, to just the muscle.
I wanted to be the king, he thought, his footsteps echoing on the clean new sidewalk. Not somebody else’s hand.
He finally came out onto the main avenue, unrecognizable, new streetlights casting a warm, steady glow, storefronts lit up one after another, people walking without constantly glancing over their shoulders the way they used to, kids pouring out of a school he didn’t even remember existing before, their backpacks bouncing against their backs as they laughed together.
He stood still for a moment in the middle of the sidewalk, taking it all in, something heavy and bitter settling deep in his chest, almost painful.
Across the street, he spotted an old teammate from another neighborhood, a guy named Boubacar he’d vaguely known back then, dressed neatly now, coming out of a store with grocery bags, warmly greeting a neighbor.
Roam immediately stepped back into the shadow of a bus shelter, his heart pounding, terrified at the thought of being recognized, of having to explain where the Dust Dogs stood now, what he’d become. But was hiding even worth it? Wasn’t Boubacar already well aware of the Dust Dogs’ situation? How could he miss the biggest circus of the season? And meanwhile, what was the shrimp up to? Well. Everything around them.
He did all this, he thought, fists clenched in his pockets. The ghost we used to humiliate for laughs. He’s the one who changed this whole damn neighborhood, while we treated him like shit.
He waited for Boubacar to disappear around the corner before continuing on, head down, quickening his pace to get away from that avenue, too bright, too alive, too far from what he himself had become.
He finally arrived in front of his building, on a darker, narrower street that the neighborhood’s overall renovation seemed to have completely forgotten.
The paint on the facade was still just as chipped, wide gray and beige patches flaking off in places, revealing bare concrete underneath. The same smell of mildew and damp spilled out of the hallway the moment he pushed the front door open, that familiar mix of aging pipes and dust built up over the years.
The hallway light flickered weakly, half burnt out, blinking on and off exactly like it had years ago, throwing trembling shadows over the same faded graffiti that had covered the walls forever. The same plaintive sound of pipes echoed behind the thin walls, somewhere above him.
Nothing had changed here. Nothing at all.
Roam stood still for a moment in front of his door, on the third floor, the key trembling slightly in his hand, the contrast between the world he’d just walked through and this frozen, abandoned place squeezing his chest like a vise.
Everything else moved forward, he thought, finally turning the key in the worn lock. Except me.
The door creaked open, revealing the familiar darkness of his empty apartment.