Ace of the Bench

The first few days back home were suffocating.

Yuuto's parents set him up in the living room with the couch pulled close to the TV, his game console on a low table, and a small stack of sports magazines his mom thought would cheer him up.

They didn't.

He spent most of the day half-watching whatever was on, controller in hand but barely touching the buttons. Every time a highlight reel came on TV, he muted it. He didn't want to see the court, didn't want to see the speed and fluidity he couldn't replicate anymore.

The wheelchair was parked just a few feet from the couch, but it felt like it took up the whole room. Even when he sat in it, it didn't feel like moving just rolling around in the same small space.

On the third afternoon, Daichi came by again. This time he brought snacks bags of chips, a bottle of soda, and a pack of basketball trading cards.

"Got something for you," Daichi said, tossing the cards onto Yuuto's lap.

Yuuto smirked and flipped the first one over. "You think a piece of cardboard is gonna replace playing?"

Daichi shrugged, dropping into the armchair across from him. "I just thought… y'know… you could still collect your favorite players."

They played video games for a while, but Yuuto couldn't help noticing how Daichi's eyes kept drifting to the basketball in the corner, like he wanted to ask something but didn't dare.

"You can say it," Yuuto muttered finally.

"Say what?"

"That you can't wait to tell me how good practice has been without me slowing everyone down."

Daichi frowned. "Don't be like that, man. No one's happy you're out."

Yuuto looked away. "Yeah, well… give it a few weeks."

Later that week, two more teammates stopped by. They brought get-well cards signed by the whole team. Some messages were encouraging We'll see you back on court! but others, though well-meaning, felt like pity: Even if you can't play again, you'll always be part of the team.

Yuuto forced smiles, cracked a few jokes, but the moment they left, the smile slid away. He stared at the wheelchair.

Even if you can't play again.

The words clung to him like wet clothes.

By the sixth night, the summer air was heavy and warm, carrying the faint smell of grilled food from a neighbor's backyard. Yuuto sat by the open window in the living room, his leg stretched out on the couch, the TV off.

Then he heard it thump, thump, thump.

Basketball.

Somewhere down the street, kids were playing. Their laughter floated up with the sound of sneakers scraping asphalt, the ball hitting the rim, the occasional "Nice shot!" ringing in the night.

He closed his eyes. For a moment, he was there with them feeling the weight of the ball in his palms, the snap of the net, the pounding rush of a fast break.

Then his knee twitched, sending a sharp reminder of reality.

His eyes opened, and the ceiling felt too close again. He rolled onto his side, gripping a pillow like it might hold him together. The sounds outside went on, cheerful and careless.

Inside, Yuuto lay in silence, wide awake.

Three days later, the summer heat was unbearable.

The fan in the living room rattled as it pushed stale air around. Yuuto sat in his wheelchair, one hand drumming on the armrest, the other gripping his phone. His social media feed was flooded with updates from the summer basketball circuit tournaments, highlights, kids his age getting scouted.

And there it was.

A photo of Shun.

Grinning, one arm slung around the coach of their future high school team, holding a championship trophy from some invitational. The caption read:

"The next big thing in high school basketball."

Yuuto's grip on the phone tightened. He could almost hear Shun's voice from that day: Bet you won't even survive this game, Kai.

His thumb hovered over the screen. He wanted to throw the phone across the room, but the thought of explaining another broken thing to his parents stopped him. Instead, he dropped it onto the couch and stared at the basketball in the corner.

It had been sitting there since he came home same spot, same angle, untouched.

Something inside him snapped.

He wheeled himself over, grabbed it, and set it on his lap. The familiar leather texture was both comforting and cruel. His hands remembered the grip, the way the grooves aligned with his fingers. His mind remembered the court. His knee remembered the pain.

Without thinking, he tried to stand.

It was a bad idea.

The moment weight touched his right leg, fire shot up from his knee, sharp enough to make him gasp and stumble back into the chair. The ball rolled away, bumping against the wall.

Yuuto sat there, shaking not from the pain this time, but from the flood of everything he'd been holding back.

The quiet frustration from being stuck inside.

The way people's voices softened when they talked to him now.

The pity in their eyes.

The thought of Shun taking everything he'd worked for.

It all crashed into him at once.

He slammed his fist into the armrest, once, twice, three times, until his knuckles throbbed. His chest tightened, and before he realized it, tears blurred his vision.

"I can't…" His voice broke. "I can't let it end like this."

The words hung in the air, raw and unpolished.

He wiped his face with the back of his hand, breathing hard. His gaze drifted to the ball against the wall.

Slowly, carefully, he wheeled over and picked it up again this time holding it not like a reminder of what he'd lost, but a promise of what he'd take back.

It wouldn't be tomorrow.

It wouldn't be next week.

But someday, he'd be back.

And when he was, Shun would be the one struggling to keep up.