He’d been in the shower for thirty minutes, just standing there, letting the hot water run as he imagined, eyes closed, how the game would go.
He was gonna walk out there , out into that frenzied jungle of wood and bleachers and screaming fans and sweat-filled air. He was gonna take a good long look at each basket and make a silent oath to them both that they would bow to him. And then he would forget about everything and everyone–it would be just him and the ball and the baskets and he would shoot and shoot and shoot, from warm up all the way to the last score of the game.
“I am the king of that court.”
Never mind all the supporting cast. Everyone knows nobody could shoot and play like him. They should all just have one goal in mind: “Give me the ball and let me score.” If they thought they could add to that role, they were useless. They could stop kidding themselves. On second thought, they could shoot, to fill the void by all pitching in whenever he’d take a break.
“I’m gonna make thirty points tonight. At least.”
Anyone who’d try to get in his way better be ready to get hurt. If they wanted blood, they’d get it. If they wanted to take the risk of looking like useless idiots, he’d give them that. And laugh at their faces as he put them to shame in front of the crowd.
The water began to prick his skin. He stepped out of the shower and started putting on his gear, paying no attention to his teammates as in his mind he saw only the court and the baskets and the ball — all eager and ready to do his bidding through the night.
Writing prompt derived from The Write Practice: 14 Prompts by Joe Bunting.