I remember a student near the sideline catching a ball awkwardly against his chest and laughing in relief.
They were small, unremarkable moments.
The kind that vanish from memory after an ordinary school day.
But I remember them because of what happened afterward.
As the game continued, the number of active players decreased.
Some students moved toward the sidelines.
Others stood with their hands on their knees, breathing hard.
Bryce remained near the middle of the court.
He seemed entirely comfortable.
His face was flushed from running, but he still had enough energy to shout across the room.
I was tired.
My shirt clung to my back, and my glasses kept slipping toward the end of my nose.
I pushed them up again.
I checked the nearest ball.
Then I heard the signal that the game was over.
The movement on the court changed immediately.
Students stopped chasing one another.
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A few began walking toward the walls.
Some bent down to collect stray balls.
The teacher gave another instruction about putting the equipment away.
And just like that, the competition was finished.
At least, it was supposed to be.
I remember feeling relieved.
Not dramatically relieved.
Just the ordinary relief of knowing that I could stop worrying about where the next ball would come from.
I took a breath.
I loosened my shoulders.
I looked toward the side of the gym where we were supposed to gather.
The teacher was moving equipment toward the storage room.
For several seconds, everything seemed normal.
Then I heard Bryce laugh.
It was a familiar sound.
I did not turn toward him.
There was no reason to.
The game was finished.
I was not expecting another throw.
And that was exactly why I did not see the ball until it was almost against my face.
The impact snapped my head to one side.
My glasses left my nose.
For one terrible instant, the whole gym seemed to tilt.
I heard the ball hit the floor.
Then I heard the frames of my glasses skitter across the polished wood.
And then came Bryce’s triumphant shout.
“HEADSHOT!”
I stood still, pressing my lips together.
There was a sting along my cheekbone.
My eyes watered from the surprise more than from the pain.
I blinked several times, trying to clear my vision.
Across the gym, Bryce had planted his feet near the center line.
His grin was wide.
He looked delighted with himself.
A few students laughed immediately.
Others glanced toward the equipment room.
One boy half-raised a hand as if he were going to say something, then let it fall.
I remember that small movement clearly.
It was not much.
But it told me that at least one person understood the throw had been wrong.
I wished he would say so.
I also understood why he hesitated.
Bryce was still laughing.
And when Bryce was laughing, contradicting him could change the direction of his attention.
My glasses lay on the floor several feet in front of me.
Everything beyond them looked indistinct.
I took a step.
Then another.
I tried to ignore the laughter.
All I had to do was pick up my glasses.
The class would be over soon.
The teacher would come back.
I could go to the next period.
I could make this another incident I endured instead of remembered.
That was what I told myself as I bent down.
Then the second ball hit my shoulder.
It was not as painful as the first.
But it changed something.
The impact pushed me slightly off balance, and I caught myself before falling.
The sound of another ball bouncing away filled the space between the laughter.
I stayed bent for a second, looking down at my hand on the floor.
I did not know who had thrown the second ball.
I knew only that the game had ended, I was no longer participating, and somebody had decided that hitting me was still entertaining.
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Bryce’s voice echoed above everyone else’s.
“COME ON, NERD!
THROW SOMETHING BACK!”
He sounded almost impatient.
As though I were failing to perform the role he had prepared for me.
I looked toward the ball near my shoe.
The students around us were watching.
Some had the same expressions I had seen many times before: amusement, curiosity, discomfort, uncertainty.
Others were simply waiting.
They had watched Bryce mock me all semester.
They knew I rarely answered him.
Perhaps they expected me to look down again.
Perhaps they expected an embarrassed smile.
Perhaps they expected me to throw the ball badly so Bryce could catch it and make everyone laugh.
I could not know what they expected.
But I knew what Bryce wanted.
He wanted a reaction.
Preferably one that would leave me looking smaller than I already felt.
