The rain had long stopped by the time Kyrie stepped through the front door. The sky had turned a dusky blue, the kind that blurred the horizon into nothingness. Damp strands of hair clung to his forehead, and his socks squelched faintly with each step on the hardwood.
The house smelled like soy sauce and leftover noodles. His father was in the kitchen, a half-eaten dinner plate forgotten beside the TV. On the screen, an old match replayed—1997, maybe. Grainy footage. A midfielder split two defenders with a clean diagonal pass, and Kyrie recognized his father's younger face in the quick camera cut.
He didn't announce his presence. He didn't have to.
"How was practice?" his dad asked without looking away from the screen.
"Efficient," Kyrie replied, voice even.
His dad gave a small nod, his jaw tensing as the replay paused. Maybe it had glitched. Maybe he had hit the remote by mistake. Or maybe silence just hung easier when you didn't know what to say to your own son.
Kyrie moved on without waiting.
In the living room, Hannah was lying on her stomach with a coloring book, her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth in concentration. Charlie sat cross-legged beside her, flipping through a manga. The TV murmured quietly in the background—some animated show with bright colors and exaggerated laughter.
"Hi Ky!" Hannah chirped, waving a purple crayon.
Kyrie nodded. "Hey."
Charlie didn't say anything. But her eyes followed him as he passed, something unreadable flickering across her face.
---
Upstairs, his room was as he'd left it. Ordered. Minimal. Clinical.
A whiteboard stretched over his desk, covered in dry-erase markers—formations, angles, notes in blocky handwriting. On the far wall, a corkboard displayed pinned printouts of player heatmaps and velocity tracking charts. A laptop blinked softly in sleep mode.
He sat at the desk and powered it up. His wristband synced with the device, transferring short clips from earlier.
He skipped through most of it—until the screen paused on Dante's backheel volley.
He watched it once. Then again. And again.
The ball curved as if defying physics. A moment that shouldn't have been possible. Too casual. Too instinctual. And yet so precise.
Kyrie opened his notebook.
> Style: No visible trigger. Tempo: Improvised. Spatial awareness: Off charts. Likely not replicable—pure instinct.
His pencil hovered.
Then slowly, almost involuntarily, he wrote:
> I felt frustrated. I felt... something else.
He stared at the line.
Then he scratched it out. Hard. Until the paper tore.
---
The air in the room shifted. A ripple of memory tugged at the edges of his mind.
Collendale.
Years ago.
---
It was a sun-bleached afternoon, the kind where the heat pressed down like wet cement. The cracked asphalt of the street court shimmered. Makeshift goals had been set up with trash bins and torn hoodies. Someone had spray-painted a circle in the center, half faded.
The neighborhood kids buzzed with energy. Laughter. Banter. Ball tapping against walls. Kyrie stood quietly off to the side, hands clenched into the sleeves of his oversized hoodie.
Teams were being picked. He wasn't.
"Not him, dude."
"Yeah, he's so slow."
"He passed it to the other team last time."
"I don't want him."
"Neither do I."
Each comment was a slap without the courtesy of a hand.
Kyrie said nothing. He tried to look unbothered.
"I'll just sit here," he offered, gesturing to the concrete curb. "I'll throw the ball back in if it goes out."
Nobody responded.
So he sat.
And watched.
They played without him. Fast. Sloppy. Loud. Passionate.
Every time the ball bounced near the edge, Kyrie would catch it on reflex and roll it back with practiced ease. No one said thank you.
He kept watching. Not the players. The spaces.
Where they moved. Where they didn't. Where the ball lingered longer than it should. Where people forgot to look.
Maybe what I lack is understanding, he thought.
He opened his notebook—he always carried a small one, dog-eared and faded. On the last page, he began to draw lines. Dots. X's.
The game finished. They left in pairs and groups, laughing, mocking each other. No one looked at him.
When the court was empty, Kyrie stood. Picked up the worn-out ball they had left behind.
He placed it at the center of the faded spray-painted circle.
Then he ran toward it, paused—imagining a defender—and passed left.
To no one.
But in his head, the pattern was forming.
---
Back in the present, Kyrie shut the laptop.
The air felt thick.
He grabbed his hoodie and left his room without a word.
---
The night was quiet. A humid breeze curled through the trees. The park was mostly empty except for a flickering streetlamp and a bench warped with time.
He brought a ball. Of course he did.
He dribbled slowly, methodically. Then tried to recreate Dante's move. Again. Again.
The ball flew wide each time.
He sat down, elbows on knees.
"There's no code for chaos," he whispered.
But his mind couldn't stop calculating.
What if Dante isn't just talented? What if he doesn't think at all? What if instinct can outperform intellect?
He hated that thought.
Because it meant his system was flawed.
And if his system was flawed…
Then what had all those lonely years been for?
---
He returned home late. Quietly.
The house was still. Lights dimmed. Only Charlie's door had a faint light leaking under it.
He passed by.
"You okay?" she called out softly.
Kyrie froze.
"Yeah," he said.
Pause.
"You sure?"
He hesitated.
"Don't worry about me," he said finally. "It's not your variable."
Charlie groaned faintly. "You talk weird sometimes."
Kyrie walked into his room, closed the door behind him.
Sat on the bed.
And stared at the ceiling.
Until dawn began to smear across the sky.