Basketball Drip Novels & Stories

The weight of three short words someone died settled heavily over the room, refusing to be displaced. I stared at Jace, trying to process the shift in him; the arrogant, untouchable team captain had completely vanished, replaced by someone visibly haunted by a memory he had tried for months to bury. When he finally revealed that the dead player was Ethan Cole, a member of our fiercest rivals at Westbrook University, the championship game from seven months prior suddenly morphed into something far more sinister. Back then, my world had ended with a one-point loss, the roar of the crowd, and Jace stealing the ball to seal our defeat. I had spent months nurturing a bitter grudge over a basketba

Drip. Drip. Drip. A slow but steady dripping echoed in the small room where I was held. It never stopped and made my head hurt. It helped me focus on one thing. It was the same length as one Mississippi, two Mississippi… so I counted time until I forgot where I was and had to start all over again.

Sweat stung my eyes as I dribbled, passed and defended, my focus solely on the game. The clock wound down to the final seconds, the score tied. The ball was in my hands, a chance to make the winning shot. I drove towards the basket, the crowd's roar a deafening symphony in my ears. I saw the opening, the path to victory but then… I hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second, a flash of doubt and a ghost of a past mistake or perhaps the sheer pressure, made me pause.

I could do nothing but feel lucky about it and give my best shot. This time with the start of the game when the ball was bounced I grabbed the ball just like eagle perching its prey, dribbling and bouncing and passed it to Mac, who then passed to Alex, then Steward then it would reach me at three point and if I miss there was Ben for cover up just beyond two point line. But I cannot miss it for the world. I have to win this match and then go ahead to win that girl of my dreams.

Then he tilts his chin toward the free-throw line. “Ball.” I grab one from the rack. My palms are slick before I’ve even dribbled. My teammates glance over—curiosity flickering—but none of them dare interrupt when Coach Reynolds zeroes in on someone. “Routine,” he says. I dribble twice, spin, lift, release. Swish. Relief flickers, but I don’t let it show. Reset. Shoot again. Swish. Then rim. Then swish. By the tenth shot, my chest is tight, not from the drill but from waiting.

He placed me down carefully. "I thought my brother was a basketball holic but I think you are worse Drake ..." There was a ball, jersey, shoes and some trophies and awards in a display case.The floor was green and looked like a basketball field.The wall Infront of me was a huge image showing a scene of a basketball game.Everything screamed basketball in this room.The wall arts, throw pillows, curtains,basketball goal bed.Damn I have never seen anybody who loves basketball like this man. I looked at Drake's starstruck but he was busy texting on his phone."Who are you Drake?" I slapped his arm.

I feel like I'm on the edge of the cliff, overwhelmed with emotions that only subside when Jasper takes the ball for himself. Bouncing on the floor, moving around the court, dribbling past his opponents as he approaches the hoop, Jasper stands out, and not just in my eyes. His movements are so precise and fast that they don't look like a human's... maybe that's why people aren't celebrating and shouting his name. Then he buries his hands in the hoop with a leap so majestic that it makes me gasp. The ball slides in and goes in the basket! I let out a high-pitched scream, standing up because I couldn't contain the adrenaline rush from his body to my veins. I look at the clock, with only one mi

𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔? 𝐷𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑠𝑛𝑎𝑝 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑠?' My subconsciousness didn't hesitate to make me feel horrible. I walked into the room without more difficulty this time since I was using the crutch. I dropped the crutch and then dragged my leg to the bathroom to take a shower.

He sprinted down the court, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. With a swift dribble, he dodged a defender and leapt into the air. The crowd held its breath as he released the ball, arcing it toward the hoop. Swish! The net rippled, and the basket baller pumped his fist in triumph, his teammates cheering as he scored the game-winning three-pointer. The girls were screaming his name. Most of them wished to be near him. His name was on a placard ‘Austin’ written in bold. They cheered, but his eyes locked gazes with the only one that held his heart. She blew him a kiss, and he blew one back.

But five days after, he was still calling. The pattern’s the same every day. Wake up before dawn, run the route I mapped out around the motel to stay sharp. Shower with that cheap bar of soap. Then I catch the early bus back toward school, get off a stop early, and jog the rest of the way so nobody sees me arriving from the wrong direction. Basketball practice is the only reason I risk coming back. Coach would bench me for missing too many, and I just recently got unsuspended, and right now, the court is the one place I still feel like myself. Dre and basketball, but we aren’t speaking, so it’s just basketball.