The first time Noah Callahan stepped back onto Ravenhurst's campus after the accident, it felt like the entire university was watching him limp. The November air was sharp and cold, carrying the scent of wet leaves and the muffled hum of students rushing between lectures. He pulled his hoodie lower, hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders hunched forward like he could hide inside them.

This place used to feel too small for him. He'd once walked these paths like a king, students calling his name, teammates flanking him, professors looking the other way when he skipped class because they knew — Noah Callahan was the future of Ravenhurst basketball. The son of Daniel Callahan. The heir to a legacy that had started long before him.

Now? He was just another student limping back from the hospital, his kingdom stripped away.

The memory played without permission, every detail so sharp it hurt.

The championship qualifier, gym packed to the rafters, banners waving, Ravenhurst jerseys bleeding blue across the stands. Noah was on fire that night. Twenty-seven points, unstoppable on the drive. He pivoted hard into the lane, Malik clearing a screen for him. He saw the rim, launched for the layup—

And then the world shattered.

The snap was audible, grotesque. Like a branch breaking clean in winter. His right knee buckled sideways, collapsing under him. His body hit the court with a thud that silenced thousands in an instant. Pain detonated through his leg, white-hot, unbearable. His scream drowned under the crowd's gasp. Teammates circled, panicked shouts cutting through the chaos: "Don't move him! Call medics!" Malik's hands pressed to his shoulder, Jaden's voice breaking as he yelled for help. Above it all, Noah stared up at the ceiling lights, the whole gym spinning, his career leaking out of him second by second.

The stretcher rolled him away to stunned silence.

Seven hours of surgery. Torn ACL, shredded meniscus, damaged cartilage. When the doctor delivered the words, Noah only heard one thing: career-ending. Twelve weeks of hospital ceilings. Dozens of reporters calling for statements. Headlines whispering the same phrase: The Callahan legacy cut short.

His father had visited once, a shadow in the sterile light, smelling of cologne and fading victories. Daniel Callahan, the legend. He stood at the foot of the bed, jaw set, voice heavy with restrained disappointment.

"You'll get back. Callahans don't quit."

Then he left.

But Noah hadn't gotten back. Not yet. Maybe never.

Now here he was, trudging into the stadium that had once crowned him king. The squeak of sneakers and the echo of basketballs on hardwood stabbed into him like knives.

"Noah!"

Malik's shout pulled him out of the spiral. The point guard jogged over, grin wide, eyes bright. He clapped Noah's shoulder with the same easy confidence he'd always had. "Man, look at you! Campus feels right again. Thought you'd gone Hollywood on us."

Jaden followed, towering as always, smirk tugging at his lips but his eyes betraying something softer. "Coach said you'd be back today. Whole place feels different already."

Theo, the freshman, hovered a little behind them, voice cracking as he said, "It's good to see you, Noah."

Noah forced a smile. "Yeah. Good to be back."

Liar. You hate every second of this.

The doors groaned open, spilling the full sound of practice. The echoes swelled around him, memories latching onto each noise: sneakers squealing, a ball smacking the rim, a whistle shrill enough to cut bone. His stomach knotted. His father's voice whispered from the rafters: "Discipline. Dominance. Never falter."

"Callahan."

Coach Dempsey's voice snapped like a whip from across the court. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, he beckoned Noah over. With a tilt of his head, he dismissed the teammates. Malik patted Noah's back one more time before jogging away, Jaden gave a nod, Theo lingered then followed.

At the edge of the gym stood someone unfamiliar. A girl, clutching a clipboard to her chest, Ravenhurst polo tucked neatly into her jeans. Professional, focused, calm.

"This is you," Dempsey said. "She's a physical therapy student. She'll be working with you this semester."

Noah's lip curled into something that wanted to be a smirk but tasted like ash. "So I've got a babysitter now."

Dempsey didn't react. "Session starts today. Take it seriously." With that, the coach turned, leaving Noah alone with her and the sterile tang of the rehab room.

Noah stood with his back half-turned toward the wall, resistance band hooked low against it, forcing him through slow, grinding stretches that set his knee on fire. He moved like he didn't care, half-effort at best, but every tug carved deeper than he wanted anyone to see.

But she didn't bite. Her presence was steady, unyielding. She didn't flinch at his sarcasm. She didn't soften when he slacked. She kept pressing. Kept pushing.

Then the pain surged, sharp and humiliating. His jaw clenched. His breath came through his teeth. Something inside him snapped.

"SHUT UP!" Noah roared, the sound ripping out of him as his fist smashed into the wall. The crack reverberated through the sterile room, dust shivering loose from the ceiling lights.

His eyes cut sideways—and he saw her. Clipboard rigid in her grip, eyes wide, shoulders drawn tight. She hadn't moved, hadn't said anything, but the shock in her posture was clear as glass.

Guilt stabbed through him sharper than the pain in his hand. His chest heaved. "I—shit. I'm sorry," he muttered, the words ragged, half-choked. His voice was lower now, stripped of fire, sounding almost alien in his own mouth. "I didn't mean..."

The apology dissolved, unfinished. His breath faltered, his hands trembled. The shame pressed down harder than the injury ever had. Look at you—terrifying someone who's only here to help. You can't even keep yourself together. You ruin everything you touch.

He slid down the wall, blood dripping from split knuckles, burying his face in his hands. The fury was gone, replaced by something worse—an emptiness that felt endless.

When he finally spoke again, it wasn't anger anymore. It was something worse. Despair.

"I know you're trying to help... but what if I can't get better?" His voice cracked in the stillness, barely audible, yet cutting through the air like glass. "What am I supposed to be then? Who am I without basketball?"