On the Edge of the List

He called for the ball, turned, and prepared to hit his trademark curling shot. Mason suddenly appeared in front of him. Brooks did not pass. He wanted to beat Mason. It was the instinct of a superstar, and the pride of one. It was exactly what Mason had been waiting for. He did not bite on the first touch. On Brooks's second, he put his body into the lane. Their shoulders collided. Mason's left knee jolted hard, pain whitening his vision, but his right foot still hooked the ball away. The white team's holding midfielder took it and played forward at once. Mason turned and sprinted. He was not fast. At least, not compared with the version of himself before twenty-one.