I keep icing the back of my head. The swelling has gone down, and I’m hoping it goes down even more before Coach sees it. Too bad I don’t play baseball anymore. My Monarch’s ball cap would’ve been perfect. If I can get the swelling down enough, Coach won’t notice a thing.

When I show up that evening, it isn’t Coach who questions me, but Soul. “What happened to you? Since when does the Wordsmith not show up to class?” Soul is already sitting on the sofa, playing basketball against the computer.

Luckily, I have my lame excuse ready, and I only have Soul in one of my classes this semester. “I had to see my counselor … about next year at IA.” I pick up the controller from the coffee table and make a quick decision to sit in the chair instead of the sofa. My position conveniently hides Skinny’s lucky shot on the back right side of my head.

Soul immediately peps up and puts the game in two-player mode. For the first time, I’m having trouble concentrating. I’m not sure if it’s the lump on my head or my task in general, but the game on the screen stays close for the first time. Soul is fully engaged as Coach walks in.

“Any homework, gentlemen?” Coach picks up a controller and pauses the game. It’s the only way he’ll have Soul’s full attention.

“Coach!” Soul complains. “Finished it!” Soul unpauses the game, and we continue.

“You finished the health assessment, Son?”

“Done, Coach.” Soul nods toward a piece of paper on the table. “Look! The Wordsmith is slipping.” Soul is genuinely excited. He senses I’m giving it my all, and he has a chance.

I find myself trying to look like I’m not trying, and that feels even more out of place. It’s obvious; something’s wrong, and I won’t be able to hide it from Coach if this keeps up. I wish Coach would leave, but he sits down and watches us play. I notice I’m tapping my foot—is that something I always do? I don’t think it is, so I stop. They don’t seem to be paying me any attention, but I feel compelled to initiate conversation. “Where’s that assignment, Coach, assessment?” He doesn’t answer right away. He’s on to me, maybe; I’m not myself.

“Don’t worry about it,” he finally says.

Then, it’s quiet for what feels like a long time, an uncomfortably long time. My mouth is dry, and I find that I keep trying unsuccessfully to swallow. I wanna get some water, but I don’t want to call attention to myself.

“Really!?” Soul blurts out from nowhere, and I jump.

I’m wondering what’s wrong with him, what he means.

Then, Soul mumbles, “If I don’t come to class, Coach, I don’t have to worry about the assignments either.”

I can’t tell if Soul’s asking a question or making a statement.

Coach doesn’t answer or least I don’t think he does which is weird, weird that he doesn’t answer and that I’m not sure if he did. I can feel him looking at me now. He sits there the entire game, something he never does.

I focus as hard as I can. Soul has his best defender on me every time my star gets the ball. He tries to steal it, and I make him pay with a crossover and dunk. Soul keeps trying the same move, that stupid pull-up jumper. He makes a few … more than a few actually. I’m taking the Animal to the rack this time. My head stopped hurting before, but now it’s throbbing again. Dunk, boy! Soul still keeps going for them threes. He can have those. He can live and die by ’em. My head is pounding. It’s going down to the wire. Soul is up by two with fourteen seconds left in the game. Time for some Wordsmith wizardry. Ten … Nine … Eight. I cross the timeline. Seven … Six … Five. I’m squinting now, barely able to see the screen clearly. Four … Three … Two. I fire away over the top of Soul’s man just outside the three-point line. When the buzzer sounds, I pump my fists and yell, “Hell, yeah!” celebrating my one-point victory.

When I look up, Soul and Coach are staring at me. Coach is scratching his head, yawning, and Soul has his eyes and mouth wide open. There are creases in his forehead.

Coach jumps up as if he’s just realized something, grabs Soul’s assignment off the table and leaves the room.

“You OK, Wordsmith?” Soul asks. You’re acting a little—”

“Soul!” Coach yells from the other room.

“What up, Coach?”

“Get in here. This is chicken scratch,” Coach booms.

Something’s wrong, but I’m not that far gone. He’s talking to Soul about me. Coach never does sidebars. He comes right out in the open and speaks his mind. He’s playing cloak-and-dagger for Soul’s sake.

Soul comes back in the room with a liter of Gatorade and a liter of Mountain Dew. He’s also palming something. He hands me the Gatorade and then deposits two Motrin 600 caplets into my hand. “Headache, huh? I knew something was wrong with you. I only lost by one point. Too good to be true.” He cracks open the Mountain Dew and chugs it. “Coach said we can stay up as long as we want.”

Coach knows, or at least suspects, I have a concussion. I remember that time I got a concussion sparring, and my father made me stay up all night. Not sure why they do that but oh well.

“How’s yo weak AAU team doin’?” Soul asks.

“Good.” I start the game over in hopes of distracting him. It works. He doesn’t talk much after that; his gray matter is focused on winning his first legit game over me.

“They got room for one more?” he asks a few minutes later.

“Maybe. I’ll ask the coach,” I lie.

This does the trick. Now he has two things on his mind to keep him at bay. I open my Gatorade, pop in a caplet, swig, another caplet and then down half of the yellow fluid. I feel instantly better. We play for hours, and before I know it my headache is gone, and I’m feeling like myself—I think. The fact that Soul seems to be trying harder and losing by more supports my observation. At one point, I rush by a stationary defender Soul had been controlling and dunk. I only then realize Soul is snoring. The Dew has done its duty and ran its course. I pause the game and check the watch; it’s 4:30 am, and Naz hasn’t moved.

I feel pretty good. The bump on my head is down to a respectable golf ball-size. Coach comes in the room. He’s holding a flashlight in one hand and his phone in the other.

“Stand up,” he commands.

I know better than to ask why; I just comply. Bending down a bit so he can look me in the eyes, he shines the light in them. He angles around, and no doubt now sees the knot on my noodle.

“AAU ball is tough, huh?” he says, sarcastically.

He stands up, turns away, and puts the phone to his ear. “A concussion,” he says. “Here.” He hands me the phone and walks away.

The General! “Hey, Dad—”

“You get your butt home right now; this is over.”

“But, Dad—”

“It’s not a request; it’s an order. The car’s already on the way.”

“But Dad, you taught me that a man must always be willing to sacrifice—”

“You’re not a man,” he cuts me off. “Not yet. Men follow orders. Your orders were to observe, discourage, and report. Not engage.”

“I’m fine. It’s a slight concussion. I’ve had one before.”

“You won’t have one again.”

“Dad, I got careless. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right. Make sure your things are packed.”

I know the General well enough to know that a show of force is the only thing he’ll respond to, that he’ll respect. If I back down now, it’s over. I steel myself and stand my ground for the first time against an unmovable force. “I won’t be here!” I look around to see if Coach is still in earshot. I have to mean what I say. I’m prepared to bolt out the door at a moment’s notice.

“You what?” he responds, incredulous.

“I won’t be here.” I put my coat on.

He’s quiet on the other end, either impressed or pissed off. Probably both.

Feeling like I’ve made a dent, I try to drive the point home. “I’ll leave, and … and you won’t find me. I-I know these streets better than you. And you’ll have to wait until I complete my mission anyway.” I feel like I’m rambling, like my threat is losing its sting.

“Don’t believe that, Son.”

And of course, I don’t. The General can find a needle in a haystack with sunglasses on in the middle of the night.

“Dad, please let me finish this. I promise not to engage again.”

“Harvis, these aren’t middle school bullies; they’re hardened street thugs that will take your life with no remorse and celebrate as an afterthought.”

“I know, Dad. Observe, discourage, and report, nothing more. If I get so much as a scratch or a hangnail, I’ll catch the Helix home and never set foot in the Exclave again.”

There’s silence, and I can tell he’s thinking about it.

Coach has returned. I wouldn’t be able to get by him now even if I could teleport.

“Not one scratch,” he says.

“Yes,” My heart leaps out of my chest as I make a fist in victory.

Coach shakes his head.

“Let me speak to Coach.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I pull the phone away from my ear.

“Harvis,” I hear the General say.

“Yeah, Dad.”

“Do what you have to do, but be careful.”

“I will. I promise.” I hand the phone to Coach, and he leaves the room.

I pace around the room, celebrating my moral victory and not really sure how to proceed but ecstatic that I live to fight another day, confident I will not fail again. Coach returns a few minutes later with a blanket and throws it at me. He suggests that I get some sleep and that Soul and I take a day off from school to get some much-needed rest and regroup. The regroup part is obviously for me. I take him up on his suggestion. When Soul and I finally wake up, it’s noon. Coach is already gone. Soul has forgotten about last night. Naz is staying put for the moment. All is right with the world.