The Silence of a Rising Star

Grant Pierce

The Silence of a Rising Star

Chapter 1 – Tip-Off

The basketball court was a furnace of noise. Sneakers screeched on polished wood, the band hammered out a war drum rhythm from the bleachers, and every eye in the packed house tracked the boy with the ball—Alex Novak.

Six foot three, lean, sharp like a knife in motion. He was the kind of player who could shift the whole tempo of a game with one crossover, one pull-up jumper, one electric dunk. And tonight, with scouts scattered along the sidelines in windbreakers and clipboards, he seemed born for the spotlight.

“Novak! Novak!” The chant rose like thunder.

I should have been cheering too. Instead, I gripped my reporter’s notebook tighter and squinted at the court like I was reading a crime scene. That’s how it always was for me. Basketball wasn’t just action—it was evidence. Every move had a pattern. Every stumble had a reason.

Alex cut past a defender, exploded toward the rim, and—slam. The place shook. But when his feet hit the floor, I saw it. Just a flicker. A half-second hitch in his stride. A grimace that passed like a shadow across his face.

Nobody else noticed. The crowd roared, the scoreboard flipped another two points in our favor, and Alex jogged back on defense as if nothing had happened. But I wrote one word in my notebook anyway:

Limp.

I’m Ethan Miller. Seventeen. Student reporter for Eastwood High. But more importantly—future FBI profiler. At least, that’s the plan. My mom thinks it’s ridiculous, my dad thinks it’s dangerous, and Lena, my best friend, thinks it’s “very Ethan” of me. But when I see things other people miss—things like Alex’s split-second limp—I can almost believe I’m on my way.

The whistle blew. Timeout. Our players jogged to the bench. The band blared. The gym buzzed like a crime scene generator.

I leaned toward Lena in the scorer’s table row. She was tapping stats into her laptop for the team. Her hair was tied back, her pencil behind her ear. Always practical.

“Did you see it?” I asked.

“See what?”

“He’s hurt,” I said. “Alex. Limped after that dunk.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re seeing ghosts again, detective.”

“Profiler,” I corrected automatically. “And I know what I saw.”

Back on the court, Alex waved off a sub and adjusted the tape on his ankle. His eyes flicked to the scouts, then back to the game. Determined. Stubborn.

The whistle blew. Play resumed. Alex sprinted for the ball like nothing was wrong.

But my gut was already whispering: Something is wrong.

And when my gut whispers, I listen.

Chapter 2 – Dreams & Doubts

The court was empty by the time I packed up my notebook. The echoes of the game lingered—like a crime scene after the police tape comes down, when the evidence is gone but the questions hang in the air.

I wasn’t supposed to think like that, I knew. Most kids at Eastwood High thought in scores and highlights. I thought in patterns and motives. It’s not that I didn’t love basketball—I did. But basketball was a puzzle too, and puzzles are meant to be solved.

I found Lena in the hallway outside the locker room, leaning against the wall with her laptop balanced on her knees. She was typing up shooting percentages for the coach, her usual after-game ritual.

“You're going to stand there like a stalker,” she said without looking up, “or actually say hi?”

“Hi,” I said. I slid down the wall beside her and pulled out my notes.

“You’ve already filled a whole notebook,” she muttered. “What are you writing, Ethan? The great American novel?”

“Article,” I said. “For the paper. And maybe… something bigger.”

She glanced at me sideways. “Don’t tell me. You’re practicing for when the FBI finally calls you up.”

I grinned despite myself. “You joke, but profilers notice details other people miss. Tonight, I saw Alex limp after his dunk.”

“Ethan,” she sighed. “Alex just dropped thirty points in front of scouts. He’s fine. Stop building a case file on him.”

But I shook my head. “No. Something’s wrong. He’s hiding it.”

Before Lena could argue, the locker room door opened. Alex Novak stepped out, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair damp from a quick shower. He moved like a guy who’d just won the lottery—confident stride, relaxed smile.

But when he thought no one was looking, I caught it again. A faint hitch in his step. The kind you wouldn’t notice unless you were watching closely. Which, of course, I was.

Alex saw us and flashed a grin. “Hey, Miller. Make me sound like Jordan in the article, yeah?”

“Only if Jordan had a bum ankle,” I muttered.

“What?” Alex frowned.

“Nothing,” I said quickly.

He laughed, tossed a wave at Lena, and headed for the parking lot. His stride was smooth again, easy. Like nothing was wrong.

But I wrote in my notebook anyway:

Novak hides pain.

Lena groaned. “Seriously, Ethan. One day you’re going to accuse the wrong person and end up with a black eye.”

“Or,” I said, clicking my pen shut, “one day I’m going to be the guy who solves the case nobody else can.”

She gave me a look—half fond, half exasperated. “You’re impossible.”

Maybe. But as Alex disappeared into the night, limping just a fraction when the lights hit him at the wrong angle, I knew I was right.

Profiler Rule #1: Patterns don’t lie. People do.

Chapter 3 – Playing with Fire

The locker room smelled like sweat and disinfectant. Most of the players had cleared out, their voices fading down the hall, but I lingered near the doorway with my notebook half-hidden under my arm.

Through the crack in the door, I could see Coach Harris and Alex. The coach’s voice was low, but firm—the kind of tone that wasn’t meant for the public.

“You keep this up,” Harris said, “and you’re playing with fire.”

Alex leaned against his locker, trying to look casual, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. “I’m fine, Coach. Just a tweak. I can handle it.”

Harris rubbed his temples. He was grayer this year, the pressure of scouts weighing heavily. “That’s what they all say, until a tweak turns into a tear.”

Alex shot him a look. “Tell that to Michael Jordan. He played through everything.”

Coach gave a humorless laugh. “Jordan? Kid, you’ve been watching too much Last Dance. Yeah, Jordan played through pain—but he also had the Bulls’ medical staff, millions in contracts, and a body built like a tank. You’ve got tape, ibuprofen, and a draft slot that’ll vanish if you collapse in front of the scouts.”

Alex didn’t answer. He adjusted the strap on his gym bag, jaw clenched.

Harris lowered his voice, but I caught it anyway: “Don’t make me the guy who watches you throw your career away. You hear me?”

Alex finally nodded. “I hear you.”

The door creaked suddenly, and I nearly stumbled as Lena yanked me back by the sleeve.

“Eavesdropping?” She whispered, eyebrows raised.

“Investigating,” I corrected, trying to steady my heartbeat.

“You’re going to get caught.”

“Maybe. But did you hear what the coach said? He knows something’s wrong.”

Lena sighed. “Or maybe he’s just a coach who worries too much.”

But my pen was already scratching against the paper:

Coach warning: ‘Playing with fire.’ Jordan reference. Cover-up?

My gut told me I was getting warmer. The injury wasn’t just bad luck—it was a secret.

And secrets always had a price.

Chapter 4 – Behind the Mask

Practice ran late the next day. The gym lights buzzed overhead, casting pale circles on the hardwood. The rest of the team laughed and shoved each other as they headed to the locker room, but Alex stayed behind, running drills long after everyone else had stopped.

From the bleachers, I watched him move. Smooth. Precise. Like every step was a message to the scouts who’d be back next week: I’m fine. I’m worth it.

Except he wasn’t fine.

Every time he planted his right foot hard, there it was again—that tiny grimace, the tightening of his jaw, the way his hand brushed his ankle as if he could will it to stop screaming.