The Silence of a Rising Star

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.