[Flash fiction] As soon as the timer goes off

Story #3 for Flash Fiction June 2026

As soon as the timer goes off, a buzz that rattles her teeth, Lila storms off the court. 

Tonight she won’t line up and slap hands with the other team to show no hard feelings. She wants a few blessed minutes of quiet before she has to face the aftermath. Lila plows through the locker room door, mopping her face with a towel. A sludge of self-disgust hangs heavy in her mid-section. 

Tonight, her third-to-final game, was the worst performance of her high-school career, but who cares? She didn’t land the sports scholarship everyone had expected for her. No one’s paying attention—except Dad. Whether she’d shot thirty points or two tonight, she’ll still ride home on the passenger side of his pickup listening to his punch-list of criticisms.  

Lila yanks her bag out of her locker. She’ll skip the shower and, going out for pizza with the team. She’ll avoid the fervent glances—of pity, resentment, or disappointment—from her teammates.

Wiping away hot tears, she spots a girl sitting on the bench. Melissa, a freshman. Lila has barely talked to her all year. The girl is short—a fatal flaw—but worse, she’s slow, awkward, and fumbly. Lila has no idea why she chose basketball. She’d be better at, like, environmental club. 

“Have you been sitting here the whole time?” Lila snaps. 

“Yes.” Melissa stares down at her lap.  

Lila tries to remember if she saw Melissa on the bench tonight. “Are you okay?” 

“I just…I’m fine.”

She sits down next to Melissa. 

“Do you know I haven’t played at all this season?” Melissa says. 

“You’ve played.” She knows she’s seen Melissa on the court, hanging around uncertainly in the background, waiting to catch a ball no one would ever pass to her. 

“Only in practice. Never in a game.”

“That’s normal for a freshman. You’ve got to pay your dues.”

“Did you play, your freshman year?”

“Well, yes.” She was a rising star back in middle school. Her dad spotted her talent and leaned in hard. If she hadn’t played freshman year, the coach would have heard no end to it. 

“How do I get more play time?”

Lila stares at the lineup of anonymous lockers in front of her. She wants to assure Melissa she’s better off not playing—not raising expectations, upping the pressure, until she spends most of her nights and many of her days suffering a stomachache. 

Instead she puts her hand on Melissa’s shoulder and does what every graduating senior has done before her. 

“Practice all summer, Mel. Do a hundred layups, and then do a hundred more. Come back in the fall ready. That’s the only way you’ll get more time in the game.”

Outside she hears the thunder of sneakers and the slam of the gym door as the girls charge toward the locker room. Lila pulls on her sweatshirt, raises her hood, and scrambles out of the building before anyone can spot her.