The honesty hurt, then steadied her. A false guarantee would have made the opening whistle feel even more like betrayal. Ward was offering something smaller. She would keep working. So would Imani.
Imani sat alone on a folding chair outside the team room and opened the old enrollment email on her mother’s phone account. Denise had forwarded a copy after the move, not because anybody expected a dispute, but because she was trying to keep her daughter’s records in one place. Imani could see the school appointment date, the new bus route bus route, and a reminder to bring proof of residence. It reminded her of their small apartment where the kitchen table was also the desk and a stack of envelopes lived beneath the fruit bowl. None of those things made her less of an athlete.
She hated that a stranger had made them feel like something to defend. She phoned Denise during a work break. Her mother answered with a tired voice and an immediate question about the team. Imani explained the hold in the registrar’s effort. I don’t want them looking at where we lived, she admitted.
Then, tell coach what you’re comfortable sharing, Denise said. The tournament needs to check an eligibility form, not our whole life. You belong at that school. We did the paperwork together. Imani rubbed her thumb along the phone case.
I know. It just feels like they’re checking whether I belong everywhere. They aren’t entitled to that question, not the big version of it. Let the people doing their jobs check the small version. The call ended before Denise’s break was over.
Imani put the phone away. What her mother gave her was not a magic signature or a powerful name. It was a boundary. Answer the legitimate question, refuse the humiliation hiding behind it. When Ward returned from the office, Imani told her she wanted only the required enrollment documents used, not the family’s private history.
Ward agreed. Orchard Central arrived with a patient offense and a forward named Keisha who knew how to use her body without fouling. Their fans occupied the north bleachers. South Dock students gathered across from them with hand-painted signs that didn’t mention Imani’s name. Most said, one more game.
She was grateful. It meant her teammates hadn’t made the entire tournament a referendum on her. Mina brought the ball up for the first possession and Orchard pressed at half court. A pass to Marisol barely cleared a reaching hand. Zora set the high screen exactly as Imani had advised, but Mina hurried around it and picked up the ball with both hands.
