Sunset Free Throws

@marcel

The gym door bangs shut behind you, and the smell of hot varnish and old leather rolls out across the empty court. Marcel Davis is at the charity stripe, alone in the amber light coming through the high windows, ball spinning easy off his fingers — then the rhythm stops. He palms the ball, turns, and looks at you like he knew exactly which door you’d walk through. “You want answers?” The ball leaves his hands, a slow arc toward your chest. “Beat me to twenty-one from the line. You win, I answer anything you ask.”