MELODY
...

I'm flying.

Not literally, obviously, but this is what flying feels like when you're crushing it on the court. My Nikes barely touch the ground as I weave through Highland Prep's defense like they're practice cones.

The crowd is on fire—I can feel their energy pulsing through the room, but I've learned to tune them out. Right now, it's just me, the ball, and the net.

Twenty seconds left on the clock. We're up by one, but that's too close for comfort.

Coach Williams is shouting something from the sidelines, probably about running down the clock, but I already know what I have to do.

I've been Hilton High's savior since freshman year. This is what I do.

I catch Jess's eye as she sets up the screen. Perfect.

Highland's center takes the bait, shifting left when she should've gone right. Their fatal mistake is underestimating how fast I can move.

I've got at least three inches on their point guard, and she knows it. The path to the basket opens up like the Red Sea, and I'm Moses with the ball.

The defender on my right is telegraphing her move before she makes it.

Pathetic.

I cross over, the ball is like an extension of my arm, and I'm airborne. The basket's right there.

This is my moment, my game-winning layup, my—

WHAM!

I don't see her coming. One second I'm soaring, the next I'm crashing. The impact hits me from the left—some desperate last-ditch attempt to stop me—and my knee... oh God, my knee!

Have you ever had one of those moments where time just stops? Like, literally freezes?

This is worse. This is time shattering into a million pieces, each shard reflecting back the exact moment I know my life is about to change. And not in a good way.

My knee doesn't just buckle—it explodes. The pain is instant and blinding, like someone thrust a sledgehammer into my leg.

I hit the court hard, the squeak of sneakers and gasps from the crowd fade behind the roaring in my ears.

"Mel!" That's Jess's voice, but it sounds far away.

Everything sounds far away except for the weird, animal-like sound that I realize is coming from me.

I try to get up—because that's what I do. Melody Jetson doesn't stay down—but my knee has other ideas.

The pain shoots through me like electricity, and I collapse back onto the court. Coach Williams is suddenly there, her face doing that thing adults do when they're trying not to look worried but totally are.

"Don't move, Jetson. Let's get you checked out first."

The athletic trainer jogs over, and I want to tell him to back off, that I'm fine, but the words won't come.

My eyes are burning, and I refuse to believe it's tears. I don't cry.

Not even when I broke my wrist in eighth grade. Not even when Jake Seeger dumped me via text last summer. Definitely not now, in front of everyone.

But as they help me off the court on a stretcher with my leg useless beneath me, reality starts to sink in and I can't stop the tears anymore.

The championship game. Our perfect season. My scholarship chances. Everything I've worked for.  Everything I am, all wobbling in this one stupid moment.

The locker room is too bright and smells like that weird mix of sweat and cherry air freshener that someone thought was a good idea.

The school physician, is saying words I don't want to hear. "Possible ACL tear" and "MRI" and "surgery." My brain short-circuits at "surgery."

This can't be happening.

But I don't say anything yet, I watch them pack me in the back of an ambulance and drive the ten minute drive to Hilton's medical center.

Everything feels fuzzy, but I somehow end up in an emergency ward.

Mom shows up at some point, in scrubs. She's trying to be calm, but I can see the worry in her hazel brown eyes.

She's already on her phone, probably calling every family member and some good orthopedic specialist from the Memorial Hospitals.

That's my mom—always with a plan, always in control. Usually, it drives me crazy, but right now, I'm grateful. At least someone knows what to do, because I sure don't.

The next few hours are a blur of hospital corridors, forms, and medical jargon. The MRI machine sings around me like some sci-fi torture device, and I close my eyes, trying to imagine I'm anywhere else.

But all I can see is that moment on the court, playing on loop in my head like some twisted TikTok that won't stop.

When Dr. Luisa comes in with the results, I already know it's bad because it's written all over her face.

She's a good friend of Mom's and she comes over for dinner at the house sometimes, smiling all the time. But now, her expression is serious yet gentle.

"Complete tear of the anterior cruciate ligament," she says, pointing to something on the screen that looks like a fuzzy TV channel. Mom is obviously following because I'm not. "We'll need to schedule surgery, and then there's rehabilitation..."

I tune out after that. Surgery means months of recovery. That means missing the rest of the season. Maybe even part of next season.

My phone is blowing up with notifications—teammates, friends, even my exes are sending the obligatory "hope you're okay" messages.

Mom's talking about some hotshot surgeon and physiotherapy options, but all I can think about is how quickly everything is changing.

One minute you're on top of the world, the next you're lying in a hospital bed with your future as wrecked as your knee.

"Mel? Did you hear what I said?" Mom's looking at me expectantly. "Dr. Luisa says we can schedule the surgery for next week."

I nod, because what else can I do? The golden player of the Hilton High basketball team is grounded.

Broken.

It's a terrible feeling but I'm not going to cry.

"Whatever," I mutter, my voice coming out steadier than I feel. "Can we go home now? I need to post something on Instagram before people start making up stories about me dying or whatever."

Mom gives me that look—the one that says she knows I'm deflecting but is going to let me get away with it for now.

"Sure, honey. I'll get the discharge papers."

I push out a long breath when she leaves. My knee throbs under the brace they've strapped on, a firm reminder that this isn't just some bad dream I'm going to wake up from.

I grab my phone and open my Instagram, then close it again.

What am I supposed to post?

A hospital selfie with the caption "Oops, broke myself LOL #ACLproblems"?

Yeah, right.

I stare at the ceiling instead and try to imagine what comes next.

1. Surgery.

2. Therapy.

3. Recovery.

4. Watching from the sidelines while someone else takes my spot on the team.

The thought makes me want to throw something, but I'm pretty sure that would just make Mom worry more.

So I do what I always do when things get tough: I put on my game face.

Because even if I'm not on the court, I'm still Melody fucking Jetson.

And Melody Jetson doesn't break.

Even if her knee does.

First chapters are always so...hard for me because I don't know what amount of something is enough to get you to stick around for more. Anyway, here it is and I hope you have fun with it....

Love, NOMMY 🔥