This is my first ever attempt at a proper drabble, and I limited myself to 1000 words, which was difficult. I know this isn't brilliatn or amazing or fanatstic or tocuhing like (I hope) some of my fics are, but this is the best I could do right now. This ist set at that point in HSM 1 where Chad and the Wildcats have just tricked troy into saying that gabriella and his singing don't matter. There's a short clip of him at home shooting baskets, which is where this takes place.
For ScRuPuLoUs - the only one of my old readers who is still loyal. (Ouch to the rest of you who didn't reveiw!)
Troy Bolton played basketball. It was just one of those facts that everyone knew, like that birds fly and that kittens are cute. It just was. Which is precisely why the Bolton's neighbours didn't find it odd that, one afternoon, an afternoon much like every other for the past few years, the recognisable sound of a basketball bouncing on concrete echoed in from the house next door.
Troy stood still for a moment, casually bouncing the ball as his brow furrowed in thought. His team had talked to him today, confronted him about the singing thing. He'd gotten angry, something that seemed to be happening more often than not as the tension from basketball and his increasingly complicated relationships grew. But, the words of his friends, and later his painfully short exchange with Gabriella, had given him plenty to think about. They had asked many question, challenged many beliefs which he had always thought were buried deep within every person, but everything that had been said all seemed to point to the same question: who exactly was Troy Bolton?
Sighing, he held the ball in his palms, acutely aware of the texture of it as it rubbed against his skin. Holding the ball above his head, he threw it expertly towards the hoop. Deflecting off the backboard, it fell through the net, rolling over the smooth concrete back towards Troy, who picked it up as it reached him.
Was that who Troy Bolton was? Was he just the basketball star, just the team captain? Was there no further depth to Troy Bolton past his free throws?
Maybe a month or so ago Troy could've believed that.
Before New Year's Eve, he could hardly remember who he'd been. What had been his favourite colour, his favourite pastime? Had there been anything more to him than basketball?
Somewhere inside him, Troy hoped that there had been. He hoped that the feelings and the things that he had discovered that night had existed in him before then. It couldn't be right for an entirely new person to spring into life within him, simply because of one song and one girl. There was just no way, that one, single girl could have done that to him. Not even if that girl happened to be Gabriella Montez.
Troy looked up at the basket again, and launched another perfect shot. Once again, it sailed straight through the net, barely touching the edges of the ring.
This was what Troy Bolton did, that much at least, was clear. This was what he was good at. Basketball. In fact, it was what he had always been good at. It was how he had grown up, and he knew that it was a significant part of him.
But just because he was good at something, that didn't mean that he couldn't do anything else as well. Just being good at basketball shouldn't automatically make him just 'the basketball guy'.
That was just one part of him. There were other parts. Better parts. Gabriella had assured him of that.
So why did he still have to be 'the basketball guy'? If he was so, so, sure that there was more to Troy Bolton – so, so sure that there was more to himself – why was he only allowed to be one person, to have one title? What was stopping him from doing everything else that he wanted to do?
The answer felt like a blissful cool breeze, sweeping over his hot, sweaty skin: nothing.
Nothing was in the way of what he wanted to do. Everything told him to embrace his desires, to do what he wanted. There was absolutely nothing that was going to stop him from doing this musical, from singing with Gabriella.
Nodding to himself, Troy picked up a basketball from beside him, one of the many littering the court, and threw it lazily towards the basket.
It missed. Bouncing off the backboard and flying away in the wrong direction, the ball landed with a dull thump on the grass.
It had missed.
Panic began to stir in the pit of Troy's stomach. Quickly, he grabbed a second ball, and that one too went sailing towards the net.
Again, it missed. Again, Troy Bolton missed a basket.
Frustration – so untameable and aggressive – suddenly overcame Troy. He seized the nearest ball and dribbled it around his feet, between his legs and past his side. With all the patience and poise possible to muster, this ball too was thrown at the basket.
It slid over the top of the ring, falling off the side and bouncing back across the concrete ground.
A third throw.
This ball simply hit the edge of the hoop, deflecting straight back into Troy's hands, still outstretched from his throw.
So that was why he couldn't sing with Gabriella.
Gripped by his frustration, he angrily threw the ball to the back fence, which it hit with a painful, scraping noise.
What was wrong with him today? First his friends had decided that they no longer respected him, no longer thought that he deserved to be team captain. Then there had been Gabriella's strange behaviour – her cold words and dejected face had hurt him far more than he'd imagined they could. And now this.
He had failed.
The realisation was a stab of pain, digging deep into his skin. He had failed.
His friends hated him.
Gabriella hated him.
And now, the one thing that he had left, the one constant in his life, the single thing that formed the sturdy foundations for his entire life – was crumbling.
He couldn't play basketball.
Troy Bolton played basketball. It was just one of those facts that everyone knew, like that birds fly and that kittens are cute. It just was.
Only now, suddenly, it wasn't.
Panicking, hurt and feeling inexplicably alone, Troy stumbled off the court and fell to the ground.
How could he have lost so much: his friends, Gabriella, and basketball.
What did he have left?
Look, I know this isn't very good, but I can't work out why. If you have any suggestions, please please please tell me. I love knowing what people think of my work, even if it isn't very nice. Criticism tells me that I have room to improve, and advice teaches me exactly how to do it.