The sun was barely up when Darius reached the school gates. He had his backpack, a flashlight, and a folded-up map of the gym. Everyone else was still asleep, but he couldn’t wait. Something felt off.
Coach Ramirez’s championship trophy, the one from 1997, had disappeared two days ago. Darius wasn’t on the team, but everyone knew how much Coach cared about that thing. Rumors flew around the school. Some said it was a rival team that had stolen it. Others said Coach misplaced it. But Darius had his own theory.
He slipped through the side door that always squeaked (but only if you pushed it fast). The hallway lights were off, and his footsteps echoed on the tile floor.
Darius kept to the wall, like a shadow trying not to be noticed. His heartbeat felt louder than his shoes.
The gym was still locked, but he knew where their janitor kept the spare key: behind the bleachers, tucked in an old metal box.
His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the lid. The key was cold, like it hadn’t been touched in days.
He unlocked the gym door, stepped inside, and the silence hit him. The banners swayed lightly even though there was no breeze.
The air smelled like dust and sweat, like secrets had been sealed in here overnight.
He turned on the flashlight and made his way to the trophy case. It was just like the others said: The glass door hung open, and the shelf where the trophy once stood was empty.
A single smudge curved across the shelf like someone had grabbed something in a hurry.
That’s when Darius spotted something strange. A trail of glitter, barely noticeable, led away from the case and toward the locker room door.
It shimmered faintly under the flashlight, like the path wanted to be found.
He followed it carefully, stepping over a few scattered basketballs. The locker room was dark, damp, and freezing. But there it was.
Coach’s trophy. Resting on top of a stack of dirty towels.
It tilted slightly to the side, like it didn’t belong there. Like, it was embarrassed.
Darius picked it up, brushing the dust from the base. The nameplate was scratched, and one handle was bent.
Still, holding it felt like holding something important, like holding a memory someone forgot to take care of.
He was about to head out when he heard a noise behind him. He turned quickly.
“Hey,” said Coach Ramirez, stepping through the doorway. He looked tired but not angry.
“I didn’t steal it!” Darius blurted out. “I just … I just wanted to bring it back.”
Coach stared at the trophy in his hands.
Instead of yelling, Coach sighed and leaned against the door frame, like a balloon someone let all the air out of.
“It’s been a rough week,” he said. “Thanks for finding it.”
Darius nodded and carefully handed the trophy over, not saying a word at all.
“You did the right thing, Darius. And I highly value that about you. Thank you,” Coach said with a slight smile on his face.
