The final buzzer goes off, signalling yet another loss for the team.

          Once again in defeat, we walk off the court with our heads hanging low, and make our way into the visiting locker room. We are currently in Alberta for a five-game road trip, and everything is turning into a disaster. This season was supposed to be another great one, and now we aren't even ranked back in BC. In total now, our pathetic record for the season is three wins and eight losses—the polar opposite of what everyone was expecting from the season prior. As I predicted, we've had no success with Coach Anton stepping into the main role, and I, myself, cannot seem to keep my willpower when feeling the need to eat.

          I'm now 245 pounds, way over my regular weight of around 200–205. Every time I step on a weight scale I cringe with anxiety, knowing that I'm getting closer and closer to throwing away my life-long dream of playing professional basketball. You may ask yourself, why don't I just stop eating? I promise, with everything in my heart, I'm trying. Every morning I wake up with the same intentions of cutting back my diet, but it's like the food is drugs, and I'm dependent on it. I've never felt this way about food before. In the past, eating was something I did for pleasure. Now, it's becoming something I can't control, and I know deep down this is becoming a serious problem.

          Downright exhausted, we enter the locker room in silence, nobody laughing or smiling like in the past. As per usual, I played an awful game. I'm getting so tired on the court these days that I can't think calmly and collectively as I used to. I once had so much poise and confidence. But now every time I have the ball in my hands, I quickly give up because I'm so tired and have trouble concentrating, due to my fatigue.

          As we all take a seat, Coach Anton eventually walks in with his hands on his hips. There's a long moment of silence amongst us, the sounds of our heavy breathing echoing throughout the room.

          "I don't know what to tell you guys," he eventually says, staring down at the ground. "This season has turned out to be an absolute shit show. You should be embarrassed."

          We keep our heads down, no one saying a word. As much as I hate Coach Anton, he's right. We're playing like absolute garbage, and I know deep down that my terrible eating habits are playing a huge role in our struggles.

          "Nobody wants to talk on defense...nobody wants to step up and take a charge," he goes on, continuing his rant. "If we don't get our shit together now—like right fucking now—we're not even gonna be a contender by the time the playoffs roll around. If we're even lucky we might roll around as a seventh or eighth seed, but I'm not even sure of that anymore. I'm sick of this Goddamn team. You guys should be ashamed of yourselves for the effort you're putting in."

          Even though he's correct, Coach Anton has the most punchable face. Obviously, I'm not going to punch my own coach, but I miss Meldrum so much. I just hope he's doing alright, as we haven't got an update on him in months.

          "We're playing scared. We don't have that same confidence. Maybe if you guys would man up and quit playing like a bunch of pussies, we'd actually have some success here and there." He pauses again, hands still on hips, that same awkward silence flowing throughout the room. "Anyway...hit the showers and get your shit. We'll meet back at the hotel lobby and have another quick team meeting before bed." Shaking his head, he exits the room, leaving us in the quietness of another painful loss.

          Even though he has the right to be angry and disappointed, Coach Anton's negative attitude is really destroying the joy I used to love playing with. When we did poorly in the past, Meldrum would give us constructive criticism and help solve the problem, whereas Coach Anton is just negative and takes his anger out by degrading us with foul words. I bet if Meldrum was here we'd find a way to bounce back, but Anton's negativity is really digging us into a hole.

          Regardless, we hit the showers and get changed. 

          Once we're done, Berry, the team driver, is waiting for us outside with the bus. Rather than listening to Coach Anton bitching the whole ride back to the hotel, I plug my wireless earbuds in and listen to some calming music. What is it going to take for me to stop self-destructive eating? What do I have to do? And I'm not just talking about basketball—I'm referring to life in general. Since gaining all this excess weight, I'm starting to not feel good about myself. For the first time in my entire life, I'm self-conscious about taking my shirt off, whereas in the past I'd be proud to show off my defined and muscular physique that I worked so hard for.

          In fact, it's gotten so bad that I have stopped Zooming with my parents while they're in England. I've only been replying to them by email, because I don't want them to see how big I've gotten, at least not up close and personal. They've probably noticed my weight gain when watching the games on the university livestream, but have yet to confront me, thank God. I know they'll be saying something soon, but I've made up an excuse in the meantime the webcam on my laptop broke, and so far they've been buying it. I also haven't been hearing from my girlfriend Dian too much these days, but I'm aware that she's busy with school and has other things on her schedule.

          As we return to the Holiday Inn hotel, we get our bags and exit the team bus, thanking Berry as usual. Upon entering the lobby, there are some families and others checking into their rooms at the front desk. We migrate to the breakfast seating and listen to another negative, unproductive lecture about how disappointed Coach Anton is.

          "And I want you guys in your own rooms for the rest of the night," he insists. "No having fun and partying. We don't celebrate when we lose. Nuh-uh. Now head to bed and be better tomorrow in practice." And with that, he walks away, leaving us to our silent selves again.

          We make our way to the second floor of the hotel, where we're each staying, two teammates per room. Even though it's only two flights of steps, there's a part of me that wants to take the elevator, but I know that would be a bad look, considering my teammates are already losing trust in me. My game and conditioning have slipped so greatly because of my terrible eating habits.

          When we reach the second floor, we say our nonexcited goodbyes and head for our rooms, me and Tony sharing 217 for the night. I pull out my key card and slip it through the automatic lock, seeing the little green button flash. The room is rather chilly and dark upon entering. Last year Tony and I had great laughs in hotels during our road games, but just like Dian, he's been rather distant from me lately. We're still good buddies, but I don't feel the same energy of passionate friendship flowing between us. It's weird.

          "Which bed you want?" I ask.

          "Doesn't matter," he replies in a rather monotone voice. It must have something to do with the game.

          "Alright," I say, throwing my stuff on the left side . "I guess I'll take this one."

          Before sleeping, I go into the bathroom and quickly brush my teeth. Coincidentally, I have my shirt off, cringing as I look in the mirror. My pectorals and stomach are hanging down, looking like the beginning of flab. My once-defined and chiselled biceps have nothing left but an unhealthy sag. My gosh...what am I doing to myself? How could I possibly slip this far? What are my parents going to say when they eventually confront me?

          Regardless, I crawl into bed, turning the lamp off beside me, leaving Tony and I in the darkness of the room. Usually, we'd be up all night talking like bros. Discussing sports, girls, movies. But tonight it's an awkward silence, the sounds of our breathing slightly echoing upon the room. Man...I really miss that happy, positive vibe from the team. I imagine it's taking a toll on all of us. I don't know what it's going to take, but like Coach Anton said, it has to be right now. We, especially myself, must change our ways.

          Speaking of Coach Anton, almost like deja vu, that's when I hear my phone vibrate. I look over and see I received a private text from him, opening it immediately 

          Rashard, I'm taking you out of the starting lineup. You'll be coming off the bench now as a sixth man until you're ready to prove you can get back to your old training habits. I hope you can get your shit together. You're letting your teammates down.

          And for the first time in my whole life, I can honestly say that I'm somewhat scared about my future.