The sun hadn't fully risen yet. The sky was still a dull blue-gray, the kind that hovered before morning really began. Steam rose from the vents on the sidewalk, and the streetlamps still glowed weakly, reluctant to hand the city back to daylight. The air itself held a crisp, almost metallic tang, a promise of the demanding day ahead.
A van rolled to a stop outside a wide brick building. The paint was fading around the edges, but the double doors at the front were clean, recently polished. A metal sign above the entrance read:
FRANK MICHAELS YOUTH PROGRAM – ATHLETIC DEVELOPMENT CENTER
The driver's side door creaked open, and Frank Michaels, a tall old man with a commanding presence, stepped out first, his gaze already assessing the quiet street. He turned, his stern expression directing the disembarkation of his latest recruits.
A boy stepped out first, his sneakers crunching on the frost-slick concrete. He wore a black duffel over one shoulder, sleeves slightly too long on his training jacket, hood tugged low over his curls that poked out from his hoodie. He moved with stillness, his features obscured, but his focus evident.
Another boy followed, his light blue eyes scanning the surroundings. He adjusted the strap of his own duffel bag, the black dot below his eye barely visible in the dim light. He moved with contained energy.
A third boy brought up the rear, his broad frame filling the doorway as he stepped out. He stretched his arms above his head, letting out a yawn that turned into a chuckle.
"Man, it's too early for this," the large boy grumbled, rubbing at his eyes. "Hope they got some hot breakfast inside."
The second boy allowed a faint smirk to touch his lips, his gaze still fixed on the building. "Doubt it," he mused. "But maybe they'll have coffee."
The first boy remained silent, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the facility.
Frank's voice cut through the morning quiet, firm and unyielding. "No time for introductions. Inside. Now."
The trio entered the facility, the scent of polished wood and sweat filling their nostrils. The gym was already alive with activity. Coaches barked orders, voices echoing off the walls, and the continuous thud of basketballs provided a restless rhythm.
Frank led them directly to the center court. Around the main court, the usual morning crowd of early-bird trainees and coaches was beginning to gather. Among them, Kenji Anderson stretched near the sidelines. He had seen the van arrive, his deep-set eyes missing nothing.
Frank gestured towards a group of players already on court. "You'll be facing off against some of our seasoned players today. Consider it your initiation. Remember, here at Frank Michaels, if you lose more than two games in a month, you're out. No exceptions."
The hooded boy nodded silently, his expression unreadable. The boy with light blue eyes sharpened his gaze, taking in the court's dimensions, the players' tendencies. The large boy cracked his knuckles, a wide grin spreading across his face.
The game commenced.
The hooded boy moved with controlled precision, his plays unpredictable, his passes finding angles that left defenders grasping at air. The boy with blue eyes anticipated moves before they happened, his defense smothering, his movements economical. The large boy dominated the paint, his sheer power turning every rebound into a struggle and every drive into a battle.
They communicated with quick glances and subtle shifts. The B-Team struggled to keep up, their confidence visibly waning.
From the sidelines, Kenji Anderson watched intently. He had observed countless games, but the synergy of these three was different. Their styles fit together with precision, each player elevating the others. Jason had abandoned his usual perch and settled onto a bench closer to the court, his notebook in hand.
As the final whistle blew, the scoreboard reflected their victory. The B-Team stood defeated, exhaustion and grudging respect on their faces.
Frank nodded approvingly. "Well done. But this is just the beginning." He turned to the assembled trainees, his voice booming. "Listen up! From this moment, the rules are clear. Lose more than two games this month, and you're out. No food, no second chances. Training is outside. If your team isn't on the court by sunset, you're gone. Understand?"
A chorus of swift affirmations echoed through the facility.
Later, as the trio worked through drills, Kenji approached them. Jason remained on his nearby bench, sketching, but Kenji noticed the intensity in his brother's focus.
Kenji moved with his characteristic confident stride, clipboard in hand, the whistle around his neck chiming softly.
"You must be the new arrivals," Kenji said, a welcoming smile on his face. "I'm Kenji Anderson. Welcome to the program."
The large boy extended a massive hand, his grin wide. "Maurice Carter," he boomed. "But everyone calls me Big Mo. This here is Ethan," he gestured to the quiet, observant one, "and the quiet one is Naseru."
Kenji shook hands with each in turn, his grip firm. He noted Ethan's calm, intelligent gaze and Naseru's observant eyes.
"Nice to meet you all," Kenji replied. "You guys put on quite a show out there. We've got a lot of work ahead, but I think you'll fit right in."
Naseru gave a small nod, his expression still unreadable.
Big Mo turned to Naseru, his voice boisterous. "Slam-damn, Nas! You see the size of that guy on their team? I mean, he's big, but not Big Mo big, you know what I'm saying?!"
Naseru sighed, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Yeah, Mo. Not everyone's walking around like a skyscraper,"
Ethan squinted frowning to Big Mo annoyed. "but you gotta stay focused out there."
"How long have you three been playing together?" Kenji asked.
"About eight months now," Ethan answered. "Frank brought us together at his facility upstate. We've been training as a unit ever since."
"Eight months and you move like you've been teammates for years," Kenji observed. "That's impressive coordination for players your age. What are you guys, thirteen? Fourteen?"
Big Mo grinned. "Close! We're all twelve, actually. Well, I just turned twelve last month. These two are still catching up to my advanced age." He winked at his teammates.
Kenji blinked, his expression shifting from impressed to amazed. "Twelve? All of you?"
Naseru's eyes sharpened slightly, but he remained silent.
"Age doesn't determine information absorption abilities," Ethan said quietly. "It's about dedication and understanding the game."
"And natural talent doesn't hurt either," Big Mo added with his characteristic grin.
Kenji found himself reassessing everything he'd witnessed. Twelve-year-olds moving with that level of sophistication was almost unprecedented.
"So you'll be training with us regularly?" Kenji asked.
"That's the plan," Ethan replied. "Frank says we need to be challenged by different playing styles. Guess that's where you come in."
"Well then," Kenji said, his competitive instincts stirring, "I think this is going to be a very interesting month. Fair warning though—I don't go easy on anyone, regardless of age."
Big Mo's grin widened. "Wouldn't want it any other way!"
As they talked, Jason approached from his bench, notebook in hand. His brother rarely engaged with other players directly, but something about these three had captured his attention.
"Jason," Kenji called, "come meet the new arrivals."
Jason studied each of them with analytical intensity. "You three already know each other's weaknesses," he said quietly, his eyes fixed on Naseru. "That's useful."
Naseru tilted his head, warily. "You analyze basketball like it's geometry?"
"Everything has patterns," Jason replied simply. "Basketball just has more variables than most systems."
"I like him already," Big Mo murmured to Ethan, who frowned.
The afternoon training session challenged Kenji's assumptions about age and ability. Working alongside three twelve-year-olds who played with veteran sophistication pushed everyone to adapt.
As the sun began to set and the final whistle echoed through the gym, Kenji realized that Frank Michaels had introduced three players who would change the program's dynamics. The question wasn't whether they could keep up—it was whether everyone else could keep up with what Frank Michaels had suddenly dropped into the facility's deadly monthly evaluations.