Los Angeles | 2009
Bradley's POV
"Once more into the fray, into the last good fight I'll ever know. Live—and Die on this Day… Live—and Die on this Day."
I recited my mantra under my breath and walked onto the court. David and Leo were already there, stretching, a new, serious energy about them. Today was the third day of our practice sessions, and I had some strategic plans to implement.
"Alright guys, listen up," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet morning. "I came up with a strategy. It's not illegal, per se, but it can be perceived as such if not executed properly."
"What is it?" Leo asked, his curiosity immediate.
I turned to David. "It mostly relies on you. Using your physique to create a sort of instant shield whenever we need a screen." I started to pace, laying out the battlefield. "Essentially, we will have a signal. When you see it, your job is to step directly into the path of the person guarding the ball-handler as they get ready to drive. It will give the person with the ball space to shoot or take a layup while also physically disarming the opponents. David, you can do this because you're larger than most. It won't work on Caleb, but it's our best bet to get baskets when he's forced to guard me. You and Leo need to perfect the timing within the two days, because Friday we rest."
"We'll do it," David said with conviction, not a hint of his old, lazy attitude in his voice. "You just show me how, and I'll master it, Brad."
"Me too," Leo added, his eyes sharp.
The first attempts were a disaster. I had Leo guard me while David tried to set the "shield." On the first run, David was too late, and I ran directly into Leo. On the second, he was too early, his feet still shuffling as Leo collided with him. I blew the whistle I'd brought from the house.
"Offensive foul," I called out. "That's a moving screen. They'll call that every single time. You have to be completely set, David."
"Dude, I'm trying!" he said, frustrated. "It happens too fast."
"It's not about being a blocker," I explained, providing valuable instruction. "It's about timing and angles. You're not a linebacker clearing a path. You are just… suddenly there. An obstacle. Leo," I said, turning to him, "you have to read his plant and cut tight off his shoulder. Let's walk through it. Slowly."
We spent the next hour refining and perfecting it. We failed, we adjusted, we failed again. But then, it clicked. I gave the signal. David stepped into the path, planted his feet a split second before Leo was there, creating a perfect, solid wall. I cut hard off his shoulder, and suddenly I had a wide-open lane to the rim. We all saw it at the same time.
"Now we're talking," Leo said, rubbing his shoulder with a grin.
After that, we practiced the bullet pass. I had them run cuts from the wing over and over while I fired hard, fast passes at them. The first few were ugly. One bounced off Leo's fingers, another went right through David's hands, nearly taking his head off.
"Don't think, just react!" I yelled. "Hands up, trust the pass!"
Gradually, they started to acclimatize. They stopped trying to actively catch the ball and started letting it arrive, their hands becoming targets. The jarring thud of the ball slamming into their palms became a familiar rhythm. By the end of the session, their hands were red and stinging, but they were catching more than they were dropping. They were learning a new language, the one I spoke on the court.
With the tactical work done, it was time to pay the physical price.
"Conditioning," I gasped out, my voice hoarse as I pointed to the last section of my dad's training sheet. "Just like it says. No breaks."
What followed was a special kind of hell, designed by a general. We moved from one drill to the next without rest, a relentless assault on our already exhausted bodies. We started with the Full Speed Defensive Shuffles, our sneakers squeaking a frantic, agonizing rhythm across the floor until our quads were screaming. Then came the Bear Crawls, a primal, muscle-shredding crawl from baseline to baseline. I could hear David groaning behind me, his long limbs struggling to keep pace, but he didn't stop.
Squat Jumps were next. Over and over, we exploded upward, landing with jarring force until my legs felt like disconnected lead weights. Leo was beside me, his face a mask of grim fury, his "undying fighting spirit" at war with his own physical limits as he pushed out every last rep.
The final killer was the Tennis Ball Drops. My dad had a cruel sense of humor. Lying flat on our stomachs, completely spent, then having to spring up to snatch a dropped ball before it bounced twice… it was a test of pure will more than speed.
On the last one, I caught the ball, and my legs just gave out. I didn't gracefully stop; I fell, my body hitting the floor with a dull thud. A second later, I heard Leo collapse with a loud, pained groan. Then David folded, his landing a shuddering sigh that seemed to shake the whole court.
And that's where we lay. Three bodies sprawled on the polished maple, gasping for air in perfect, ragged unison. The only sound in the entire world was our own desperate breathing. I turned my head slightly, my cheek stuck to the floor. Each of us was the center of a dark, shimmering halo on the wood, a pool of our own sweat, the physical proof of the promise we'd made to each other. We were exhausted. We were broken. And we were finally ready for the playoffs.
It took a full minute before any of us had the strength to speak. I pushed myself up onto my elbows, my muscles screaming in protest. "Alright," I said, my voice punctuated by spaced breathing. "I think that's about enough for today. Let's go eat something, then you guys have to head home as well."
"Yeah, man," Leo said, his voice almost a whisper from where he was still face down on the floor. "If this ain't enough for us to win, then I don't know what is."
"I'm with you on that," David confessed, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "It feels less like we're training for a tournament and more for the NBA. Still... I believe this pain is better than the one of losing."
His words hung in the air. He had changed since last Sunday. Something about that defeat had eaten at him, and I was all for it. He was more driven now than I had ever seen him.
"We all want to win," I said, a sense of pride swelling in my chest. "That's why we make a good team. That hunger... it moves us."
Leo let out a tired chuckle from the floor. "It's quite literal for David. He wants that junk food money no matter what."
I laughed at that, and so did David. "Maybe you should eat more too, Leo, or else you'll never grow up from being a midget," David fired back. I laughed harder, the sound echoing in the quiet court. Both of them laughed too, this another reason I like basketball, the camaraderie I never got to experience before.
Finally, I managed to get to my feet and walked over to Leo, giving him a hand to lift him up. I did the same for David. We stood there for a moment, three exhausted soldiers leaning on each other for support. We went back to the house, washed our faces, and silently ate some sandwiches Mom had left out for us, trying to replenish ourselves. Both of them left after that, our bond had developed, evolved and we were stronger for it.
…
Later that evening, I found Erin in the living room, already queued up for another episode of Naruto. Since she was always in my room trying to watch it on my computer, I had no privacy left for myself. So I hooked Mom's old laptop to the TV and let her watch the show that way.
"You starting without me?" I asked, dropping onto the couch beside her. Her face lit up.
She was beyond excited for me to join. "You're watching too?! Okay, okay, so in the last one, Naruto just defeated Haku and Kakashi is still fighting Zabuza, but I don't get why Haku likes Zabuza so much...".
"Shhh," I said, putting a finger to my lips as I hit play. "Just watch.".
We settled in, the familiar opening music a nostalgic comfort to me and a source of wide-eyed wonder for her. She was completely absorbed.
Just as the action was reaching its peak... I put my hand over her eyes, blocking her view.
"Hey!" she yelped, her little body squirming. "Brad, stop it!" She did not take kindly to it and started kicking my leg with her heels. I held my hand there for a second longer before pulling it away with a laugh.
A few minutes later, as the tragic conclusion of the fight unfolded, she was completely lost. "Wait," she said, her brow furrowed, her voice small and full of distress. "NOO, why is he running at Gato when he can't even lift his arms? He'll die! Brad, will Zabuza die?".
Damn, explaining death and fidelity to a nine-year-old was not how I pictured my evening going. How do you explain death when you're someone who knows, with absolute certainty, that it's not always the end?
"Bug, you understand what death is, right?" I asked gently.
"Yeah, it's when you stop moving and get to go to heaven. Mom told me it's like sleeping forever," she said, her understanding of it so simple and innocent I couldn't bring myself to complicate it.
"Right," I said, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close. "So, Zabuza and Haku can't live in the ninja world together, so in a way, by dying, they both get to go to heaven and they can be together forever. It's not bad that they are dying, just a little sad. You get it?".
"So Zabuza and Haku will be happy after dying?" she asked, her voice brimming with hope.
"Of course," I said, my own voice a little thick.
"That's exactly how they'll be."
"Good for them," she readily accepted, a relieved smile returning to her face.
We then continued watching the episodes, and I made sure to queue up some of the more light hearted ones that followed. I didn't want the night to end on such a heavy note, and as the show became more elevated and less serious, Erin's mood visibly improved as well.
She was completely hooked, her eyes glued to the screen. And I realized, sitting there next to her, that the real fun wasn't just re-watching a show I loved from my past life. The joy I got from it was better than just watching the show with her; it was the joy of pestering my sibling. It was a simple, perfect feeling I never knew I was missing.
…
At night, after the house had fallen quiet and the only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator, I found myself walking back into the court. The loss to the Bears was a problem that needed solving, and sleep felt like a waste of valuable time.
I flicked on a single spotlight, which cast a bright, lonely circle on the polished hardwood, leaving the corners of the room in deep shadow. Tonight, I was working on one thing, and one thing only: perfecting my ankle-break dribble. It was a move of pure deception, a weapon that could create space out of nothing.
The problem was, the whole illusion hinged on the crossover, and my weak left hand was a clumsy, unreliable liar.
I spent the next two hours in a solitary, frustrating loop. I'd drive hard to the right, plant my foot to sell the move, and try to explode left with the crossover. But the motion was a split-second too slow. The ball would feel awkward, heavy in my left hand. Clack. It would hit the side of my shoe and skid away into the darkness.
I'd curse under my breath, retrieve it, and start again.
Again and again, the same result. The ball would get away from me, the dribble too high, the motion telegraphed. I was frustrated, a hot, angry knot tightening in my chest, but a stubborn part of me, the part that hated losing more than it hated the pain of practice, held onto the hope that if I just did it one more time, it would finally click into place.
I was so lost in the rhythm of my own failure that I didn't hear him approach.
"The best weapon is a rested one, son."
I looked up, startled, to see my dad leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed. He wasn't angry, just observant.
"It's getting late," he said, his voice calm and even. "A good athlete needs their sleep just as much as their training."
I was too tired to argue. I just nodded, letting the ball rest on my hip. "I know."
"The problem will still be here tomorrow," he said, pushing off the doorframe. "Come on."
He turned and started walking back to the house. I took one last look at the empty court, the ball resting at the free-throw line, and followed him. We walked in silence, the only light coming from the moon and the stars. Both of them then head back into the house as the night sky hangs behind us, a target for another day, another chance to get it right.
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And we are back folks this week will not be disappointing. Next chapter we go back onto the court and watch the pay off. Get me them POWERSTONES. Build the HYPE review, share and comment.