Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
We stepped off the bus at Anderson High, the venue for our first real test as a unified—or at least, somewhat unified—team. The gym was an indoor facility with hardwood flooring, decent quality, but the dimensions felt off. It was smaller than most places I had previously been, the bleachers crowding the sidelines, creating a claustrophobic, intense atmosphere. The ceiling felt low, amplifying the sound of every bounce and shout.
Damien had not arrived yet. His absence hung over us like a question mark.
Steve, looking a little more nervous than usual without his leader, took the lead. "I know these guys," he told me, adjusting his jersey. "We played them last year. They're decent, but arrogant. I'll go talk to them, let them know we're here."
"Go ahead," I said.
As Steve went to talk to them, I gathered the core crew—Leo, David, and Patrick—near the scorers' table.
"Listen up," I said, keeping my voice low so the few spectators couldn't hear. "Here is how we are going to perform today. The priority isn't just the scoreboard. It's intel. We need to learn how these guys play."
Leo frowned. "So we don't try to win?"
"We always try to win," I corrected. "But we don't need to absolutely win this at the cost of showing our full hand. What is more important is that we study our opponents. See how they rotate, how they handle pressure. We treat this like a live-fire drill."
"We still don't have a coach at all," Patrick asked, looking at the empty chair where an adult should be sitting. "Is that going to be a problem with the refs?"
"I'm working on it," I stated firmly. "We will have one before we enter the tournaments. For today, we self-govern. I make the calls on the floor. Steve handles the politics."
Steve came back a moment later, looking a bit flushed. "They're ready when we are," he reported. He glanced at the door, then at his watch. "Damien's not here yet. We should probably wait."
I considered whether or not to wait for Damien. He was the best player, the "King". But waiting looked weak. It looked like we couldn't function without him.
"No," I told him. "Steve, you jump in for now. You're starting."
Steve was hesitant, shifting his weight. "I don't know, man. D said he'd be here. Maybe we should wait a few—"
"No," I repeated, my voice leaving no room for argument. "We start now. We don't wait on anyone. Suit up."
Steve looked at me, saw the resolve in my eyes, and nodded. "Alright. Let's go."
We walked onto the court to face the Anderson team. They were a mix. Three white guys—one blonde point guard who looked like he modeled for Abercrombie, a shooter with a buzz cut, and a lanky forward. There was one Latino kid with a thick build playing power forward, and one Black kid, their center, who looked almost as tall as David but nowhere near as broad.
We warmed up by doing some drills, keeping it simple—layup lines, perimeter shooting. I watched the Anderson team out of the corner of my eye. They were loose, laughing, throwing up trick shots.
Finally, we got ready for the jump ball. We met at center court to shake hands.
I shook the hand of the blonde point guard, Chase. He gave me a limp grip and a condescending smile. I looked down the line at Hunter (the shooter), Kyle (the lanky forward), Diego (the power forward), and Trey (the center).
I could see it in the eyes of my opponents. They looked at our mixed squad—a freshman captain, a nervous senior, and no coach—and they saw prey. They expected an easy win.
Good. I preferred it that way.
The referee's whistle shrieked, cutting through the humid air of the small gym. He tossed the ball up. David and Trey launched themselves skyward. Trey had the vertical, but David had the mass and the timing. He tipped the ball back, right into my hands.
"Slow!" I yelled immediately, holding up a hand. "Set it up! Green!"
Steve, who had started to sprint for a fast break, skidded to a halt, looking back at me with confusion. He was used to Damien's chaotic, run-and-gun style. But we weren't running today. We were dissecting.
I walked the ball up the court, my eyes scanning the Anderson defense. Chase, the Abercrombie model point guard, picked me up at half-court, slapping the floor with a grin.
"Come on, fresh meat," he taunted. "Show me something."
I didn't even look at him. I looked through him. I signaled for a high screen. David lumbered up, setting a concrete wall on my right. Chase slammed into him. I didn't explode past; I just slid into the pocket of space David created. Trey, their center, didn't hedge. He stayed back in the paint, trusting Chase to recover.
Mistake.
I took one dribble, rose up from the elbow, and buried a jumper. Clean. Simple.
"Nice screen, Dave," I said as we jogged back. "They aren't switching. Trey is lazy."
Anderson brought the ball up. Chase didn't look to pass. He crossed over left, right, then put his head down and drove straight into the teeth of our defense. He was fast, I'll give him that. He split Leo and Patrick, threw up a wild, off-balance layup that kissed the glass and dropped.
"He didn't even look at the corner," Patrick noted as he inbounded to me. "Hunter was wide open."
"I know," I said. "They're playing hero ball. Let them."
The quarter settled into a rhythm. A thrilling, tense game of chess played at two different speeds. We played at a glacial tempo, hunting for the perfect shot. They played like five Ferraris with no steering wheels.
Hunter, their buzz-cut shooter, got the ball on the wing. He had a sliver of daylight. Instead of swinging it to Diego, who had a mismatch on Steve in the post, Hunter jacked up a contested three. It clanged off the rim.
"Rebound!" I shouted.
David boxed out Trey, sealing him off with textbook form. But Kyle, their lanky forward, flew in from the weak side, jumping over everyone to snatch the offensive board. He didn't pass it back out to reset. He tried to go back up immediately, right into David's chest.
Thwack. David blocked it cold.
"Get it out!" Steve yelled, diving for the loose ball. He secured it and looked up, ready to heave a long outlet pass.
"No!" I commanded, running to him. "Hold it. Give it here."
Steve hesitated, the instinct to run warring with my order, but he handed it off. We reset. I brought it up slow again.
"Why are we slowing down?" Steve hissed as he set up on the wing. "We had numbers."
"Look at them," I said, nodding at the Anderson players. They were bent over, hands on knees, frustrated that they hadn't scored on the scramble. "They want to run. We don't give them what they want. We grind them down."
I passed to Leo. Leo pump-faked, drawing Hunter in the air. He took one dribble and hit Patrick cutting baseline. Patrick laid it in.
They scored on raw talent. Diego bullied his way into the paint for a hook shot. Chase hit a step-back three that had no business going in. But their passing was atrocious. At one point, Kyle tried a no-look pass to Trey that sailed five feet over his head and into the stands.
"You gotta look, man!" Trey shouted, throwing his hands up. "You gotta be there!" Kyle shouted back.
I suppressed a smile. They were cracking.
With thirty seconds left in the quarter, the score was tight. Anderson led, 12-13.
"One shot," I signaled, holding up a finger. "Run 'Pistol'."
I drained the clock. Ten seconds. Five. Chase was pressing me hard, trying for the steal. I used my Ambidextrous talent, switching the ball to my left hand and driving hard. The defense collapsed. All five of them looked at me.
That was the problem with hero ball players; they assumed everyone else played that way too.
I didn't shoot. I whipped a pass to the corner. Steve was standing there, feet set, completely ignored by his man, Diego.
"Shoot it, Steve!" I yelled.
Steve caught it. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, surprised to be the option. Then he rose up and released. The buzzer sounded while the ball was in the air.
Swish.
The Palisades bench—empty except for our bags—didn't cheer, but Leo pumped his fist. Steve looked at his hands, then at me, a grin breaking out on his face.
"Nice pass, freshman," he said.
"Nice shot, senior," I replied.
End of First Quarter: Palisades 15, Anderson 12.
The second quarter began, and I decided to turn the screws. Not just on Anderson, but on Steve.
"Push!" I yelled the moment David secured the tip.
We exploded down the court, a wave of blue jerseys. Steve ran with us, expecting the fast break. But the moment we crossed half-court, I stopped on a dime.
"Reset! Red!"
Steve, caught in his momentum, stumbled, looking back at me with wide, confused eyes. He was out of position, clogging the lane. I passed to Patrick, who swung it to Leo. We moved the ball around the perimeter, a hypnotic, lulling rhythm. Then, without a signal, I accelerated again, driving hard into the paint. Steve wasn't ready for the kick-out pass. It hit his hands, bobbled, and rolled out of bounds.
Turnover.
"Nice hands, butterfingers," Leo was quick to mock him, jogging past with a shake of his head.
Steve glared at him, his face flushing. "The pass was too hot!"
Patrick and David were indifferent, already setting up on defense, ignoring Steve's excuses. They knew the standard. Catch the ball.
On the next possession, I slowed the tempo to a crawl. We used the full thirty seconds, passing, cutting, screening. Steve was lost. He was reacting a second too late to every switch. When I finally signaled for him to cut, he hesitated. That hesitation allowed Kyle, Anderson's lanky forward, to jump the route.
Steal.
Kyle took it the other way for a dunk.
Steve was feeling the heat. I could see the panic setting in. He was trying too hard now, overthinking every step. On our next offensive set, I called for a complex double-screen. Steve set his feet wrong. Chase slid right past him and stripped the ball from me.
"Dammit, Steve!" I shouted, though internally, a dark part of me was satisfied. To a certain extent, I mused that this is good punishment for Steve. He wanted to be part of the team? He needed to feel the weight of it. He needed to understand that the "kiddie league" trophy he mocked was built on precision he couldn't fathom.
Another play. Another mistake. Steve went up for a rebound he had no business contesting and got blocked cleanly by Trey. Anderson recovered and hit a transition three. We were losing. The lesson had gone on long enough. I called a timeout.
Steve walked to the huddle, head down, breathing hard. "You guys are changing speeds too much," he complained, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I can't get a rhythm."
"You're not ready," I told him, my voice flat and devoid of sympathy.
He looked up, defensive. "What?"
"You are not ready to play the kind of coordination games the guys and I do," I explained, looking him dead in the eye. "You don't have the adaptability that Damien does. When Damien steps on the court, he reads the flow. You're trying to force it."
"So slow down!" Steve pleaded.
"No," I said. "We will not slow down for you. You have to learn as you play. You want to be a starter? You want respect? Then keep up. Adapt or sit."
Steve looked at Leo, then David. They offered him no quarter. He swallowed hard, nodding once.
"Let's go," I broke the huddle.
The rest of the quarter continued. Steve was still a liability, but he stopped trying to do too much. He focused on simple screens and rebounding. Anderson felt the pressure of our renewed focus, but they were also able to find gaps because of Steve. Chase isolated him twice, blowing past his slow feet for easy layups.
But we answered. I took over the scoring load, hitting back-to-back mid-range jumpers. Leo stole the ball from Hunter and scored. We clawed our way back, trading mistakes for brilliance.
As the buzzer sounded for halftime, I hit a floating layup to give us a slight edge.
End of First Half: Palisades 27, Anderson 25.
We walked to the bench, grabbing water bottles. The gym was stifling, the air thick with humidity. I took a long pull of water, my eyes scanning the entrance.
And then, the doors opened.
Damien finally came in.
The chatter on the bench died down. Steve perked up, looking relieved to see his leader. But as Damien walked closer, the relief turned to confusion.
One look, and I was able to tell that Damien hasn't slept a wink. He wasn't wearing his usual jumpsuit. He was in jeans and a wrinkled hoodie. His gait, usually a prowl, was heavy. As he stepped under the gym lights, I saw the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He looked like a ghost of himself.
He didn't look at the scoreboard. He didn't look at the Anderson team. He just walked straight toward the locker room.
I moved to talk to him, stepping into his path. "Damien? You okay?"
Damien held his hand up, stopping me mid-sentence. He didn't even make eye contact.
"I know," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel. "I just need five minutes."
He walked past me, a specter of exhaustion, and disappeared into the locker room to change.
Steve looked at me, his earlier animosity replaced by genuine worry. "What the hell is wrong with him?"
"I don't know," I said, watching the closed door. "But whatever it is, he better shake it off. We need him."
I looked at the scoreboard. 27-25. We were holding on, but the second half was going to be a war. And our general had just walked in looking like a casualty.