Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
The buzzer sounded for the second half. Steve sat down, looking relieved to be out of the pressure cooker. Damien stood up, shedding his hoodie. He looked terrible—eyes still bloodshot, movements slightly heavy—but as he walked onto the court, a mask of cold intensity slid over his face.
He stopped next to me as we lined up. "I want the ball on fast breaks," he stated, his voice raspy but commanding. "You get a rebound, you get a steal, you look for me."
I looked at him. He was tired, running on fumes, but the fire was there. "If you can adjust to our tempo, you will automatically get the ball," I told him. "We don't force it. We flow."
Damien took this as a challenge, a flicker of his old arrogance lighting up his eyes. "Just get it to me."
The quarter began. I immediately initiated the strategy: increasing and decreasing the tempo to keep Anderson off balance. I pushed the ball hard off the inbound, sprinting to the three-point line, then abruptly pulled back, signaling for a reset.
Damien, expecting a drive, cut hard to the basket. He was out of sync. I swung the pass to where he should have been for a perimeter reset, but he was deep in the paint. The ball sailed out of bounds.
Damien fumbled the apology, just scowling.
Two plays later, David missed a hook shot. Damien went up for the offensive rebound, but his timing was off—the exhaustion slowing his reaction speed by a fraction of a second. The ball tipped off his fingers and into Trey's hands.
I saw the frustration tightening his jaw. He was trying to brute force his way through the fatigue.
"Tempo," I whispered to him as we jogged back on defense. "Read the floor."
He didn't acknowledge me, but on the next possession, something shifted. He locked in.
Chase, Anderson's point guard, was dribbling high, getting lazy. I saw the opportunity for a steal and tensed to lunge. But before I could move, a blur of grey and black shot across my vision.
Damien.
He had anticipated my move, or perhaps he had just read the same weakness. He pre-empted the steal, knocking the ball loose just as Chase tried to cross over. He didn't dribble. He tapped the loose ball forward, directly into my path.
I caught it in stride. Fast break.
Damien was already filling the lane on the right. I drove middle, drew the defender, and lobbed it up. Damien caught it and laid it in, smooth as silk.
I appreciated this very much, a genuine smile breaking onto my face. "Nice read," I said.
"Keep up, freshman," he muttered, but there was no bite in it.
As the quarter continued, Damien grew more and more aggressive. He stopped fighting the flow and started riding it. He was everywhere. He ripped a contested rebound away from Diego, using leverage instead of just jumping. He jumped a passing lane for another steal. He was playing with a desperate, manic energy that transcended his exhaustion.
Watching him, I almost thought that Damien might be in Flow state. He wasn't thinking; he was just reacting, his body moving on pure instinct and muscle memory. We built a massive lead, pushing the score to 44-30. We were crushing them.
Then, the inevitable happened.
With five minutes left, I fed Damien on a cut. He caught it, took one dribble, and went up for a layup. It should have been easy. But Kyle, their lanky forward, came across to help. It was a hard contest. Damien adjusted in mid-air to avoid the block, contorting his body.
He landed in an uneven position.
It wasn't a snap or a pop, just an awkward, heavy thud. His left ankle rolled, just slightly, under his weight. Immediately, I noticed that he might have sustained an injury. A flicker of pain crossed Damien's face, tight and sharp, before he masked it.
I jogged over as I went to pick him up. "You okay? Ankle?"
He pulled away, brushing it off. "I'm fine," he snapped, though his voice was tight. "Just landed wrong. Let's go."
He limped a bit as he walked to the free-throw line, trying to hide it, but to a trained eye, it was obvious. He made the free throws, but as play resumed, he was visibly less aggressive and efficient. He stopped cutting. He stopped crashing the boards. He became a stationary target.
Anderson High smelled blood.
"He's hurt!" Chase yelled, pointing at Damien. "Attack him! Go at him!"
They took advantage immediately. On the next possession, Chase isolated Damien at the top of the key. Normally, Damien would have locked him down. Now, he couldn't slide his feet. Chase blew past him with a simple crossover. Damien tried to turn, winced, and gave up the pursuit. Chase scored an easy layup.
"Switch!" I yelled, trying to hide Damien on defense. "Leo, take Chase! Damien, guard the corner!"
But they knew. They swung the ball to Hunter in the corner, forcing Damien to close out. He hobbled, unable to explode off his left foot. Hunter had all day. He measured the shot and drained the three.
Our offense stalled. Without Damien's cutting, the spacing collapsed. We forced bad shots. Anderson rebounded and ran. They attacked Damien in transition every single time, forcing us to rotate early, leaving shooters open.
Diego backed Damien down in the post. Damien tried to hold his ground, but he couldn't generate the leverage. Diego spun baseline and scored. The massive lead we had built up was brought down possession by possession. Damien was a liability, a hole in the ship, but he refused to sub out, and I knew if I pulled him now, I might lose him forever.
I hit a floater to stop the bleeding, but Chase answered with a buzzer-beating three over Damien's outstretched, flat-footed defense. The buzzer sounded. I looked at the scoreboard, then at Damien, who was limping toward the bench, his face a mask of stoic suffering.
End of Third Quarter: Palisades 48, Anderson 42.
The huddle was a tense. I looked at Damien, he was leaning heavily on his right leg, his left ankle already swelling visibly through his sock. His breathing was ragged, a wheezing sound that spoke of more than just game fatigue.
"You're done," I said, my voice leaving no room for debate. "Sit this one out."
Damien glared at me, wiping sweat from his bloodshot eyes. "I can do it," he rasped. "I'm finishing this."
"You can barely stand!" I got pissed, my frustration spiking. "You're a liability on defense. You couldn't stop Chase on the last three possessions. You couldn't possibly handle a fourth quarter on that foot."
"I can handle it!" Damien shouted back, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate anger. "I have been through far worse than a twisted ankle, freshman! And while you can dictate what the team has to do, you can't force me to do anything! I run this!"
He moved to step back onto the court, but he stumbled, wincing.
"Damien, stop. Calm down."
It wasn't me. Steve stepped in, putting a steadying hand on Damien's chest. Damien looked at him, ready to snap, but Steve held his ground.
"Look at your leg, D," Steve reasoned with him, his voice surprisingly firm. "The injury might exacerbate if you keep pushing. You've already done enough. You gave us a six-point lead to build up on. You did your duty."
Damien tried to shake him off, but Steve didn't let go. "And dude, look at you. You're running on fumes. You haven't slept in days, have you? You seem sleep-deprived as it is. Just take a breather. Trust us."
The fight seemed to drain out of Damien all at once. The adrenaline that had been propping him up—through the double shifts, the run to the school, the game—finally evaporated. He looked at Steve, then at his throbbing ankle, and finally at me.
"Fine," Damien finally relented, sinking onto the bench with a heavy sigh. He looked at Steve. "Don't screw it up."
"I won't," Steve promised.
"Ref!" I called out. "Sub!"
Steve is substituted in for Damien. I looked at him. "You ready to run?"
"Yeah," Steve said, looking determined. "Let's finish this."
The fourth quarter began with a palpable shift in the air. The Anderson squad saw Damien limping on the sideline, and they smelled blood. Chase, their Abercrombie-model point guard, was practically vibrating with renewed confidence as he brought the ball up.
"They're weak!" Chase shouted, signaling his team. "Attack the sub! Go at Steve!"
They wasted no time. Chase called for a high pick-and-roll, targeting Steve. I fought over the screen, but Steve was supposed to hedge hard to cut off the drive. He hesitated. His feet were heavy, his reaction time a fraction of a second too slow. Chase split us easily, driving into the paint and dishing a no-look pass to Diego for an easy layup.
"My bad," Steve gasped, looking stricken. "I thought he was going left."
I opened my mouth to encourage him, to tell him its okay, but Leo beat me to it.
"Hey, you tried to jump the route," Leo said, surprisingly breathless but patting Steve on the back. "It was a good read, just slow feet. You're an okay dude, Steve. Shake it off."
Steve looked at Leo, stunned by the lack of venom. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Leo grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. "We'll fix the team coordination in future practices. Right now, just run."
The encouragement seemed to shock Steve more than the insults had. He nodded, a new determination setting in his jaw.
We brought the ball up. I called for a "Horns" set, needing Steve to set a screen for Patrick at the elbow. Again, the timing was off. Steve arrived late, and his screen was soft. Patrick was forced to pick up his dribble in a bad spot. The Anderson defense collapsed.
Steve made fumbles again and again with regard to tempo changes and pick and rolls. He bobbled a pass from me a moment later, turning it over.
"Get back!" David roared.
We sprinted back on defense. Kyle, the lanky forward, pulled up for a transition three. It clanged off the back rim.
"Board!"
Steve threw himself into the mix. He boxed out Trey, the Anderson center who had four inches and thirty pounds on him. Steve contested fiercely, shoving back, fighting for position. But Trey was a tank. He absorbed Steve's effort, jumped over him, and ripped the rebound down. The force of the collision sent Steve falling hard to the hardwood.
Trey went back up for the putback, but David came out of nowhere, swatting the ball into the stands with a primal shout.
The whistle blew. Dead ball.
Steve was on the floor, grimacing, clutching his elbow. David walked up to him. He didn't yell. He didn't tell him to get out of the way. He extended a massive hand.
"Up," David rumbled.
Steve took it. David hauled him to his feet effortlessly. A smile was shared between them, brief but genuine. It signified a growing closeness, a respect earned not by skill, but by the willingness to hit the floor.
"Thanks," Steve muttered.
"Box out lower next time," David advised. "Use your hips."
The game tightened. Anderson went all in. They started pressing full court, desperate to close the gap. Chase hit a wild, leaning runner. Hunter drained a corner three. The score was Palisades 54, Anderson 51. The momentum was swinging.
We needed a bucket. I brought the ball up, the Anderson press suffocating. I broke the trap with a behind-the-back dribble and saw the floor open up. I drove, drawing the defense.
I saw Patrick on the wing. He had a lane to drive, but he saw something else. He saw Steve drifting to the corner—the one spot on the floor where Steve actually had rhythm.
Patrick also made a pass to Steve. It wasn't a bullet pass like mine, or a flashy no-look like Damien's. It was a soft, chest-high pass, perfectly timed to Steve's comfort levels.
"Shoot it!" Patrick yelled.
Steve caught it in rhythm. He didn't think. He didn't hesitate. He rose up and fired.
Swish.
"Yeah!" Steve screamed, pumping his fist as he ran back on defense. The bench erupted. Even Damien, nursing his ankle, nodded in approval.
That shot broke them.
Anderson tried to respond, but they were forcing it now. Chase tried to play hero ball again, driving into a triple team. I stripped the ball from him cleanly.
"Go!" I yelled.
We ran. I fed Leo on the break for a layup.
On the next possession, David grabbed a defensive rebound and threw a long outlet to me. I pulled up from the elbow, using my Sharpshooter talent to bury the dagger. Desperate, Anderson started fouling to stop the clock. It was a futile effort. I hit my free throws. Patrick hit his. We controlled the ball, drained the clock, and suffocated their remaining attempts.
Chase hit a meaningless layup at the buzzer, but it didn't matter.
Final Score: Palisades 65, Anderson 55.
We stood at center court, exhausted, battered, but victorious. I looked at my team—Leo, David, Patrick, and Steve, who was beaming despite the bruise forming on his elbow. We were a mess. We were uncoordinated. We were a work in progress.
But we had won.
Steve walked up to me as we shook hands with the dejected Anderson players. "Hey, Naird," he said, breathing hard. "Thanks. For... not subbing me out."
"You hit the shot," I said simply. "Good game."
I looked over at the bench. Damien was standing up, testing his weight on his ankle. He caught my eye and gave a single, sharp nod. The Ace approved.
We packed our gear, the adrenaline finally fading into a dull, satisfied ache. We had taken over the team, we had beaten the seniors, and we had won our first game. High school basketball had officially begun.