Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
I pushed open the gym doors at 11:45 AM. Practice didn't officially start until 12:30, but I wanted the court to myself. I wanted to calibrate my shot, feel the silence before the chaos of the team descended. We had chosen the school gym for practice because I didn't trust the seniors just yet to call them to my place.
But the gym wasn't silent. The rhythmic thump-thump-squeak-swish of a solo shooter echoed off the rafters.
I walked in further. I found Damien practicing shots in full kit.
He was at the free-throw line, his form mechanical, sweat already soaking through his grey jersey. His left ankle was heavily taped, a bulky mass of white athletic tape disappearing into his shoe. Every time he landed, I saw a subtle wince, a micro-adjustment of his weight to his right side.
"What are you doing?" I asked him, my voice cutting through the rhythm of his practice. "You're injured. You should be resting."
Damien didn't turn around. He caught the rebound on the bounce, spun the ball in his hands, and put up another shot. Clang. It hit the back iron. He cursed under his breath.
"Rest is for people who can afford to lose," he muttered, limping slightly as he went to retrieve the ball.
"You can't afford to play on a bad wheel either," I prodded, walking onto the court. "You're going to turn a two-week sprain into a season-ending tear."
"I didn't ask for a diagnosis, Dr. Naird," he snapped, finally turning to face me. His eyes were still shadowed, the exhaustion just like from the exhibition match day clearly not fully cleared.
I collected a ball from the rack and dribbled it once, the sound sharp and challenging. "Fine. If you're so fit, let's play." I looked at the hoop. "HORSE. Calling shots."
Damien looked at me like I was an idiot. "HORSE? Are you stupid? I can't jump, I can't cut. I can't match your movement right now."
Having Damien cornered with that, I nodded. "Okay. Fair point." I dribbled closer. "Then we play a different game. Spot shooting. Five spots around the key. Ten shots each spot. Whoever scores the most wins."
Damien was reluctant, eyeing me with suspicion. "Static shooting?"
"Yeah. No jumping. Just form." I dropped into a set stance, keeping my feet glued to the floor. "I won't jump either. Level playing field."
He considered it. His competitive drive was warring with his pain, but the idea of a challenge he could actually participate in was too tempting. "Fine," he agreed after some consideration. "You're on."
We moved to the first spot, the right corner. I took the first shot. Swish. Damien matched it. Swish.
"So," Brad asked, spinning the ball for his next shot. "Who gets what if they win?"
Damien pondered on it, his eyes narrowing as he realized I had ulterior motives. He held the ball, not shooting. "What do you want, Naird?"
"Answers," Brad said simply.
Damien leveled a stare at me, cold and guarding. "I'm not telling you my life story."
"I will only ask things related to you which are directly connected to your game," I clarified. "I need to know what I'm working with. If we're going to win this division, I need to know why my best player showed up to the exhibition match looking like he'd gone twelve rounds with a truck."
Damien sighed, the fight draining out of him slightly. He knew I had him. "And if I win?"
"You get my lunch for a week. And I stop asking."
He nodded. "Deal."
We began shooting. Spot 1 was a draw. Spot 2, the wing. I activated Sharpshooter. The talent guided my hands, adjusting the arc, the release point. Swish. Swish. Swish. Without the variable of the jump, my accuracy was robotic. I gave myself the handicap of not jumping knowing that Damien can't because of his left leg, but it turned out that my set shot was deadly on its own.
Damien was good—his form was pure—but as we moved to Spot 3, the top of the key, his injury started to show. He hit the front rim. Then the side.
Slowly, I edged out a lead using Sharpshooter. By the time we reached the fourth spot, I was up by three shots.
Damien grew frustrated, muttering curses as another shot rimmed out. But I caught him watching me, watching the consistent release of my ball. There was something else there something other than frustration, a grudging respect in his eyes.
We reached the final spot. I hit my first three. The math was done. I was going to win.
"So," I said, catching the ball. "What happened on the day of the exhibition match, Damien?"
Damien took a shot. It went in. He sighed, realizing there was no point in dodging.
"I work," he said, his voice flat. "Part-time jobs. I have a shift at Wendy's after school."
"Okay," I said. "That explains the afternoon. What about the night?"
"I work prep at the Meridian," he admitted. "Chopping vegetables, prepping meat. It's good money. Keeps the hands fast."
"Until what time?"
"Late," he grunted. "2 AM that night."
I paused mid-shot. "2 AM?"
"Yeah." He took another shot. Clang. "Got home. Found my little brother awake." He hesitated, then the frustration bubbled over. "My mother... she went out. Left him alone after dinner. He's seven. I had to put him to bed."
He picked up the ball, gripping it hard. "Then I had a history assignment. I couldn't sleep. I was working on it, trying to stay awake with bad coffee... I overslept. Woke up at 1:45 PM."
He looked at me, defiance in his eyes. "It took a toll. All the work, the studying... the responsibilities. I ran here. Three miles. That's why I was late."
I processed this. The double shift. The child care. The all-nighter. The run.
"Damien," I said slowly. "If you were working until 2 AM... at your age..." Brad deduced, "You must have worked beyond legal hours."
Damien acknowledged it with a shrug. "Under the table for the last few hours. Cash in hand. I do what I gotta do."
He walked up to me, stepping into my personal space. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by a sharp, dangerous edge. "Listen to me, Naird. What I told you... that stays here. If this gets out... if the school finds out I'm working illegal hours, or CPS gets wind of my brother..."
"I will end you," he threatened. "I don't care about the team. I don't care about basketball. I will burn this whole thing down."
At first, I took this offensively, my own hackles rising at the threat. I'm trying to help you, you idiot.
But then, I looked at his eyes. I saw the fear behind the aggression. I realized in the middle of my counter that Damien is just trying to protect himself. He wasn't threatening me because he hated me; he was threatening me because he was terrified of losing the only thing that mattered to him—his brother, his survival.
I relented.
"Relax," I told Damien, my voice calm. "I'm not a snitch. This stays between us." I held out the ball to him. "Game over. I win. But your secret is safe."
Damien stared at me for a long second, searching for any sign of deception. Finding none, he took the ball.
"Good," he muttered. "Now get out of my face. I have free throws to shoot."
The heavy gym doors swung open again, breaking the tense silence that had settled between Damien and me. The rest of the team filtered in—Leo spinning a ball on his finger, David ducking slightly to clear the frame, Patrick adjusting his knee brace. Steve and the other seniors trailed behind, along with the handful of substitutes who made up the rest of our roster.
The gym doors banged open, shattering the peace Damien and I had just brokered. The rest of the team flooded in—Leo bouncing a ball with manic energy, David munching on food as he got through the door, Patrick adjusting his knee brace, and Steve leading the straggling seniors.
Damien immediately retreated to the bench, icing his ankle, his expression shifting back to that mask of bored indifference. But I knew better now. I knew what lay beneath it.
I clapped my hands, the sound sharp in the acoustic space. "Gather round, everyone!"
They shuffled into a semi-circle. They looked like a motley crew—talented, yes, but raw. Unfinished.
"I have news," I announced, making eye contact with every player. "I found a prospective coach for us."
A ripple of interest went through the group. We had been operating like a pirate ship without a captain for too long.
"But there's a catch," I continued. "He's not just going to sign up because we asked. We have to impress him. We have to show him we're worth his time." I paused for effect. "He used to work for a Division 2 Football team."
The silence was immediate and confused.
"Football?" Steve asked, his nose wrinkling as if I'd suggested a ballet instructor. "What's the point of getting a football coach for basketball? Does he even know what a pick-and-roll is?"
"He knows athletics," I outlined, stepping into the center of the circle. "And that is exactly why it works out best for us. Look, I can handle the X's and O's. I will oversee strategy, play-calling, and game planning." I pointed to myself, then swept my hand toward the door. "But we are weak physically. We get pushed around. We get tired. This coach... he specializes in conditioning, physique, and discipline. He builds monsters. He can handle the physical training to make us better athletes, not just basketball players. Also the official coach stuff"
Steve was not convinced. He crossed his arms, looking at the other seniors. "I don't know, man. Sounds like we're gonna be running laps until we puke while other teams are shooting hoops. We need a basketball coach."
"We need discipline, Steve," I shot back. "Something this team has lacked for years."
Steve opened his mouth to argue, but a voice from the bench cut him off.
"Give it a try," Damien said. He didn't look up from his ankle, but his voice carried that undeniable weight of authority. "See how it goes. If he sucks, we bounce him. But if Brad says he can help with the physical side... we listen."
Steve's mouth snapped shut. If the King signed off on it, the debate was over.
The group broke up slightly to put their bags down, but David, Leo, and Patrick cornered me near the rack.
"So, how did you meet this guy?" Leo asked, spinning a ball on his finger. "You don't exactly hang out at football conventions."
"I met him at my Krav Maga dojo," I explained. "We sparred."
"You fought him?" David asked, raising an eyebrow. "And he didn't break you?"
"I won," I said, allowing a small smirk. "Barely. But I leveraged the win to get him to come down here."
Patrick looked thoughtful, adjusting his glasses. "Okay, but winning a fight doesn't mean he can manage a high school team. What do we need to do to convince him? And honestly, Brad... is he worth it? A college guy might just treat us like stepping stones."
They showcased some doubt, and rightfully so. They were risking their season on my intuition.
"He's worth it because he doesn't care about the politics of this school," I answered all their questions. "He's an outsider. He won't play favorites based on seniority. And to convince him? We work." I looked at the team. "We're going to start with high-intensity drills. Perfect form. No slacking. Then, when he gets here, we end it with a scrimmage. I'll let him divide the teams however he wants so he can see the individual talent."
Leo and the others agreed to it, nodding slowly. "Alright, Captain. We trust you."
I looked past them to the bench players. The substitute players still showed doubts—shuffling their feet, exchanging skeptical glances—but they didn't voice it. Damien's endorsement had bought me their silence, if not their faith.
"Alright!" I yelled, turning back to the main court. "Get on the baseline! Warm-ups. And I don't mean jogging and gossiping. I mean work."
Brad then told them all to warm up.
"Suicides to start!" I commanded. "Touch the line every time. If I see one person cheat the line, we start over. Go!"
They ran. I ran with them, leading from the front. Thump-thump-thump-squeak. We touched the baseline, the free-throw line, half-court, the far free-throw line, the far baseline. Back and forth.
"Again!" I shouted when we finished the first set. "Faster! Steve, pick it up!"
After the sprints, I moved them into dynamic stretching. High knees, butt kicks, lunges with a twist. I watched their form like a hawk.
"Keep your backs straight!" I instructed David. "Core tight! You're not stretching if you're collapsing!"
Then, ball handling. "Two balls each!" I ordered. "Pound dribble. Waist height. Eyes up! If you're looking at the ball, you can't see the defense!"
The gym filled with the deafening roar of twenty basketballs being hammered into the floor. The rhythm was chaotic at first, but I shouted the cadence until it synchronized. Bam. Bam. Bam.
We moved to the three-man weave. Full court. No dribbling.
"Pass and cut behind!" I yelled, directing traffic. "Ball doesn't touch the floor! Make it snap!"
We ran it for ten minutes straight. Sweat was pouring off everyone. Even the lazy seniors were breathing hard, caught up in the sheer intensity of the session. There was no time to complain, no time to slack off. We were a machine.
I called for a final defensive slide drill. "Defensive stance!"
We dropped low, hands out, feet wide.
"Slide left! Slide right! Drop step! Box out!"
My voice echoed off the rafters. The squeak of sneakers was a continuous screech. They were tired, their legs were burning, but they were moving together. They looked like a team.
The gym doors opened.
I didn't stop the drill. "Keep moving! Don't look at the door! Eyes on me! Slide left!"
A figure walked in. He stood by the entrance, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a tight black t-shirt and track pants. He watched us for a solid minute, his face unreadable as we finished the set.
"Halt!" I called out.
The team stopped, chests heaving, sweat dripping onto the hardwood. The silence that followed was heavy with anticipation.
I turned to the door. Casey walked onto the court, his heavy boots echoing in the quiet gym. He looked at the team, then at Damien on the bench, and finally at me. A slow, terrifying grin spread across his face.
"Alright, Bradley," Casey boomed, his voice filling the space without effort. "Show me what you got."
____________________________________________
HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE
I will be going on a vacation starting today will be back with regular chapters on 12th.