The yellow school bus hummed along the freeway, the San Gabriel Mountains hazy in the distance. Tyler Hayes sat near the back, earbuds in, knees pressed awkwardly against the seat in front of him. Even sitting sideways, he barely fit.
Coach Vargas stood at the front, clipboard in hand. "Listen up, boys! This is the West Coast Invitational. Big schools, big scouts. Keep your heads. Play our game."
Marcus leaned over the aisle. "You ready, skyscraper?"
Tyler smiled faintly. "As I'll ever be."
He looked out the window, watching palm trees flicker by. A year ago, he was just a middle school kid playing in half empty gyms. Now ESPN's local affiliate had a camera crew scheduled for the opening night.
The tournament took place at Valencia Sports Complex, a sprawling facility with five courts, banners everywhere, and scouts already taking notes during the warmup. Each team wore matching travel gear. Westbridge's black tracksuits looked sharp, though Tyler's pants stopped an inch above his ankles. A few kids from other teams whispered as he walked past. "That's Hayes, right? The freshman?" He ignored it, focusing on his breathing. One drill at a time. One game at a time.
Inside Court 2, Westbridge faced San Marcos Prep, a top 10 team in California. Their center, Evan Ross, was a 6'9" junior with a college offer from Arizona State and the physique to match. During the warmup, Tyler sneaked a glance across the floor. Ross moved smoothly, powerfully, dropping hook shots like clockwork.
"Kid's the real deal," Coach Vargas murmured beside him. "Don't get caught up in his résumé. Make him earn everything."
Tyler nodded, stretching. "Yes, Coach." The gym was packed. College scouts lined the sideline tables with laptops and notepads. The sound of sneakers and whistles blended into an anxious buzz. The ref tossed the ball up. Tyler leapt his fingertips brushed it first. Possession Westbridge.
Marcus pushed the ball up court, swung it to the wing, and lobbed inside. Tyler caught, drop stepped, and banked it in. First bucket. But San Marcos answered quickly. Ross powered through for three straight possessions, scoring on turnarounds and put backs. He wasn't just strong, he was efficient. Tyler adjusted, planting deeper, widening his base. The next time Ross tried to back down, he met solid resistance. The ball rimmed out.
By the second quarter, both big men were trading blows like heavyweights. Every possession was physical. Elbows, leverage, timing. Tyler used his length to contest, blocking one shot clean off the glass. The crowd reacted instantly. A scout leaned over to another. "Fourteen years old? Moves like a sophomore college prospect."
Tyler barely heard the noise. His focus tunnelled into the mechanics hand placement, angles, footwork. He remembered Vargas's voice from film study: Don't chase the ball. Anticipate it. Midway through the quarter, he intercepted a pass and pushed the fast break himself. Two dribbles, dish to Marcus, lay in. The bench exploded.
In the locker room, sweat dripped off every player. The score: 31–30, San Marcos.Coach Vargas tapped the whiteboard. "They're doubling you on the post. Kick it out faster make them pay. Defensively, stay vertical; refs are watching contact down low." Tyler nodded, absorbing every word. "Got it." Marcus grinned. "You're holding your own, big guy. Ross looks rattled." Tyler shook his head. "He's good. Real good. I just need to keep my balance."
San Marcos came out firing full court press, traps, quick rotations. Westbridge struggled to break it, committing turnovers. Ross capitalized inside.
For the first time all tournament, Tyler felt outpaced. His lungs burned. He missed a box out. Ross dunked. The gym roared. Timeout. Vargas crouched low, voice calm but firm. "You're fine, Hayes. You're thinking too much. Go back to instincts. You don't have to outmuscle him, you out position him." Tyler nodded, chest heaving. Instincts. Position. Back on the floor, he adjusted. When Ross spun baseline again, Tyler anticipated, slid early, and drew a charge. The whistle blew. Crowd, half groaning, half cheering.
Down three, Westbridge ran their last set. Marcus drove, drew help, kicked to Tyler. One dribble, soft hook shot, its good. Fifteen seconds. Foul game begins. San Marcos hit both free throws. Five seconds left. Westbridge inbounded. Marcus sprinted up court and launched a desperation three at the buzzer. Rim…bounce… off. Final score San Marcos 64, Westbridge 61. Tyler bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard.
Ross approached, hand extended. "You've got talent, kid. Keep working." Tyler shook it firmly. "You too."
In the hallway afterward, reporters gathered around the San Marcos locker room. But one scout peeled away, walking toward Vargas. "Your freshman's special," the man said. "Still raw, but he's got the tools. Reminds me of a young DeAndre Ayton minus the polish, plus the length." Vargas nodded. "He's learning."
Tyler overheard and tried not to react. Compliments didn't win championships, consistency did. On the bus ride home, Marcus nudged him. "We might've lost, but you just got on a lot of radars." Tyler smiled faintly, staring out at the city lights. "Then I've got to make sure they keep me there."
Back home, the gym was empty except for the echo of a single basketball. Tyler stayed behind, shooting free throws long after everyone left. Dribble. Breathe. Release. Swish.
He thought about the game every rebound, every misstep, every small win. Growth wasn't glamorous. It was repetition, correction, and quiet belief when no one was watching. He sank another shot, catching the ball on the bounce.