The first real spark hit when Jesus and Mason matched up. They stood at the top of the key, ball in Jesus' hand, grin already there. Mason cracked his neck. "You sure you don't wanna stretch first, little man? I don't got child support money yet."
Jesus dribbled once, twice – slow, lazy. "Relax, playa. I ain't your mija, you ain't scoring shit on me."
Marcus blew the whistle. "Play."
Jesus hit him with a hesitation and a crossover so quick it looked like a glitch. Mason bit, lunged – too far. Jesus floated to the rim like he'd done it a thousand times in alleyways and cracked courts. Easy layup.
"Too slow, carnal," he said on the way back out. "You guarding me or chilling?"
Mason caught the ball off the bounce hard enough to make it pop. "Do that shit again."
They reset. Jesus stepped back and let him hear his dribble – thunk, thunk, thunk – before darting left. Mason cut him off this time and bodied him hard. Jesus still got the shot up. Brick.
"Mmm," Mason smirked. "That rim just deported your weak layup."
Jesus wiped sweat off his chin, unfazed. "That's cool. Was it like when your daddy deported himself too when you got born?"
"Ooooohhhhh!" Ector barked, moving to his own court, clutching his chest like he'd been shot.
Novak winced. "Damn."
Now Mason's smile dropped. He backed Jesus down as soon as he got the ball, shoulder-first. No finesse. Pure bully post-up.
"One-one," he said as the ball slapped through the net.
Jesus rolled his shoulder like he'd just been nudged, not bulldozed. "That how you score on your abuela too?"
Mason didn't answer. He just pointed: ball. They kept going.
Meanwhile, two courts over, Ector and Novak were midway through a quieter bloodbath. Ector sized him up, eyes low and mean. "You ready, peach boy?"
Novak sighed. "Just play, man."
Ector didn't. He drove like he was trying to put Novak through the hardwood. First bucket – easy. Second – off a steal. On the third possession, Novak pump-faked him out of his shoes and laid it in with surprising touch.
Ector stopped mid-run. "Do that again."
"I'd rather not die today," Novak said.
"You won't if you learn."
Novak blinked. "That… was almost encouraging."
Ector scowled at him like he'd said something offensive. "Ball."
Over by the baseline, Grigori and Biha were matched up. Biha tried to body him, using weight and arms like tree trunks. Grigori barely moved. He just reached over him and picked the ball clean, like taking food away from a toddler.
"Bad," he said in that deadpan Siberian tone with his Russian accent. "Feet first. Hands slow."
Biha didn't answer – just nodded and reset.
Ector shoved Novak again, hard enough that Dr. Lang flinched from across the gym.
"FOUR-ZERO," Marcus yelled, marking the score of another game. "Winners keep rotating!"
Jesus finally got Mason on a spin and laid it in again. "That's two, papi."
Mason wiped sweat and smirked again. "Don't call me that unless you wanna find out."
"Shit," Jesus said, stepping back into position, "take me out on dinner first."
Grigori sank another jumper over Biha without saying a word. Only sound from him was when he passed the ball back: "Next."
Grigori rotated out after wiping Biha 5-0. The one person who even looked remotely ready to check him was Ector.
They stepped onto the court without a word.
Ector bounced the ball once and grinned. "You look like you eat wallpaper, Kremlin."
Grigori didn't blink. "You look like you eat lead paint. Ball or mouth?"
Jesus burst out laughing from the sideline. Mason even cracked a smile.
Marcus blew the whistle. "Play."
On the first possession, Ector tried to body him like he'd done to Novak. Bad idea. Grigori absorbed the hit like concrete absorbing a punch. Ector's shoulder smacked his chest and staggered back half a step like he'd rammed a statue.
Grigori just reached down, ripped the ball, and took one long step into a jumper.
Swish. No celebration. No noise. Just turned and tossed the ball back to him. "One," he said simply. Ector rolled his neck, irritated but locked in. "Bet."
On the next drive, Ector went low and fast, attacking Grigori's hips with a hesitation and crossover. It worked for half a second – got space. He popped a midrange jumper. Missed.
Grigori was already under the rim. Didn't even jump. Just caught it.
"You are fast," he said, voice flat. "But you dribble like goat on ice."
"Bitch, what?" Ector snapped.
Grigori didn't elaborate. He just set up again, ball in hand. Dribbled once, slow and high – like he was bored. This time, he used his shoulder, backed Ector down two easy steps, then hit a fade so casual it almost looked rude. "Two."
Across the gym, Tyrone Mason was backing down Biha in another game. Biha's size made it hard, but Mason was too crafty, finishing with a reverse layup.
"Four-two," Mason muttered. "Next point ends it."
"Not if I get there," Biha rumbled, sweat rolling down his temples.
Jesus was playing Novak now and getting irritated because Novak's size and weight were annoying. Jesus blew past him twice, but Novak got a fingertip on the third possession and forced a miss.
"You're heavy as shit," Jesus huffed.
"You're small as shit," Novak shot back. "We all struggling."
Back on Grigori's court, Ector finally got on the board. He faked a drive, pulled back, and banked a jumper in off the glass.
"Two-one, Siberia," he growled.
Grigori nodded once. Not impressed, not bothered. "Good. Again."
"You gonna say anything else?" Ector snapped.
"Yes," Grigori said, dead calm. "Score is two-one. Again."
He took the inbound, then spun off Ector so smooth it didn't look real. One dribble, soft floater.
"Three."
Ector looked like he wanted to fight or focus – maybe both.
From the far side, Jesus shouted in between plays, "Ey Nevsky, you hoopin' like you got no childhood, hermano!"
Grigori didn't look over. "I had childhood. It just wasn't soft."
The score hit 5-1 a few minutes later. Ector was drenched and furious. Grigori didn't even flex. He just stepped aside and pointed to Mason, who had just finished his own matchup. "You next."
Mason smirked. "Yeah? Let's dance, white trash."
Grigori shrugged. "I don't dance. I bury."
That got a collective "OHHH" from the boys in the gym.
Novak whispered to Jesus, "Why does he talk like a Final Boss?"
Jesus smirked, wiping his face with his shirt. "Because he probably is, cabrón."
Mason checked the ball, a grin already tugging at his mouth. "Win by five," he said. "Same as the rest."
Grigori caught the ball with one hand. "I don't care how many."
Marcus gave them a nod. "Play."
First possession, Mason went straight at him – no dancing, no hesitation. He hit Grigori with a shoulder, spun, and stepped back into a quick jumper. Bucket. "Uno," Mason said, holding up one finger.
Grigori gave a single nod. "You shoot better than you talk."
Mason laughed under his breath. "You gonna see how much I talk when I'm five-zero on you, Putin."
He went again – this time trying to blow past him off the dribble. Didn't budge Grigori an inch. Mason bounced off his chest and lost balance just enough for Grigori to jab the ball loose and scoop it up. Grigori took one slow dribble, stepped into a midrange like he was at shootaround. Swish. "Uno," he echoed.
"Okay," Mason muttered, tightening his stance.
Next play, Mason crossed twice, dropped low, and hit a floater off the glass.
"Two-one. You keeping up?"
Grigori wiped his palm on his shorts. "I'm keeping count of how fast you run out of breath."
Jesus howled from the wall. "HE GOT YOU, MASON!"
Mason ignored him and backed up, catching the check pass. This time he tried a stepback three.
Barely rimmed out.
Before it bounced twice, Grigori already had it. He didn't even bother dribbling hard – just walked him down into the paint, took contact like a mattress, and laid it in one-handed. "Two-two."
They kept trading. Mason scored on a quick drive. Grigori bullied one in. Mason hit another jumper. Grigori answered with a hook over his shoulder that made it look unfair. At 4-4, nobody else was playing their games anymore – they were all watching.
Mason's chest was heaving now. He wiped sweat from his mouth, laughing. "You really built like a fridge, man."
Grigori bounced the ball once. "And you are light like grocery bag. Waste of breath."
Mason pointed at him. "Bro, one day you're gonna say something and someone's actually gonna fight you."
"I hope," Grigori said. "You talk too much."
He spun, powered one dribble to the block and finished through contact. "Five-four. Done."
Mason tossed the ball away. "Shit!"
Jesus jogged over, clapping him on the back. "You lost, but you didn't get smoked, primo. Ay, that's a W."
Nevsky just rolled his shoulders and stepped off the court like he'd taken a walk, not played six straight games.
Before anyone could call the next matchup, the gym doors banged open. Coach Kuhlmann stepped in, hands behind his back, expression unreadable. Daniel was behind him.
Every conversation died mid-word.
The Coach let his eyes sweep the room – sweaty faces, heavy breathing, kids bent over with hands on knees.
"Good," he said. "You still have lungs."
Nobody dared answer.
He walked onto the court, slow and steady. "Since you geniuses decided last night was a vacation, you'll finish this morning like professionals."
Mason muttered under his breath, "Here we go…"
The Coach didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "Forty laps. Around the court. Now. Schneller!"
Groans. Swears under breath. Deng actually closed his eyes in a silent prayer.
They started running.
By lap fifteen, shoes were squeaking and kids were wheezing. By lap thirty, Novak was purple, Jesus was cussing in two languages, and Biha looked like he'd been shot in the lungs.
Coach stood at half court, counting.
"Thirty-eight… thirty-eight… thirty-eight…"
Heads snapped up.
"Thirty-nine… thirty-nine… thirty-nine… thirty-nine…"
Mason nearly tripped. "You foul for that!"
One more lap. Then another, just because none of them wanted to be the first to stop.
Finally, the Coach lifted a hand. "Stop."
They collapsed along the baseline like fallen soldiers.
He looked them over with a calm, cutting stare.
"This was your warning. Your one mistake. I don't babysit. I don't chase you. I don't give a second chance once the real games start."
No one spoke.
"Just like I said, next week," he said, "you'll play real teams. Those kids don't care if you're hungover, jetlagged, or stupid. They'll just run you off the floor."
He stepped past them and headed for the door.
"You want this to work? Start acting like it. Or go back home and tell your parents you smoked your shot away. Now rest, I will go easy on you only this once, see you tomorrow at 6 a.m."
He left without looking back. Marcus just gave them a look that said everything without needing to add a word.
Jesus dropped onto his back, chest rising hard. "Viejo is gonna be the death of us, mano…"
Grigori, barely winded, walked off to get water without a word.
Novak flopped onto the floor like a corpse. "I think my soul threw up."
Mason spread on the court like a starfish just stared at the ceiling, breathing fire. "Next time we get high," he groaned, "we do it after practice."
Nobody disagreed.