Despite being just a JV team, Sierra Canyon's gym was packed. No one expected the newcomers – a bunch of nobodies – to even keep up. They didn't just keep up. They came to dominate.
From tip-off, Grigori showed what a monster he was. Two windmill dunks, three reverses, one between-the-legs, a putback, and a swat that sent the ball halfway to the bleachers. Every rebound sounded like a gunshot. His fadeaways were so smooth they could've made Dirk himself nod in approval.
The crowd oohed with every play – until Kuhlmann stood, stone-faced, and signaled to the scorer's table.
"Sub him out," he said flatly.
Grigori blinked. "What?!"
"Sit."
He'd scored twenty in five minutes. But he was showboating – hanging on the rim, taunting, coasting between possessions. He'd called the opposing power forward a "crippled pregnant monkey," and after every dunk, he'd sneered, "That's how I put it in your mother."
As he walked to the bench, he muttered something in Russian that definitely wasn't "nice game."
Then Tyrone took over the game. Defense tightened. Communication sparked. He led like a general – barking out screens, rotating, diving for loose balls. He set up Ector for a corner three, then slapped his chest and pointed at him.
"That's us!"
Just when momentum peaked – "Sub him out," Kuhlmann said again.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "He's cooking."
"I see. I'm old, not blind," Kuhlmann replied. "But the others won't learn if he keeps covering for them."
Tyrone didn't argue, but the look on his face said everything. He was leading. And still, he was out.
Now the floor belonged to chaos.
Jesus tried to fill the vacuum, dribbling into traffic and throwing himself at the rim. Novak was directing plays but gasping for air, while Biha and Deng missed every rotation like they were allergic to defense.
And Ector Troy – the shortest, the loudest, and perpetually pissed off – was jawing at anyone who looked his way. A bump here. A shove there. Trash talk dripping like gasoline waiting for a spark.
Then thespark came.
A Sierra Canyon guard, light-skinned and cocky, tried to go baseline. Ector body-checked him clean, forced a turnover, and grinned. "Yeah, boy! Welcome to the real world!"
The guard glared back. "Oooh," he mocked, hand cupped to his ear, voice nasal and mocking. "Hood rats learned to talk! Who the hell let you animals on a court?"
The crowd went wild.
Ector froze mid-step. Something cold flashed behind his eyes. Then, before anyone could blink, he swung.
It wasn't a full punch – more a reflexive hook across the chest – but the Sierra kid flailed backward and hit the floor.
Whistles shrieked. Benches stood. The ref tried to cut in – too late.
Novak and Jesus sprinted to pull Ector back, but another Sierra player shoved them. Grigori stood up, roaring something in Russian, and the shit-storm followed. Tyrone jumped off his seat, yelling, "Yo, yo, chill–!"
Someone tripped. Someone else pushed. And then came punches and kicks.
Chaos.
It turned into a full-on brawl, with even random people from the audience jumping into the fray – some to throw hands, others just to film it up close. "WORLDSTAR!" screams could be heard everywhere.
Bodies collided. Jerseys tangled. Coaches dove in, trying to separate players. Nobody even remembered who threw the next punch.
Later, they'd all tell different versions – "He started it!" "No, they shoved first!" – but at that moment, it didn't matter.
The scoreboard still read 3:19 left in the third quarter when the refs blew their whistles for the final time.
Game: abandoned.
~~~~~
Ector was still breathing hard, hands shaking, when Marcus grabbed him by the collar and hauled him toward the exit. "Move," Marcus said.
"Man, what the fuck?!"
"Shut up."
He didn't yell. Just dragged him – out the gym, through the parking lot, straight to his car. The sound of chaos faded behind them – sirens maybe, crowd murmurs, coaches trying to calm it down.
Marcus shoved him into the front passenger seat and got behind the wheel. The silence hung heavy.
Five minutes passed. Then Marcus said, "You hungry?"
Ector stared out the window. "No."
"Good," Marcus muttered. "We're still going to Popeyes."
Ector frowned. "What for?"
"To eat. And to talk. In that order."
~~~~~
Marcus parked the car outside a Popeyes. The smell of fried chicken cut through the silence like a knife.
"Spill it," he said finally.
Ector glanced over, frowning. "What, my soda?"
Marcus didn't smile. "No. Your sob story. I read your profile – I know you got one. We all do."
"Nah, man, you trippin'. I don't have one. I'm just built like that."
"Don't lie to me." Marcus's tone was steady, almost soft. "Don't lie to yourself."
Silence hung thick. For a minute, the only sounds were the buzz of the restaurant sign outside and the humming of AC.
"You really a gangbanger?" Marcus asked finally. "What set you reppin'? Which ones you got in Jacksonville?"
Ector turned, jaw tightening. "Who the fuck–?" He stopped, caught himself. The smell of hot chicken did its work; he exhaled slowly. "Nah," he said, quieter now. "I ain't no gangbanger."
"So why you act so tough?"
"I told you," Ector said, shrugging. "I'm built different. I don't choke when somebody disrespects me."
Marcus leaned back. "But maybe you should. Sometimes, at least."
Ector shot him a look. "Nah, man. Don't tell me you one of those Uncle Tom, turn-the-other-cheek ass dudes. That lightskin kid got what he asked for."
Marcus's brow furrowed. "Uncle Tom? Me?" He scoffed. "Boy, I'm blacker than you." There was a glint of humor in his eyes. "And I'm not sayin' you wrong for standing up. I'm sayin' sometimes… it just ain't the place or the time."
He paused, eyes drifting toward the window, thinking of the right words.
"My psychologist once told me that if you want to build a connection with someone, you should open yourself first. So let me tell a bit about me. You know I'm from the hood too, right? O-Block. Chiraq. Seen a lot of dumb shit in my life. GDs, BDs, all of it. I know what it does to people. So answer me straight – truthfully. You bangin'? You ever run with 'em?"
"I said no," Ector snapped, annoyed. But after a moment, his voice dropped. "My brother though… yeah. He was. Or is. I don't even know no more."
"Explain," Marcus said. "I'm listening. No judgment."
Ector stared at the dashboard. "You from the hood too, so you know how it is. You either with a gang, or you a victim. My brother's the oldest. He joined early. Said I was the one with talent, told me to stay away from all that. Said I could make it big, get Mom and my lil' brother out the hood. Do better."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Sounds like he loves you. Cares about you."
"What about your dad? He still around?"
Ector's face hardened. "Don't know him. Never met him. There's three of us – all got different dads. Mom just… wasn't lucky with men."
"That's rough," Marcus said quietly. "So your brother's your role model, huh?"
Ector scoffed. "Nah. Why would I wanna be like him? Dumbass in prison now. Got caught doin' some stupid shit. He's got, like, seven years left."
A pause.
"You visit him?" Marcus asked.
Ector shook his head. "Not really. Haven't seen him in three years. He nags too much."
"What about folks on the street? They still approach you? Or your brother's word still hold some weight?"
Ector hesitated. "Not really. Sometimes some OGs come up talkin' shit – sayin' I'm soft, not movin' right, actin' like my brother. That he was soft too. That he got caught lackin'…"
Marcus felt the weight of that. He knew how that story ended too often. He took a breath, eyes narrowing slightly.
"You know," Marcus said, "O-Block's a vicious place too. I almost got pulled into that life myself. Thought it was the only way to matter. Until I learned the truth – the hard way."
Ector looked over, silent.
Marcus continued. "My neighbor – used to be a real one. Big talk, hard rep. Hired gun, no fear. He and his boys got caught by the twelves mid-opp. You know how it is – 'no snitching,' 'real ones don't fold,' all that tough talk. But when the cuffs hit?" He snapped his fingers. "They all folded. Every last one.
When reality hits, all that talk about loyalty and code? It dies fast. 'Cause the system don't care about your hood code. You crack, you talk, you beg. Everyone does. I seen it. They all talk to get a lighter sentence. And behind bars, there's no honor. No brotherhood. Just survival."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "My guy got twenty years. Due to a paperwork mess, he served twenty-five. When he got out, he wasn't even himself no more. And what he came to? His daddy was dead. His mama too. His brother? Killed. His sister? A washed girl on the corner, trying to get some bread for her four children, beaten by her pimp every day. All his old homies? Half six feet under, half locked up. The few left didn't wanna see him – he was a ghost from an unkind past they wanted to forget."
Marcus exhaled. "Last time I saw him, he was trying to suck off a plug who was young enough to be his grandson for a dose."
Ector didn't say anything. Just listened.
"That day," Marcus said softly, "I made up my mind. Fuck them streets. They are full of lies and bullshit. I walked up to my high school football coach and asked to join. Turned out I had talent. Enough to get a college scholarship. I got out."
He looked Ector dead in the eye.
"So tell me – am I soft for that? For choosing to live instead of dying for some corner that don't even got my name on it?"
Ector hesitated. "I… I don't know…"
Marcus nodded. "Didn't think so. But listen to me – strong ain't the same as tough. Tough gets you killed. Strong gets you out. Strong means saying no to bullshit that only drags you under."
He leaned closer. "Answer me, Ector. You strong… or you just tough?"
Ector stared down at his food, voice low. "I… I don't know, man. I really don't."
Marcus leaned back in his seat, letting it breathe. "You don't gotta answer me. Just make sure you answer yourself one day."
Silence filled the car again. Only the hum of the AC and the crunch of chicken skin broke it.
Marcus finally smirked faintly. "You know, this Popeyes still better than KFC."
Ector snorted. "Facts."