Monday looked normal. The same cracked pavement, the same clatter of lockers and cafeteria smell that never left the halls. But something under it buzzed different. Asher could feel it in the glances people thought he didn't see.
He'd frozen at practice, sure, but what spread faster than failure was recognition.
He heard it first in passing—two players from the team cutting across the courtyard.
"Yo, that's him, right?"
"Yeah, I swear. Same name. I saw a video—dude was a killer in middle school."
He pretended not to hear, hands shoved deep in his hoodie. But the sound of his name carried like static.
Holt.
By second period, someone had found a clip—old tournament footage, him smaller, sharper, smiling like the world hadn't gotten heavy yet. His phone buzzed nonstop, group chats lighting up with messages he didn't open.
"Bro… this you???"
"Why didn't you tell us you were that Asher Holt?"
He kept the screen face-down. Sometimes silence was safer than defending himself.
At lunch, Jordan dropped his tray across from him.
"Don't look at me like that," he said, unwrapping a sandwich. "I didn't start it."
"Didn't stop it either," Asher said.
"Fair." Jordan took a bite, chewed. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
Jordan raised an eyebrow. "That your word for every emotional state or just the bad ones?"
Asher sighed. "I just don't want to talk about it."
"Then don't," Jordan said. "But FYI, Coach knows now."
"Great."
"He didn't care, if that helps. Just said, 'Makes sense.' Which is Coach for, like, a full speech."
Asher smirked despite himself. "Guess I'm predictable."
Jordan leaned back. "You're the opposite of predictable. Half the team thought you were a transfer who couldn't dribble."
"Lucky me."
Jordan shrugged. "Could be worse. At least now they expect you to be good."
"That's the problem," Asher muttered.
English class came next. Leah was already at her desk, sketching lines that didn't make sense until they suddenly did. She glanced back at him when he sat down.
"So," she said, voice light. "Do I call you Asher Holt, basketball prodigy, or just Asher Holt, mysterious guy who lies about hobbies?"
He groaned. "Please don't."
"I'm kidding." She paused, eyes narrowing. "Okay, mostly kidding."
"I wasn't hiding it to be mysterious."
"Then why?" she asked.
He didn't answer. She studied him for a moment, then looked away, fiddling with her pencil.
"Sorry," she said quietly. "That came out kind of rude."
"It's fine."
"No, it's—" she exhaled. "I'm bad at curiosity. It sounds like interrogation."
He smiled a little. "You're not bad at it. You just ask like you expect the answer to fix something."
Her eyes flicked up, startled. "Wow. Rude and accurate."
He shrugged. "Guess we're even."
She laughed under her breath and went back to her sketchbook, shading in something that might've been a hand or maybe smoke. For once, she didn't try to fill the silence. It was almost a relief.
Practice that afternoon was worse.
As soon as he walked into the locker room, the talk dipped low but didn't stop.
One of the seniors—Devon, who loved an audience—grinned at him.
"Well, look who decided to bless us with his presence. The Asher Holt."
"Knock it off," Jordan said, pulling his jersey on.
Devon raised his palms. "What? I'm just saying, the legend's back. Maybe he'll actually shoot this time."
A few laughs—short, sharp. The kind that aren't about humor.
Asher didn't rise to it. He tied his shoes slow and tight.
Coach Daniels appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand. "Save the commentary for SportsCenter. Let's run."
That killed the noise.
The scrimmage was rougher than usual. The team wanted to see him move, maybe even slip. He could feel it—every eye waiting for a reason to judge if the stories were true.
Jordan threw him a pass near the arc. "Take it!"
He caught it. Same distance. Same rim.
And again—nothing. His hands locked, his brain lit up with white noise. He forced himself to pass, the motion jerky, too hard. The ball bounced off someone's chest and out of bounds.
Devon laughed loud enough to echo. "Guess the legend's rusty."
Coach's whistle cut through the sound. "Enough trash talk. Holt, shake it off."
Asher nodded, though his heart was racing too fast to listen.
After practice, the locker room hummed with conversation. Devon muttered something about "burnout" under his breath as he passed. Jordan ignored him but gave Asher a look that said Don't take the bait.
Asher sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His reflection rippled in a puddle of sweat, distorted and small.
Jordan finally broke the quiet. "You know they're gonna talk either way, right?"
"I know."
"So make them talk about what you do next."
Asher looked up. "That sounds like something Leah would say."
Jordan laughed. "Dude, Leah says stuff like that every time she sneezes. You can't take it personally."
"Yeah," Asher said, smiling faintly. "You're right."
"Just… don't disappear, okay?" Jordan said, standing. "Coach actually likes you."
Asher raised an eyebrow. "Because I don't talk?"
"Exactly." Jordan grinned. "See you tomorrow."
By the time Asher got outside, the sky had gone purple around the edges. Leah was leaning against the fence, kicking a rock along the pavement.
"You good?" she asked when he walked up.
"Define good."
"So… no?"
He shrugged. "People found the videos."
"I know." She winced. "Sorry. I kind of… watched one."
He sighed. "Of course you did."
"I wasn't stalking, I swear. Jordan showed me! He said, 'You've gotta see this,' and then it was just you hitting threes like gravity forgot about you."
Asher laughed softly despite himself. "Yeah, that was a long time ago."
"Well," she said, tucking her hair behind one ear. "Now you're still you, and that's still a court. So maybe stop acting like they don't belong in the same sentence."
He gave her a look. "That supposed to make sense?"
"Not really," she admitted, smiling awkwardly. "I was going for encouraging and kind of landed on confusing."
"It's fine," he said, and this time he meant it.
They started walking, the streetlights flicking on above them one by one.
Leah shoved her hands into her hoodie pocket. "For the record, I think freezing up's normal. Everyone does it. I froze once trying to read my own poem out loud. My voice just—" she snapped her fingers—"quit. Whole class stared. I thought I was gonna evaporate."
He glanced at her. "What'd you do?"
"Walked out. Cried in the bathroom. Then wrote about it later and pretended that was brave."
He smiled. "That's kind of brave."
She nudged his shoulder with hers. "Don't give me too much credit. I still can't read in front of people."
They reached the corner where their routes split. She hesitated, rocking on her heels.
"So," she said, "you're still coming tomorrow, right?"
He exhaled through his nose. "Yeah."
"Cool." She smiled—nervous, not perfect this time. "Try to actually shoot this time. Or, like, half-shoot. Just… let it go a little."
"I'll think about it," he said.
"Good. Because if you freeze again, I'll make fun of you until you unfreeze."
He laughed. "That's motivational."
"I'm basically a life coach," she said, grinning. "A very underqualified one."
"Noted."
She waved once and crossed the street, her hoodie's drawstrings bouncing as she walked. He watched her go, then turned toward home, the sound of her laughter trailing just long enough to drown out the noise in his head.