Chapter 20: TRYOUTS
The gymnasium smelled like decades of sweat and ambition.
I walked in three days after that first day of school, gym bag over my shoulder, nerves I refused to acknowledge coiled in my stomach. Basketball tryouts. The crucible that would determine my social position for the rest of the year.
Also, more importantly: my first real test against Steve Harrington.
Coach Phillips stood at center court with a clipboard, surveying the assembled hopefuls like a general assessing recruits. Two dozen kids, give or take, ranging from obvious athletes to desperate longshots hoping for a miracle.
Steve was already warming up at one of the side hoops, sinking three-pointers with mechanical precision. His form was good—textbook, actually—and his confidence was the real thing, earned through years of practice and competition.
I found an empty spot and started my own warmup. Stretches first, then light shooting, letting the body remember patterns it had learned long before I'd inhabited it. The original Billy had been a point guard for three years, and that muscle memory was still there, reliable as breathing.
"Alright, listen up!" Coach Phillips's whistle cut through the noise. "Two hours. Drills, scrimmages, one-on-ones. You want a spot on this team, you earn it. No exceptions."
The drills were standard—layups, passing, defensive footwork, the basic vocabulary of the game. I performed well without dominating, hitting the sweet spot between "clearly belongs here" and "potential threat to established order."
Steve noticed. I caught him watching between drills, that evaluating expression I'd seen in the hallway on the first day. Trying to figure me out. Trying to determine if I was holding back and, if so, why.
Smart kid. He'd need to be smarter to survive what was coming.
The scrimmages sorted the wheat from the chaff. Half the hopefuls were cut after the first rotation—no point wasting time on kids who couldn't handle basic plays under pressure. The remaining dozen got shuffled into new teams, new matchups, new opportunities to prove themselves.
"Hargrove! Harrington!" Coach pointed at the center circle. "One-on-one. Show me what you've got."
The gym got quiet. This was what everyone had been waiting for—the new kid versus King Steve, California versus Hawkins, the clash they'd been anticipating since I'd pulled into the parking lot four days ago.
I walked to center court. Steve met me there, ball in hand, expression unreadable.
"Best of ten?" he asked.
"Works for me."
First possession: Steve. He came at me with speed and confidence, the moves of someone who'd dominated this gym for years. I let him get past me—not obviously, but enough that he scored on a clean layup.
He noticed. His eyes narrowed slightly as he caught the ball.
Second possession: mine. I drove to the basket with Billy's natural athleticism, scored on a spin move that left Steve a step behind. We were tied.
Third through tenth followed the same pattern. Trade. Trade. Trade. Neither of us pulling away, neither of us embarrassing the other. The watching crowd grew confused—where was the dominance display? Where was the new guy proving he was better, or the king putting the challenger in his place?
Final score: five to five.
Coach Phillips made a note on his clipboard. "Harrington, Hargrove. Co-captains. Rest of you—roster's posted Monday."
The crowd dispersed. I headed for the locker room, aware of Steve following a few steps behind.
The showers were occupied by other players, so I found a bench and started changing. The exercise had pushed my metabolism hard—I could feel the hunger building, that familiar demand for fuel that came with any sustained physical exertion.
"You're better than you showed."
Steve stood at the end of the bench, towel around his neck, expression somewhere between suspicion and curiosity.
"Didn't need to show everything." I pulled on a clean shirt—one of the Metallica ones from California, soft from washing.
"Most new guys try to destroy me first practice." He sat down on the bench across from me, maintaining distance but establishing presence. "They want to prove they're the best. Make everyone know it."
"What's the point?" I shrugged. "We're on the same team."
Steve studied me for a long moment. I could see him running calculations, trying to figure out the angle. In his experience, guys like me—confident, athletic, from somewhere else—always wanted something. Always played games.
"You're not what I expected," he said finally.
"Neither are you."
That surprised him. A small crack in the King Steve facade, a glimpse of something more complicated underneath.
"What did you expect?"
A guy who'd get his heart broken by Nancy Wheeler and learn to be better because of it. A guy who'd babysit a bunch of middle schoolers and face monsters and discover he was more than his hair and his popularity.
"Someone who'd test me," I said instead. "Push back harder."
"The season's long." A small smile. "Plenty of time for testing."
He stood up and headed for the showers. I watched him go, replaying the conversation in my head.
That had been... promising. Not friendship—not yet—but the first step toward something that might become it. The original Billy and Steve had clashed violently, their rivalry escalating until blood was spilled and positions were established through force.
This was different. This was two equals recognizing each other, circling, deciding whether to fight or cooperate.
I finished changing and headed for the exit. The gymnasium was empty now, Coach Phillips's whistle silent, the echoes of competition fading into the afternoon quiet.
My stomach growled, loud enough to echo. Right. Caloric debt. Training pushed hard, and the body was demanding payment.
I'd stop somewhere on the way home. Burger joint, maybe. Somewhere I could eat three thousand calories without getting stared at.
The Camaro waited in the parking lot, blue paint catching the late summer light. I slid behind the wheel and sat there for a moment, processing.
Same team. Steve had said it. He didn't know how true it was—didn't know about the fires, literal and metaphorical, that were coming. But he'd said it anyway.
A foundation. Something to build on.
I started the engine and pulled out of the lot, already thinking about the next step.
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