The gymnasium of Lincoln Heights Academy was packed. Not with spectators, but with bodies. Darius counted at least sixty students scattered across the bleachers and standing along the sidelines, all in athletic gear, all waiting for their turn to prove they belonged. Freshmen stood next to seniors, nervousness and confidence mixing in equal measure across the room.
The energy was electric but tense, the kind of atmosphere that came from everyone understanding the stakes. This wasn't a recreational league. This wasn't the community center where everyone who showed up got playing time. This was the Elite Eight. This was serious.
Coach Martinez stood at center court with his assistant coaches flanking him. He was a tall man, probably in his fifties, with the posture of someone who'd spent his entire life around basketball. His tracksuit looked worn but functional, and his eyes had the sharp focus of someone who'd seen thousands of tryouts and knew exactly what to look for.
"Alright, listen up," Coach Martinez said, his voice cutting through the gymnasium noise without needing to shout. "I'm Coach Martinez. These are my assistants, Coach Williams and Coach Chang. We've got five strings on this team. First string plays varsity. Second string is reserves for first. Third and fourth strings play JV. Fifth string is developmental."
He paused, letting that sink in. Five strings. For over sixty people trying out.
"Everyone who came here today is going to get a chance to play. We'll run through fitness tests, skill evaluations, and then scrimmages. How you perform in all three will determine where you land. Simple as that. No politics. No favorites. Just basketball."
Darius took a deep breath, centering himself. Around him, some players looked nervous. Others looked cocky. A few looked like they were just going through the motions, like they weren't sure why they were even here.
The fitness tests came first. Suicide runs. The bleachers. Three-quarter court sprints until your legs felt like they were made of concrete. Darius had trained for this. Six months of conditioning work meant his body moved through these tests like they were second nature. His breathing stayed controlled. His form stayed perfect even when exhaustion started creeping in.
By the time the first round of tests were done, the gym had thinned slightly. Maybe a dozen kids had already decided this wasn't for them, sitting out on the sidelines with that defeated look of someone who'd realized they weren't prepared for this level.
The skill evaluations came next. Ball handling courses weaving through cones. Shooting from five spots around the three-point line. Form shooting from the free throw line. Defensive slides. One-on-one contests.
Darius moved through each station with a focus that seemed to create its own bubble around him. The cornrows and headband seemed to help somehow, like they were part of his armor, part of the transformation he'd been working toward. At the ball handling station, his dribbles were tight and controlled. At the shooting stations, his form was textbook perfect, his release quick and consistent. His feet never crossed when he was doing defensive slides. His contests were physical without being dirty.
The coaches made notes on their clipboards as they watched him move through the drills. Not much expression on their faces, but Darius could see them paying attention in a way they weren't quite paying attention to some of the other players.
By the time they got to the scrimmages, the group had been whittled down to maybe thirty-five serious contenders. The rest had either quit or been clearly below the line that the coaches were looking for.
Darius played in the first scrimmage, and it was immediate what the difference between community league basketball and Elite Eight basketball was. Everyone here was good. Not just competent. Good. They could shoot. They could handle the ball. They understood spacing and movement. The mistakes weren't basic errors. They were execution issues under pressure.
But Darius was better. Not dramatically better in any one area, but consistently better across everything. His passes were sharper. His reads were faster. His defense was more disciplined. By the end of the first scrimmage, he had four assists and a steal, his team up by eight points.
The second scrimmage came after a water break. This time Darius was more aggressive offensively, looking to score. He picked his spots carefully, attacking when the defense gave him openings, pulling up for mid-range jumpers when defenders played too tight, finding cutters when the defense overreacted to his drives.
By the end of the second scrimmage, he had twelve points, five assists, and two steals.
The other strong performers emerged as the hours wore on. There was Marcus, a senior shooting guard with a pure stroke. There was DeShawn, a junior who could do a little bit of everything. There was Ty, a freshman point guard who reminded Darius a little of himself, hungry and focused.
And then there was Khalil. Who seemed to elevate with every drill. Who was faster in the latter scrimmages than he was in the first. Who made every defensive assignment look easy and every offensive possession look inevitable.
As the afternoon wore on, as the sun started its descent toward evening, the group had been narrowed down further. By the end of the tryouts, there were clearly only a few guys who were competing for the top spots.
Coach Martinez pulled his assistants aside after the final scrimmage. They stood in a small huddle, pointing at certain players, having brief conversations. Darius watched from across the gym while pretending to catch his breath, trying to read their body language.
Finally, Coach Martinez called everyone back to center court.
"Alright, we've seen enough," he said. "Here's how it's going to work. I'm going to call out names, and you're going to come stand over here. You're going to be split into your strings. If I don't call your name, that means you're cut. I'm sorry, but that's the reality of competitive basketball."
He started calling names. Third string players. Fourth string players. Some of the guys who'd shown promise but weren't quite at the level needed for varsity.
Then he called out second string. A couple of guards. A forward. A couple of big men.
Finally, he looked at the remaining group. Just five people standing in the middle of the court. Marcus. DeShawn. Ty. Khalil. And Darius.
"For first string," Coach Martinez said, and his eyes moved between the five of them, "we only have two spots open this year. That means three of you are going to be second string, which is still an honor. You'll be getting minutes, you'll be developing, and you'll be the future of this program."
He paused, letting the weight of that land.
"But right now, I need to tell you who's going to be competing for those first string spots starting tomorrow at practice."
He looked at Khalil first. Then his eyes moved to Darius.
"Khalil. Darius. You two step to the side."
They did, moving to the left while the other three watched, their expressions showing what they already knew. They'd been cut from contention for first string.
Coach Martinez looked at the three of them. "You three are second string. That's not a bad thing. You're better than ninety-five percent of high school basketball players. You should be proud of that. Be ready to work."
Then he turned back to Khalil and Darius, who were now standing side by side, both breathing heavy, both covered in sweat from hours of testing.
"We're going to figure out our final roster at practice tomorrow," Coach Martinez said. "But right now, you two are the only ones competing for the starting point guard position. One of you is going first string. One of you is going second string as a reserve."
He looked between them, his eyes sharp and assessing.
"We'll make that determination after the next practice session. For now, welcome to Lincoln Heights basketball. You both earned it."
Khalil and Darius exchanged a glance. Not hostile. Not quite competitive either. Just acknowledgment of what this moment meant.
They were teammates. But only one of them would be starting.
Coach Martinez turned away, walking toward his office with his assistants, already moving on to the next thing that needed his attention.
Khalil looked at Darius. '' Next session then."
"Next session," Darius confirmed.
But as they headed toward the locker room to change, the reality of what had just happened was settling in. Everything he'd trained for. Everything he'd worked toward. It all came down to one practice. One evaluation against the person standing next to him, who was just as hungry, just as talented, and just as committed to being the starting point guard for the Elite Eight.