The bus ride home was quiet in a way that felt deliberate. Malik sat three rows ahead of Darius, his headphones still in, his attention fixed on his phone. Darius sat alone, replaying the conversation at the bus stop over and over, trying to figure out where exactly things had shifted.
When they got home, Darius tried again.
"Yo, Malik, wait up," Darius called, following his cousin into the house.
Malik didn't stop. He went straight to their room and closed the door, the message clear without words.
Darius stood in the hallway for a moment, then knocked.
"Come on, man. Talk to me. What's really going on?"
There was a pause. Then Malik opened the door, his face showing something that went deeper than frustration about basketball talk. There was hurt there. Real hurt. The kind that came from feeling abandoned or overlooked or taken for granted.
"I don't want to talk about it right now," Malik said quietly.
"But there's something, right? It's not just the basketball stuff."
Malik's jaw tightened. "I said I don't want to talk about it."
"Malik—"
"Drop it, D." His cousin's voice was firm in that way that said pushing would only make things worse. "Just drop it."
Darius wanted to push. Wanted to force the conversation out into the open where they could deal with it. But something in Malik's expression stopped him. His cousin had already decided he wasn't ready to share whatever this was. And forcing it would only drive a bigger wedge between them.
"Alright," Darius said finally. "I'm here when you want to talk though."
Malik just closed the door in response.
Practice the next day felt different. Not in how the team was playing, but in how Darius was observing everything. He was still second string. Still backing up Khalil. Still frustrated about not being the starter. But something about yesterday's conversation with Malik had shifted his perspective, made him more aware of the world around him instead of just the bubble of his own ambitions.
He was grabbing his towel after drills when someone sat down next to him on the bench.
"Yo, you're Darius right? The freshman point guard?" The guy was a sophomore, white with sandy blonde hair, the kind of casual athleticism that came from growing up playing sports. "I'm Connor. Forward. Second string like you."
"What's up," Darius said, recognizing the name. Connor had been solid during tryouts and had earned his spot on the second string. Good fundamentals. High basketball IQ. The kind of player who made everyone around him better without needing to be the star.
"Man, you've been playing really solid for just being a freshman," Connor said, his tone genuinely appreciative. "Like, I watched you run some sets yesterday and your vision is crazy good. You're gonna be starting next year easy."
"Appreciate that," Darius said. "You played well too though. How long you been trying to get to first string?"
"This year's my second year. Last year I was scout team, so technically this is my first real shot." Connor started unlacing his shoes. "But honestly, dude, I'm not even that pressed about it. Like, first string is cool and all, but I'm just trying to develop and get better. If it happens, it happens."
They talked for a few more minutes about the team, about practice, about their aspirations. It was easy conversation, the kind that came from two people who weren't competing directly for the same thing. When they wrapped up, Connor asked, "Yo, you trying to grab some food? There's this pizza spot a few blocks from here that's fire."
Darius was about to say yes when Connor added something.
"Actually, before you answer—don't take this the wrong way—but you should know something about second string."
"What's that?"
"Everyone here is exactly where you are," Connor said, and his casual tone had shifted into something more serious. "Like, everyone in second string right now? We were all down to the final two or three at some point. Every single one of us was in that position where we were this close to first string and something about the circumstances put us here instead."
He pointed toward the door where some of the other second string guys were heading out. "See that dude Marcus? Senior. He's been trying to crack first string since he was a freshman. Been on second string for three straight years. And he's still coming every day, still working, still competing. Because the moment you stop fighting for first string, the moment you accept second string as your ceiling, that's when you actually become second string mentally."
Darius felt something shift in his chest. He'd been thinking about his position as temporary. A stepping stone. A moment before he got his chance. But Connor's words made him realize something else.
Everyone here was thinking the same thing.
"There are seniors on this team who've been telling themselves 'next year' for four years straight," Connor continued. "And yeah, some of them might get their shot. But most of them won't. And the ones who do it's because they never stopped treating second string like a job interview for first string."
The casual, cheerful mood that had been building in the locker room—the camaraderie, the light feeling of being part of something—suddenly shifted. The pressure came through like a physical thing. Darius could feel it pressing down on him, making him aware that every single day at practice, every single moment he was on the court, someone was competing with him. Not just in a friendly way. In a real way. In a "I'm going to take your spot if you give me an inch" way.
His challenge hadn't started when he made first string. It had started the moment he walked into this gymnasium.
"You good?" Connor asked, noticing the shift in Darius's expression.
"Yeah, I'm straight," Darius said, but he was already thinking ahead. Already planning. Already calculating what he needed to do to not become another Marcus, another senior stuck on second string, telling himself that next year would be different.
"So you coming to get pizza or nah?" Connor asked again.
"Nah, I got to handle something at home," Darius said, already standing up, already grabbing his bag.
He didn't tell Connor the truth. Didn't say that he needed to go home and train. Didn't mention that the conversation had shifted something fundamental in how he understood his position.
But that's where his mind was already going. To the backyard. To the basketball court. To the work that never stopped, not when you were trying to escape the fate of being permanently second.