Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
The anger still burning within me from Mr. Baum's condescending dismissal, I walked towards the gym. My pace was quick, my blood hot. I needed this. I needed the court, the one place where effort translated directly into results, a simple world I could control. But as I saw the doors, the memory of the last time I was here flashed in my head.
The sound of the brawl. The feeling of powerlessness as the seniors' fists and feet connected with my ribs. The cold, suffocating humiliation of my loss to Damien. The bitter taste of my own anger at Alex, which had started this entire catastrophic chain of events.
I had made the mistake of letting my anger and impulse control me then. I had walked in here a raw, exposed nerve, and I had paid the price. I wouldn't make the same mistake twice.
I stopped a few feet from the entrance, closing my eyes for a second. I gathered my breath, tempering my anger. It would be a hammer rather than a double-edged sword. The fire from Mr. Baum's disrespect, the simmering rage from the seniors' smear campaign —I wouldn't let it consume me. I would channel it. I would forge it into a weapon.
I pushed the heavy gym doors open. The familiar squeak of sneakers and the dull thud of a basketball echoed in the cavernous space. I headed straight for the locker room.
Leo, David, and Patrick were already there, lacing up their shoes. "How'd it go with Baum?" Leo asked, not looking up. "You get detention for being smarter than him?"
"Something like that," I said, dropping my bag onto the bench. "What's the situation out there?"
Patrick gestured with his head toward the court. "The seniors are up to their usual shenanigans," he said quietly. "Just sitting on the bleachers, like last time."
"And Damien hasn't come in just yet," David added, his voice a low rumble.
"Good," I said, pulling my practice jersey over my head. "Let them watch."
I changed into my uniform and we headed onto the court. Just as they'd said, Steve and three other seniors were camped out on the bottom row of the bleachers. They weren't in uniform. They were in jeans and jerseys, sipping sodas, snickering as they saw us walk out.
"Well, look who it is!" Steve called out, his voice dripping with mockery. "The 'freshman hotshot' and his little gang. Finally recovered?"
"Heard you got your ass beat twice in one day, Naird," another one laughed. "Once by us, once by D."
They were on the whole being unbothered by our presence, other than as a source of amusement. I ignored them. The Bradley from three weeks ago would have risen to the bait. The Bradley from three weeks ago would have started another fight. Not this time.
"Patrick, David. Baseline. Suicides. Leo, with me, ball-handling drills." My voice was calm, cold, and authoritative. My team didn't question it. They just moved. We did our regular warm-up. For twenty minutes, the only sounds from our side of the court were the sharp squeak of sneakers, the pounding of basketballs, and our own grunts of exertion. We ran full-court defensive slides, high-intensity passing drills, and sprint sets until we were all breathing hard, a light sweat beading on our skin.
The seniors just watched on, their lazy, mocking commentary a dull buzz in the background. "Look at 'em try so hard! It's cute!" "What a bunch of nerds." Let them sit, I thought, my eyes fixed on the rim as I practiced my free throws. Let them get cold. Let them stay weak. We'll do the work.
After the warmup, I called my guys in. "Alright. Let's run plays. Two-on-two scrimmage. Me and Leo. You and David." David tossed a ball to Patrick.
"You sure, man? Your ribs okay?" Leo asked.
"They're fine," I said. "First to seven baskets. Win by two. Play it like it's a real match."
Leo grinned, that familiar, fiery glint in his eye. "Oh, it's on. Let's smoke 'em, Brad." Patrick just nodded, his expression serious. He was a competitor. He was ready.
I checked the ball, and the game began. I had the first possession, with David guarding me. His sheer size and strength were a problem he was now standing at 6'1. I tried to use my speed, a quick crossover to get to the lane, but he cut me off, using his body as a wall. I was forced to pick up my dribble.
"Nowhere to go, Captain!" David rumbled, his arms wide. He was right. I was trapped. I looked for Leo, but Patrick was denying him the ball, his rugby-honed defensive stance making him a nightmare to get around. I was forced to take a bad, contested fadeaway. It clanged off the side of the rim. David boxed me out effortlessly and grabbed the rebound.
"Our ball," he said, passing to Patrick.
Patrick brought the ball up. He wasn't a flashy dribbler, but he was smart. He analyzed the court, looking for David. I cut off the passing lane, trying to force him to make a mistake. He didn't. He protected the ball, dribbled away from the pressure, and reset. He tried to feed David in the post.
"I got him!" Leo yelled, dropping down to double-team David. It was a mistake. The second Leo left Patrick, Patrick cut baseline. David, seeing it instantly, whipped a perfect bounce pass to him. Patrick caught it in stride and laid it up for the first basket.
"Nice pass!" Patrick said, pointing at David. "Nice cut," David replied.
I looked at Leo. "Don't gamble on the double-team unless I call it. Stay on your man."
"Got it," Leo said, looking annoyed at his own mistake.
My ball. I dribbled at the top, David guarding me. "Run" I called out. Leo immediately cut from the wing toward me to set a high screen. David, anticipating it, switched. Now I had Patrick on me. A mismatch I could exploit. I used my ankle-breaking maneuver, a hard crossover that got Patrick to shift his weight. I exploded past him. David was too late to help. Easy layup.
"That's what I'm talkin' about!" Leo yelled, high-fiving me. The game went on like that, a fast-paced, high-intensity battle. It was as if it were a real match. Patrick and David's two-man game was solid—all smart cuts and brutal post-plays. But my synergy with Leo was on another level.
David was getting frustrated. "Give me the ball," he demanded. Patrick fed him in the post. David backed me down. I was strong but he was a true center. He spun, hit me with a shoulder, and went up for a hook shot. I went up with him, my hand high, but he just absorbed the contact and scored.
"Too small!" he taunted.
"My turn," Leo snapped, grabbing the ball. He went at Patrick, a blur of motion. He used a hesitation dribble, then an explosive crossover, getting past him. David stepped up to cut off the lane. Leo, without looking, flipped the ball behind his back. I caught it at the free-throw line and sank the jumper.
From the sidelines, I heard Steve's mocking voice. "Y'all seein' this? They're runnin' plays." "What a bunch of nerds," another senior snorted. I ignored them. Let them watch.
Patrick was breathing hard, but his eyes were sharp. "Good pass," he said to Leo. He took the inbound. He drove hard at me. I cut him off. He pivoted, protecting the ball, and looked for David. David was being fronted by Leo. Trapped. But Patrick saw me overplay. He faked a pass to David, then rose up for a tough, contested fadeaway jumper over me. Swish.
"Damn, Pat!" Leo yelled, impressed. The intensity ratcheted up. We were all playing at the limit. The game was tied. Match point. My ball. David was on me, his defense suffocating.
He knew I wanted the last shot. "Nowhere to go, Brad," he breathed, his arms out wide. Patrick was glued to Leo, denying the pass. They were playing perfect defense. I had to create something from nothing. I used my Ambidextrous talent, faking a drive to my right, then crossing over hard to my left, dribbling with a speed they hadn't seen from my weak hand. It bought me a crucial half-step. David recovered, lunging to block the shot. I saw him coming. I pump-faked.
He stayed on his feet, disciplined. I had no choice. I spun baseline, a move I'd been working on. David's feet were too slow to keep up with the rotation. I got the separation I needed and threw up a high-arcing, off-balance shot. It hung in the air... and fell through. (Final Score: 7-6, B/L)
"YES!" Leo screamed, pulling me into a hug. David and Patrick were panting, but they came over, hands out. "Good game, man," Patrick said, clapping me on the back. "You got lucky," David grumbled, but he ended up giving a respectful nod. Leo and I had won, while Patrick and David trailed only by a basket. It was the perfect practice. We were sharp. We were coordinated. And we were ready. I looked over at the seniors, my face a mask of cold indifference. They weren't snickering anymore. They were just... watching. "Alright," I said, grabbing a towel. "Water. Then we run five-man plays."
The four of us grabbed water, our chests heaving, a thin layer of sweat covering our skin. Just as I was toweling the sweat from my neck, the main gym doors opened with a long, slow squeak.
Damien finally entered the gym.
He walked in with that same, lazy, unbothered stride, a basketball already spinning on his finger. He wasn't in a uniform, just his trademark grey jumpsuit. He stopped when he saw us—the four of us, sweaty and focused. He looked at me, taking in my healed face, my active presence on the court. He quirked his brow, a flicker of mild surprise.
Steve saw Damien and scrambled off the bleachers, his previous mockery replaced by a nervous energy. "Hey, D. What's the plan? You wanna run some drills?"
Damien's eyes didn't leave me. "The guys need to play today," he said, his voice bored. "We may have an exhibition match next week."
Exhibition match. My chance. I threw the towel over my shoulder and walked up to Damien. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Leo and David tense up, but they stayed put.
"Hey," Damien said, that condescending amusement returning to his voice. "Congratulations on your quick recovery. I'm surprised you're back on your feet so soon after that little... tumble you took."
He was mocking me. The anger from my run-in with Mr. Baum, combined with the still fresh memory of the humiliation Damien had dealt me in this very gym, solidified into a cold, hard resolve.
"Cut the shit," I said, my voice flat. "I'm not here for congrats. I'm here for a rematch. Another one-on-one. Right now. To see who is number one."
The seniors who had gathered around let out a few "Oohs" and "Daaamns."
Damien just laughed it off. A short, sharp, dismissive bark. "Not today, hotshot. I already proved my point." He turned to Steve. "We have to practice for the match next week. Get the rest of the guys. Let's run some five-on-five."
He was dismissing me. Again.
"I heard that," I said, stepping into his path. "But I won't play in the match if you don't fight me."
Damien stopped. He turned his head slowly. He looked... bored. "I don't care if you participate or not, freshman." He made a move to walk away.
I was frustrated by this. He was robbing me of the chance to win back my respect, to settle the score. My blood was hot. I'd had enough of being pushed aside, of being hurt and having no recourse.
"Then my crew won't play either!" I said, my voice rising, echoing in the gym. "You think you can win an exhibition match with these clowns? What happens when they tire out and you have no subs?" I jabbed a finger toward Steve. "We go, you lose."
That stopped him cold.
Damien suddenly turned around. He moved faster than I thought possible. In two long strides, he was in my space, his face inches from mine. I didn't even have time to react before his right hand shot up and grabbed my skull, his long, strong fingers digging into my scalp, his thumb pressing hard into the pressure point just above my ear.
The pain was sharp, electric. He lowered himself to my ear, his voice a terrifying, soft whisper. "It's okay for you to do as you feel, hotshot. But for you to presume that anybody but me controls this team... that's a mistake."
He increased the pressure of his grip. The pain exploded, sharp and sickening, radiating down my neck. My knees buckled slightly. I felt the same, awful helplessness from the brawl. I felt the panic rising.
No. Never again.
I didn't think. I reacted. I used my Krav Maga training. I didn't try to pull away, I exploded into his space. I brought my left hand up, striking the inside of his wrist—the "pluck" Katz had taught us—while my right hand came up to brace. I rotated my entire body, breaking his grip at its weakest point: his thumb.
Snap.
His grip was broken. I shoved him back, creating space, and instantly dropped into the neutral, open-palmed stance Katz had drilled into us . My heart was hammering. I was ready for the punch.
But it didn't come.
Damien stood there, rubbing his wrist, a look of genuine, impressed surprise on his face. The lazy arrogance was gone, replaced by a sharp, analytical focus.
"Woho," he said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "So the runt went and learned how to fight huh?"
He started to clap, slow and loud, for the entire court to hear.
"Listen up!" he yelled, his voice booming. The seniors, who were watching with a mix of shock and anticipation, snapped to attention.
"Change of plans. We'll be having a 4-v-4 against the freshmen. To see who plays in the match next week." He looked at me, his eyes gleaming with a new, exciting fire.
"There's your chance to fight, hotshot," he said, spinning the ball on his finger. "Don't disappoint."