The roster was taped to the gym door like a verdict.
Fifteen names. Twelve players, three student assistants. Lucifer found his name immediately—starting point guard. Rodriguez was there too, backup guard. They were the only freshmen.
But the real surprise was at the bottom, under "Student Assistant/Analyst": DeShawn Williams.
"The fuck?" DeShawn stood frozen, staring at his name. "I'm not… I didn't make the team?"
"You made something," Marcus said, reading over his shoulder. "Coach created a whole new position for you."
DeShawn's jaw worked, pride and disappointment fighting for control of his face. "Student assistant. That's like being the water boy."
"No," Lucifer said. "That's being the guy who sees what everyone else misses. You caught Rodriguez's pattern. Coach noticed."
Before DeShawn could respond, Coach Aaron's whistle shrieked through the hallway. "Inside. Now."
The team filed into the gym. The upperclassmen clustered together, shooting looks at Lucifer and Rodriguez that ranged from curious to hostile. James Mitchell, the senior who'd been backup point guard for three years, looked ready to commit murder.
"Congratulations," Coach Aaron said. "You're East View varsity. Some of you expected this. Some of you"—his eyes found the freshmen—"just made history. And some of you"—he looked at DeShawn—"are going to help us win from a different angle."
"Coach," Mitchell spoke up, his voice carrying three years of waiting. "No disrespect, but freshmen on varsity? That's—"
"That's my decision. You got a problem with it, the door's right there."
Mitchell's mouth snapped shut.
"Practice starts tomorrow. Five AM sharp. Anyone late runs until they puke, then runs some more. Dismissed."
The parking lot was emptying when Lucifer's phone exploded.
Forty-seven notifications. Then sixty. Then too many to count.
The video title on Echo was simple: "14-Year-Old Orchestrates Historic 27-Point Comeback." Three million views in twelve hours. His follower count had jumped from zero to thirty thousand.
The comments scrolled endlessly:
• "No way this kid's really 14"
• "East View got a cheat code"
• "Rodriguez got owned then recruited him mid-game 😭"
Then Aaron Vale's response video appeared in his feed. Vale sat in his bedroom, still in his practice gear, looking directly at the camera.
"Lucky comeback against a tired team. My grandmother could score on Rodriguez. See you opening night, 'superstar.' We'll see how special you really are."
The comment section under Vale's video was a war zone. Half defending him, half calling him bitter. Someone had made a meme of him falling from the ankle-breaker, captioned "Vale when he realizes he's not the best freshman anymore."
Daphne's text popped up: "Vale's in the cafeteria right now talking mad shit. Want me to handle it?"
Lucifer typed back: "No. I'll handle him on the court."
"You sure? I have receipts from when he slid into my DMs last year. Could end his whole reputation."
"Save them. Might need them later."
4:47 AM.
Lucifer's alarm hadn't gone off yet, but his body knew. Nine years of Nia's training had programmed him to wake before dawn.
The gym at 5 AM felt different. Colder. Meaner. The upperclassmen were already there, fully dressed, watching the door.
Rodriguez stumbled in at 4:59, eyes barely open. "This is fucking inhuman."
"Welcome to varsity," Mitchell said. He'd been stretching, but stood when Lucifer entered. "Coach says you're special. Says you're the future."
"Coach says a lot of things," Lucifer replied, already starting his warmup routine.
"Yeah? Well, I say prove it."
The practice that followed was designed to break people.
Suicide drills—baseline to free throw and back, baseline to half-court and back, baseline to far free throw and back, baseline to baseline. Most high school teams did five sets. Coach Aaron demanded ten.
Rodriguez made it through three before his breakfast came back up. The janitor would not be happy.
Mitchell made it through seven before his legs gave out.
Lucifer finished all ten and wasn't even breathing hard.
Thank you, Nia.
Nine years of her sadistic training had prepared him for this. While the others gasped and cramped, Lucifer's body hummed along efficiently. His muscles knew this pain intimately, had been shaped by it.
"Water break!" Coach called. "Except Capone. You keep going."
"Coach?" Lucifer stopped mid-stride.
"You're not tired, are you? Thought you were special."
Mitchell smirked from the sideline. "Not so easy now, rookie?"
Lucifer said nothing. Just started running again. Five more sets. His legs stayed steady, his breathing controlled. Nia used to make him do twenty sets while dribbling two balls.
When he finished, the gym was silent.
"That's impossible," someone whispered. "Nobody can do fifteen straight."
Coach Aaron made a note on his clipboard. "Defensive slides. Three minutes. Mitchell, you're up against Capone."
Mitchell grinned. This was his chance to embarrass the freshman.
They squared up at the baseline. Mitchell went into his defensive stance, Lucifer mirroring him. The whistle blew.
Mitchell tried to be physical immediately, using his senior body to bump and bruise. But Lucifer absorbed the contact, redirecting it, using Mitchell's aggression against him. Every time Mitchell pushed, Lucifer pulled. Every time Mitchell lunged, Lucifer slid.
After ninety seconds, Mitchell was drenched. After two minutes, his slides had become stumbles. At two-thirty, he stopped completely, hands on his knees, dry-heaving.
Lucifer finished the three minutes alone.
"That's what I'm talking about," Coach said. "That's the standard. You want to compete at the next level, that's the minimum."
After practice—after two hours of the most intense basketball any of them had experienced—Coach gathered them at center court.
"Let me explain something about basketball in 2049," he began. "College ball is dead. The NCAA has maybe five years left. Why? Because the G-League Ignite Academy takes kids at sixteen now. Overseas leagues scout at fifteen. The NBA draft age dropped to eighteen last year."
He looked directly at Lucifer, then Mitchell, then surprisingly, Rodriguez.
"Three of you have legitimate pro potential. Scouts already know who you are. I've had seven texts this morning alone asking about our freshman phenom." He held up his phone. "This isn't high school basketball anymore. This is your job interview for the next level."
The parking lot was still dark when practice ended. Parents' cars idled, exhaust visible in the cold morning air.
Mitchell caught Lucifer before he could reach his mother's car. "We need to talk."
Lucifer stopped, waited.
"I've been in this program three years," Mitchell said. "Waited my turn. Watched seniors ahead of me get their shot. Now it's supposed to be my time."
"And?"
"And I'm not losing my spot to a fucking freshman. I don't care how many virals you get or how many suicides you can run."
"Then beat me."
"I plan to."
Mitchell started to walk away, then stopped. Three figures emerged from between parked cars. Aaron Vale and two of his teammates, all wearing their school's letterman jackets.
"Heard you made varsity," Vale said. His fake smile looked practiced in a mirror. "Won't matter when we destroy you opening night."
"Opening night?" Lucifer hadn't seen the schedule yet.
"You didn't know?" Vale's smile widened. "First game of the season. Your little squad versus the defending district champs. Regional TV coverage and everything."
One of Vale's teammates laughed. "Gonna be hilarious watching Mitchell try to run point while the freshman sits on the bench."
"Actually," Rodriguez said, appearing beside Lucifer, "he's starting. Saw the depth chart in Coach's office."
Vale's smile died. "Bullshit."
"Check Echo tomorrow. Coach is announcing starters."
The moment stretched taut, six basketball players in a dark parking lot, testosterone and ego mixing into something combustible.
"Two weeks," Vale finally said. "Two weeks and everyone sees what you really are. Lucky."
They walked away, but Vale turned back one more time.
"Tell Daphne I said hi."
Good, Lucifer thought as they disappeared into the darkness. I want him angry. Angry players make mistakes.
Rodriguez waited until they were gone, then promptly threw up again.
"Dude, you gotta work on your cardio."
"Shut up," Rodriguez gasped. "Not everyone was trained by whatever psychopath made you."
If only he knew.
Lucifer's phone buzzed. Mom: "How was practice?"
He typed back: "Easy."
Then deleted it and wrote: "Good. Hungry."
No need to worry her with the truth—that he'd just entered a world where fourteen-year-olds were expected to be professionals, where every game was a job interview, and where his biggest challenge might not be the competition but his own teammates.
Opening night. Two weeks. Regional television.
Time to show everyone what nine years of preparation looked like.