Lucifer's phone buzzed just as he stood to leave the locker room.
Daphne: "Can we talk? Tomorrow morning before school? It's important."
He typed back: "My place at 7?"
"See you then."
The next morning arrived with his ribs painting abstract art in purple and yellow across his torso. Every breath reminded him of Thompson's screens. He'd wrapped them in athletic tape—a trick Nia taught him years ago—but movement still sent sharp reminders through his nervous system.
Daphne arrived at 6:45, because of course she did. Early to everything except understanding her own worth.
"Your mom let me in," she said, hovering in his doorway. She wore her school uniform but had added running shoes instead of the regulation loafers. Her hands kept finding her braids, twisting them around her fingers—a tell he'd noticed since kindergarten.
"Come in. Sit."
She chose his desk chair instead of the bed, spinning it to face him. The morning light caught the gold in her eyes, inherited from her mother but somehow softer.
"I need to tell you something."
"Okay."
"I've been…" She stopped, started again. "You know how you have basketball? How it's not just what you do but who you are?"
Lucifer nodded, though he wondered if she knew how literally true that was for him.
"I want that. Have wanted it. Track." The words tumbled out faster now. "I've been training. Running. Every morning at 5 AM before you even wake up for your runs. I use the public track near the warehouse district where nobody goes."
"That's dangerous—"
"I'm fast, Lucifer. Really fast. Like, I-might-actually-be-good-at-something fast." Her hands gripped her knees. "But I watch the other girls at school who run track and they're all… they look like runners. Long legs, no curves, built like your friend Rodriguez but female. And I'm…" She gestured at herself.
Lucifer studied her, trying to see what she saw. Daphne was built like her mother—powerful legs, actual hips, the kind of strength that came from genetics rather than starvation.
"You think you're too big to run."
"I know how I look in those tiny track shorts. I've seen the comments on female sprinters' posts on Echo. 'Thick thighs,' 'built like a linebacker,' 'probably slow.'"
"But you just said you're fast."
"What if I'm not fast enough? What if I try out and everyone laughs at the curvy girl thinking she can sprint?" Her voice cracked slightly. "What if I'm just deluding myself like those people who think they can sing but can't?"
Lucifer leaned forward, ignoring his ribs' protest. "What's your hundred-meter time?"
"I… what?"
"You've been training for months. You must have timed yourself."
She pulled out her phone, showed him a running app. "Eleven point nine. But that's probably wrong—"
"That's faster than the school record."
"The timer's probably off—"
"Daphne." He waited until she met his eyes. "You're running sub-twelve without coaching, without proper spikes, without starting blocks. You know what that means?"
"That I got lucky once?"
"That you're wasting talent being scared of what people might say about your thighs."
She blinked rapidly, looking away. "You really think—"
"I think you're scared of the same thing I was scared of before basketball. Being seen trying at something and failing. It's easier to be naturally good at school, naturally pretty, naturally charming. Because if those things fail, it's not your fault. But if you train, if you put everything into track and still lose? That's on you."
"That's terrifying."
"That's the point. Excellence is terrifying. It requires you to risk everything you think you are to become what you could be."
Daphne stared at him, something shifting in her expression. "How do you always know exactly what to say?"
"I don't. I just remember what Nia told me when I was scared to play against older kids."
"What did she say?"
"That fear means you're about to do something that matters."
She stood abruptly, moved to his window. "There's a track meeting today. After school. Tryouts are next week."
"You going?"
"Maybe." She turned back to him. "Would you… would you come? To the meeting? I know you have practice but—"
"Practice isn't until five. Meeting's at three-thirty. I'll be there."
Her smile transformed her entire face. "Really?"
"Really."
She crossed the room quickly, wrapped her arms around him before he could react. His ribs screamed, but he didn't move. She smelled like coconut oil and determination.
"You're the best," she whispered against his shoulder.
"I'm practical."
She pulled back, studying his face with an expression he couldn't read. "No. You're more than that. You just don't see it."
Before he could respond, she was gone, leaving only the scent of coconut and questions he wasn't ready to answer.
School passed in a blur until basketball film study, which had been moved to fourth period for the varsity players. The room smelled like markers and ambition, with a projection screen showing game footage from last year's state champions.
DeShawn had claimed the front row, tablet and stylus ready like he was about to perform surgery.
"Yo, freshman." Mitchell's voice carried that edge of upperclassman authority. "Back row. Seniors up front."
Lucifer moved without argument. Rodriguez followed, muttering under his breath about hierarchical bullshit.
Coach Aaron started the film. "Lincoln Catholic. Our first real test. Three weeks away."
The screen showed a team that moved like one organism—screens flowing into cuts, passes finding hands without players looking. Their point guard, a senior named Jackson, controlled tempo like he had a metronome in his chest.
"Jackson averages eighteen and eight," Coach said. "But numbers don't tell the story. Watch."
The film showed Jackson destroying a press with two dribbles and a pass. Beating a double team by throwing a no-look to a cutter. Controlling the final minute of a close game like he was playing against children.
"Mitchell, how do we stop him?"
Mitchell straightened in his chair. "Pressure him full court. Make him work."
"He broke three presses in this game alone."
"Then we… we trap him?"
"He's averaging eight assists against traps."
DeShawn's hand went up. "He only goes left on drives in the fourth quarter."
Everyone turned.
"What?" Coach asked.
DeShawn connected his tablet to the projector, overlaying statistics on the game film. "I've watched sixteen games from last season. Jackson goes right seventy-three percent of the time in quarters one through three. But in the fourth, when he's tired, it's ninety-one percent left. His right leg is weaker—he had a minor ACL sprain sophomore year."
The room went quiet.
"Also," DeShawn continued, "their center, Morrison, can't catch passes below his knees. Seven turnovers last season on low feeds. And their shooting guard, Bryant, only shoots threes from the corners after timeouts. During live play, he only shoots from the wings."
Coach Aaron made notes. "How long did this take you?"
"I don't sleep much."
"Keep going."
DeShawn pulled up another screen. "Our team. Mitchell, you telegraph your passes when you're tired. Your shoulders drop a quarter-second before every pass in the final five minutes. Thompson, you set screens on the same angle every time—forty-five degrees to your right. Brooks, you only drive baseline when you've made your last shot. When you miss, you settle for jumpers."
Thompson's face darkened. "Who asked you—"
"I did," Coach interrupted. "This is exactly what we need. DeShawn, I want a full scouting report on Lincoln by Monday. And one on our own team's tendencies."
"Already done." DeShawn pulled up another file. "I also charted optimal lineup combinations based on efficiency ratings. Our best five-man unit isn't the starters."
Mitchell stood. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means when Rodriguez and Lucifer play together, our offensive efficiency jumps by thirty-two percent. When you're both on the floor, it drops."
"Because I'm the primary ball-handler—"
"Because you can't play together. You both need the ball. The data doesn't lie."
Mitchell looked ready to throw hands, but Coach stepped between them. "Enough. DeShawn, send me everything. Practice in an hour. Be ready to implement some of these adjustments."
As they filed out, DeShawn caught Lucifer's arm. "I've got something else. About Vale's team. Their coach posts practice footage on their private Echo page, but the security is trash. I might have found a way in."
"That's illegal."
"So is what Thompson does to you in practice. You want to beat Vale or not?"
Lucifer thought about the opening game, about sitting on the bench while Vale destroyed them, about the smirk that would follow.
"Show me after practice."
DeShawn grinned. "Now you're thinking like a winner."
The track meeting was in the auxiliary gym, two dozen girls in various states of athletic wear pretending they weren't sizing each other up. Lucifer slipped in the back, found an empty spot on the bleachers.
Daphne was in the corner, trying to become invisible despite being one of the tallest girls there. She'd changed into track shorts and a tank top, and Lucifer could see what she meant—she was built like a sprinter from the 1980s, all power and curves, not the lean gazelle look that dominated current track.
The coach, Mrs. Peterson, walked in carrying a clipboard and thirty years of no-bullshit energy.
"Tryouts are Monday. If you're here for fun, leave. If you're here for fitness, join the gym. This is about winning. State championships. Records. Scholarships."
A few girls left.
"Good. Now, let's see what you've got. Everyone outside. We're doing timed sprints."
Daphne's eyes found Lucifer. He nodded once. She squared her shoulders and followed the group outside.
The track was old rubber, faded lanes barely visible. Mrs. Peterson had them line up for 100-meter trials, no blocks, just raw speed.
"Matthews, you're up."
A tall girl with legs like a stork exploded from the line. Good form, decent speed. The handheld timer showed 13.2.
Three more girls went. 13.5, 14.1, 13.8.
"Daphne, right? You're new."
Daphne stepped to the line. Lucifer could see her hands shaking from fifty meters away.
"Ready… go!"
She didn't run so much as launch. The first ten meters were violence—pure explosive power that made the other girls step back. Her form wasn't perfect, but her strength was undeniable. She ate up track like she was angry at it.
Mrs. Peterson clicked the timer, looked at it, clicked it again.
"11.9."
The entire group turned to stare.
"That's… that's faster than varsity," someone whispered.
"Run it again," Mrs. Peterson ordered.
Daphne lined up, still breathing hard. This time she knew people were watching. This time the pressure was real.
11.8.
"Jesus Christ," Mrs. Peterson muttered. "Where have you been hiding?"
"I just… I run in the mornings."
"Not anymore. You're on varsity. Practice starts Monday, but I want you here every morning at six for individual training. That kind of speed with proper coaching…" She trailed off, already seeing championships.
Daphne found Lucifer's eyes across the track. He gave her the smallest smile—the same one he'd given after dominating the Wall Drill.
She smiled back, and for a moment, he forgot about basketball, about Mitchell, about everything except how proud she looked.
His phone buzzed. Rodriguez: "Emergency practice meeting. Mitchell's demanding Coach make a decision about playing time."
The moment shattered.
"Got to go," he mouthed to Daphne.
She nodded, understanding immediately. That's what nine years of friendship bought—comprehension without explanation.
As he jogged toward the main gym, one thought kept surfacing: everyone was fighting for something. Daphne for recognition, Mitchell for his dying mother, Rodriguez for escape, DeShawn for respect.
What was he fighting for?
The answer came immediately: Everything. He was fighting for everything.
Because second chances didn't come with third options.