The main gym was supposed to be empty at 4:30 PM.
It wasn't.
Lucifer pushed through the double doors and found the entire varsity roster scattered across the bleachers like survivors of something violent. No one was in uniform. No one was warming up. They just sat there, waiting, the kind of tense silence that preceded either reconciliation or bloodshed.
Mitchell stood at center court, arms crossed, jaw set. He'd positioned himself directly under the scoreboard like he was daring someone to challenge his authority.
Rodriguez caught Lucifer's eye from the top row, jerking his head toward an empty spot. Lucifer climbed the bleachers, each step echoing in the cavernous space.
"What happened?" he whispered.
"Mitchell called the meeting ten minutes ago. Told everyone it was mandatory. Coach doesn't even know yet."
"Where is Coach?"
"That's the problem."
Thompson sat three rows down, cracking his knuckles one at a time. Marcus was on the opposite side, isolated, face unreadable. Brooks kept checking his phone like he was hoping for an escape route that would materialize through the screen.
DeShawn stood near the baseline with his tablet, not sitting, not standing with Mitchell—just observing from the margins like always.
Mitchell cleared his throat. The sound cut through the gym's acoustics, amplified by anxiety and wood and twenty years of championship banners hanging from the rafters.
"Thanks for coming." His voice cracked slightly, then steadied. "I know this is weird. Calling a meeting without Coach. But we need to talk before tomorrow night, and we need to talk without adults pretending they know what's best for us."
No one responded.
"We play Vale in eighteen hours. Biggest game of the season. Maybe the biggest game some of you will ever play." He paused, looking directly at Lucifer and Rodriguez. "And there's been talk. About lineups. About who should start. About whether the senior captain who's been bleeding for this program since freshman year deserves his spot."
"Nobody said that," Brooks offered weakly.
"Marcus did. In practice. In front of everyone."
Marcus didn't deny it.
"And maybe he's right." Mitchell's hands unclenched, then clenched again. "Maybe I'm not the same player I was last year. Maybe I'm distracted. Maybe watching your mom die does something to your handles and your shot selection and your ability to give a fuck about basketball."
The honesty landed like a slap. Even Thompson stopped cracking his knuckles.
"But here's what I know." Mitchell's voice hardened. "I've earned this. Two years starting. Two years carrying this team when half the roster transferred to prep schools. Two years of 5 AM practices and ice baths and studying film until my eyes bled. So yeah, maybe I'm not perfect right now. But I'm asking—as your captain, as your teammate, as someone who's given everything to this program—I'm asking you to trust me one more time."
Lucifer watched the room's reaction. Thompson nodded immediately—loyalty to a fellow senior. Brooks looked torn. Marcus stared at his shoes, jaw working like he was chewing words he couldn't swallow.
Rodriguez leaned close. "He's manipulating them."
"Is he?"
"Using his mom's cancer to guilt everyone into supporting him? Yeah. That's manipulation."
"Or it's desperation."
"Same thing when you're drowning."
Mitchell turned, found Lucifer in the bleachers. "You haven't said anything."
"You didn't ask me anything."
"I'm asking now. You think you should start over me?"
The gym went silent. Every eye shifted to the freshman in the top row who'd shattered records and dominated scrimmages and carried himself like he'd already won championships in a previous life.
Lucifer stood slowly, ignoring the pain in his ribs. He walked down the bleachers, each step measured, until he stood at court level facing Mitchell across twenty feet of hardwood.
"I think," Lucifer said carefully, "that starting isn't the question."
"Then what is?"
"Whether you can handle Vale's pressure for four quarters. Whether your pride is worth more than winning. Whether you're asking us to trust you because you've earned it, or because you're scared of what it means if Coach benches you in front of your mom."
Mitchell's face went red. "You don't get to talk about my mom—"
"I'm not talking about your mom. I'm talking about basketball." Lucifer's voice stayed level. "You want honesty? Here it is. You're good, Mitchell. Really good. But right now, today, you're not better than me. You know it. Marcus knows it. Everyone in this gym knows it."
"Fuck you—"
"But that doesn't mean you shouldn't start."
Mitchell stopped mid-curse, confusion replacing anger.
"You've earned the right to start," Lucifer continued. "Two years. Everything you said. That matters. So start. Play your game. And if it works, if you can control Vale's press and run the offense like you used to, then I'll cheer for you from the bench and mean it."
"And if I can't?"
"Then you come out. No drama. No guilt. You pass the ball to me, and I finish what you started." Lucifer took a step closer. "But either way, we win. Because this isn't about your pride or my ego or who deserves what. It's about beating Vale. That's it. That's the only thing that matters."
The gym stayed quiet for three heartbeats.
Then Marcus stood. "He's right."
Thompson looked at him. "You're agreeing with the freshman?"
"I'm agreeing with reality." Marcus walked down to court level. "Mitchell, you're my boy. But Lucifer's not wrong. You start. You get your shot. And if Vale starts cooking you, you tap out like a professional and let the next man up."
Mitchell's jaw worked, emotions flickering across his face too fast to name—anger, relief, shame, gratitude, resentment, all fighting for control.
Finally, he nodded. Once. Sharp.
"Okay."
"Okay?" Marcus repeated.
"Yeah. Okay. I start. I get my chance. And if I'm drowning…" He looked at Lucifer. "You pull me out."
"Deal."
They didn't shake hands. Didn't hug. Just stood there, two point guards separated by age and circumstance and the unbridgeable gap between someone fighting for relevance and someone fighting for destiny.
The gym doors banged open. Coach Aaron strode in, face thunderous, whistle around his neck like a noose.
"What the hell is this?"
Everyone froze.
"I get a text from DeShawn saying my entire team is in the gym without permission, without supervision, having some kind of unauthorized meeting?" Coach's voice bounced off every surface. "Someone want to explain before I cancel tomorrow's game and make you run until you puke?"
Silence.
Then Mitchell stepped forward. "My fault, Coach. I called it. Wanted to clear the air before Vale. Make sure everyone's head was right."
"And is everyone's head right?"
Mitchell looked around the gym—at Marcus, at Thompson, at Brooks, at the freshmen in the bleachers, at Lucifer standing beside him like a reluctant ally.
"Yeah, Coach. We're good."
Coach Aaron studied him, then studied the rest of the team, his eyes sharp enough to detect lies through body language alone. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because his shoulders dropped slightly.
"Fine. But pull this shit again and you're running stadiums until graduation. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now get out. All of you. Go home. Rest. Hydrate. And tomorrow night, you better bring everything you've got, because Vale's coming for blood."
They filed out slowly, the tension broken but not forgotten. Lucifer grabbed his bag from the bleachers, started toward the exit.
"Capone."
He turned. Coach Aaron stood at half-court, arms crossed.
"Yes, Coach?"
"What you said to Mitchell. About finishing what he starts."
"Yes?"
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I don't."
Coach Aaron stared at him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Good. Because tomorrow, I'm going to need you to prove it."
Lucifer left the gym as the sun dipped below Chicago's skyline, painting the clouds orange and purple like bruises healing backward. His phone buzzed.
Daphne: "How'd the meeting go?"
He typed back: "About as well as expected."
"That bad?"
"That honest."
"Good. Honesty's better than pretending everything's fine. You ready for tomorrow?"
He looked at his reflection in a car window—saw himself in street clothes, saw the ghost of the player he'd been in his first life, saw the player he was becoming in this one.
"Yeah. I'm ready."
"Good. Because I'm coming to watch. Front row. I want to see you destroy them."
He smiled despite himself. "No pressure."
"All the pressure. You're the one who told me fear means you're about to do something that matters."
"I hate when people use my words against me."
"That's what friends are for. Now go home. Rest. And tomorrow, show them what reincarnation looks like."
She didn't know how literally true that was.
He walked to his car, climbed in, sat in the driver's seat without starting the engine. Tomorrow would change everything. Win or lose, after tomorrow, he'd no longer be the freshman with potential. He'd be something else—either a player who lived up to the hype, or another cautionary tale about talent that peaked too early.
His phone buzzed again. This time, a message from an unknown number.
"See you tomorrow, freshman. Hope you're ready. —AV"
Aaron Vale.
Lucifer deleted the message without responding. Words didn't matter. Tomorrow, the only language that would count was basketball.
He started the engine and drove home through Friday evening traffic, past the warehouse where Tre Williams used to work, past the highway where a meteor had granted impossible wishes, past all the places that belonged to a life he'd already lived.
Tomorrow, he'd show them what second chances looked like.
Tomorrow, the real game began.