The Crestwood High gymnasium, known as "The Nest," was Leo's true home.
The moment he pushed through the double doors, the familiar, sharp scent of old varnish, rubber, and new sweat hit him. The air was alive with the cacophony of two dozen basketballs echoing off the floor and the high, piercing squeak of sneakers making cuts.
This was the first official day. This was where the climb back to the semi-finals—and beyond—began.
Leo was already warmed up. As he ran through his layups, he scanned the floor. Marcus was there, looking massive. Sam was already launching ill-advised threes from the logo. The new transfer, Dylan Riley, was a blur, his speed undeniable as he zipped through cone drills. And then there was the freshman, Benjy Moss, who looked like a strong wind could snap him, but who was effortlessly tapping the backboard ten feet in the air.
"ALRIGHT, LISTEN UP!"
The bouncing stopped. All eyes snapped to the man at center court.
Coach Miller was a personality. He was in his late forties, with a perfectly tanned face, bleached-blond hair, and a whistle that seemed permanently attached to his lips. He wore expensive, brand-new gear, and his smile was all teeth. Arthur Vance's description of "showboating idiot" wasn't far off.
"WELCOME!" Miller boomed, pacing the court. "Welcome to the new season! For those of you who were here last year, you know the taste we have in our mouths. We were this close!" He held his thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. "This year, we don't just get close. We kick the damn door down!"
He pointed to the far wall. "I want highlights! I want this gym to be so loud the rest of the school has to stop and watch! I want to see speed, I want to see dunks, and I want to see POINTS, POINTS, POINTS! Defense wins... whatever. Scoring wins the crowd. Now let's get to it!"
On the sidelines, a girl with a severe black ponytail and a tablet sat at the scorer's table. This was Elara "Stats" Chen, the team manager. She wasn't just a manager; she was a one-woman analytics department. As Miller yelled, she sighed and opened her custom-built tracking app. She knew "points, points, points" was exactly why they'd lost in the semi-finals.
The tryouts were a blur of organized chaos. Miller ran them through fast-break drills, prioritizing speed over all else.
Dylan Riley, the transfer, was electric. He was faster than Sam, a true "flash." But as the drill continued, Leo, guarding him, noticed it immediately. No left hand. Dylan would rather spin back into three defenders than attempt a simple left-handed layup.
In the post, Marcus was dominating... until he was forced to go left. The senior he was up against simply overplayed his right side, and Marcus fumbled the ball out of bounds. Leo winced, Kian's voice echoing in his head: You only. Go. Right.
Sam, meanwhile, was 4-for-15 from the three-point line, his "bad shots" infuriating the other players in the drill.
"Alright, scrimmage!" Miller yelled. "Vets vs. Newbies!"
Leo took the ball up the court for the Vets. He was playing point, the position he knew he wasn't born for. He was a scorer, a shooting guard. But they had no one else to run the offense.
He passed to Sam, who took a contested jumper and missed. On the other end, Dylan "Flash" Riley blew past his defender and scored.
"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT, FLASH!" Miller roared.
During a water break, Leo toweled off, his face tight with frustration.
A hand landed on his shoulder. "He's still a black hole, isn't he?"
Leo looked up at Julian Hayes. Julian was the team's other captain, a senior. He was a smooth, intelligent small forward, the only other player on the team who seemed to understand the geometry of the game. He was the only one Leo truly considered an equal on the court.
"Sam's gonna be Sam," Leo sighed.
Julian nodded, taking a sip from his water bottle. His eyes scanned the floor, landing on Dylan. "And the new guy... fast, but he's got tunnel vision." He looked back at Leo, his expression serious. "We're not better than last year, Leo."
"We will be," Leo said, forcing confidence. "We just need to gel."
Julian gave him a long look. "Did you ask him?"
Leo's jaw tightened. "Ask who?"
"You know who." Julian was the only one on the team who knew just how good Kian was. He'd seen him play at the Vance estate's private court a few times, back when Kian was twelve and didn't seem to hate the world. "It's my last year, man. I want to win. That kid... he could make us better. Instantly."
"He won't do it, Julian. I asked him this morning. He doesn't care."
"How can he not care?" Julian said, frustration leaking into his voice. "With that kind of... vision? He just... won't play? It's a waste."
"Telling me," Leo muttered, throwing his towel onto the bench.
"VANCE!" Coach Miller yelled. "My office!"
Leo jogged over, ducking into the small, glass-walled office overlooking the court.
"Close the door," Miller said, leaning back in his chair. He was smiling. "You're looking good, Leo. Sharp. You're the leader of this team, you know that, right? The heart."
"Thanks, Coach. I'm trying."
"You're not just trying, you're doing it." Miller steepled his fingers. "But heart isn't enough. Julian is smart, but he's not a general. We need a general. A true point."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Speaking of which... Julian's always asking me about him, and it got me thinking. Your little brother. Kian. He's a freshman next year."
Leo's stomach tightened. "Yeah. He is."
Miller's eyes went distant, a shrewd, calculating look replacing his usual hype-man smile. "You know, I've known your family a long time, Leo. Since... well, before. I remember seeing Kian at your grandfather's place, back when you guys still had that full court by the pool. He must have been... what? Ten? Eleven?"
Leo didn't speak. He just nodded, knowing where this was going.
"You were practicing your free throws," Miller continued, a small, impressed laugh in his voice. "And he was just... toying with you. He was a ten-year-old kid pulling off high-school-level crossover-hesitations. His court vision... it was already better than most of the seniors I was coaching. I said it then, and I'll say it now..."
Miller leaned in, his voice conspiratorial. "He got more of your father's genes than you did, Leo. You got the work ethic, God bless you for it. But Kian... he got the gift. The pure, natural talent."
The words stung, mostly because Leo knew they were true.
"So," Miller said, snapping back to business. "Is he playing? Is he gonna try out for the JV team? We could have him practicing with varsity by Christmas."
The hope in the coach's voice was a dead weight.
Leo looked at his sneakers. "He doesn't play anymore, Coach."
"What do you mean, 'he doesn't play'?"
"He just... doesn't. He hates it. He won't even pick up a ball."
Miller stared, his smile gone. He didn't look baffled this time. He looked... annoyed, but like he understood. He let out a sharp, cynical laugh.
"Hates it," Miller repeated, leaning back in his chair. "Well. I guess that makes sense. Maybe that's why he hates it."
Leo looked up, confused. "What do you mean?"
"He's just like him," Miller said, waving his hand dismissively. "Talent like that... it always comes with complications. Too much of his father in him. He probably can't stand the pressure, can't stand anything about the game that reminds him of... well, you know."
Miller's tone became harsh. "Whatever. His loss. We can't build a team around a ghost. Especially not one that's haunted."
He stood up, his public "Coach" face back on. "Get out there. We're running suicides. I want to see someone puke!"
As Leo walked out of the office, he passed Elara Chen, who was waiting to give the coach her tablet.
"Tough day, Captain?" she asked, her voice dry.
"You have no idea," Leo muttered.
She tapped her screen, showing him Sam's shot chart. It was a sea of red X's. "I think I do. Kian was right about him, wasn't he?"
Leo just shook his head and jogged back onto the court, the sound of the whistle splitting the air. He was the captain of a flawed team, with a coach who valued highlights over wins, and the one person who could fix it all was in the other building, sketching in a notebook, pretending none of them even existed.