Milo stood frozen, the lumpy ball held between his trembling hands, his gaze fixed on Kian. He looked like a supplicant approaching a volatile, unpredictable god.
"My... elbow?" Milo squeaked.
Kian let out a sigh that was pure, weapons-grade frustration. "Yes. Your elbow. It's... it's disgusting."
He hated this. He hated the rough, pebbled texture of the cheap ball in his hands. He hated the cracked asphalt under his sneakers. He hated the wide, hopeful, stupidly attentive eyes of the children who had gathered around, their fear of him completely eclipsed by their curiosity.
Most of all, he hated the voice in his own head. The other one. The one that wasn't him, but was of him. The one that had been silent for years, the one that sounded an awful lot like his father. It was the "gift," the "genius," the "curse," and it was now wide awake and screaming at him about physics.
Look at the boy's form. It's all wrong. The kinetic chain is broken. He's pushing with his shoulder. He'll tear his rotator cuff before he's twelve. Fix it. It's WRONG. FIX IT.
"Give me your arm," Kian snapped.
Milo, terrified and thrilled, held out his right arm.
Kian didn't take it gently. He grabbed Milo's wrist and his elbow, his grip precise and clinical, like a mechanic forcing a bent piece of metal back into alignment.
"This," Kian said, forcing the boy's arm into a 90-degree angle, "is your 'pocket.' This," he tapped Milo's forearm, "is the 'shelf.' The ball rests here. You," he said, tapping Milo's elbow, "are flaring it out. Like a... like a chicken wing. It's pathetic."
"A... chicken wing?" Milo winced, but he was listening.
"The power isn't a push. It's a release," Kian said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He was quoting. He knew, somewhere deep and dark, that he was quoting. "The power comes from here." He kicked Milo's foot, lightly. "From your legs. It travels up. Your arm... your arm is just the last thing to touch it. It's a hinge, not a catapult. It goes up, not out."
He let go of Milo's arm, which the boy now held in place as if it were in a cast.
"Your hand," Kian said, moving on. "It's... what is that?"
Milo's hand was splayed, his palm flat against the ball.
"No," Kian said, his voice a low growl of pure, unadulterated offense. "No. Your palm? You're not... you're not shoving the ball. You're not its enemy. You're guiding it. Fingertips. Feel the seams. Here."
He adjusted Milo's hand, leaving a perfect, one-inch space between the boy's palm and the leather. "Feel it. It's not a rock. It's not your little sister's doll. It's... it's a ball. It's designed to roll. Let it."
He stepped back. "Now. Shoot."
Milo, his face a mask of intense, terrified concentration, bent his knees. He held his arm like a statue. He tried to jump. The entire motion was disjointed, like a puppet with its strings tangled. The ball left his hand and flew... sideways, missing the backboard entirely.
"I... I can't!" Milo said, his face crumbling. "It's... it's hard!"
"Of course it's hard!" Kian snapped. "You're thinking about it. Stop... thinking. Stop... you. Just... do it."
"He's right, though, it is hard," Ana, the little girl, piped up. "And I can't do my backward shot at all!"
Kian turned his cold gaze on her. "That was a fluke. It was luck. You don't... you don't practice that."
"But I want to pass!" she said, undeterred. "When I try to pass to Timmy, I hit him in the face!"
Timmy, the smallest kid, nodded, rubbing his nose. "It's true. She hits hard."
Kian watched as Ana picked up the ball. She was trying to throw a two-handed chest pass. But the ball was half her size. She was just heaving it, with no control, right at head-level.
The "voice" in his head screamed again. Fundamentals! She has no strength. She can't step. She's going to break a finger. Bounce pass. Teach her the bounce pass. It's basic.
"Stop," Kian said, his voice pained. He felt like he was being dragged, step by step, into a nightmare. "Just... stop. You're not... you're not a quarterback. Your hands... they're tiny. You... you have to use the floor."
He took the ball from her. The other kids had now formed a tight, silent semi-circle. They were all watching him. Learning.
"You're weak," Kian said to Ana. She nodded, agreeing. "So use the ground. The ground does the work. It's not a throw. It's a push. Through the floor."
He aimed for a spot on the asphalt, two-thirds of the way to Timmy. He pushed the ball. It hit the ground, bounced once, and landed perfectly in Timmy's chest.
Timmy looked at the ball, then at Kian, as if Kian had just performed actual, literal magic.
"How...?" Ana whispered.
"It's... it's geometry," Kian said, exasperated. "It's... it's simple. You step. You push. You aim for the spot. Here, do it."
She tried. The ball took a weak, dying bounce and rolled to a stop at Kian's feet.
"Pathetic," Kian said, but the venom was gone. It was just... a diagnosis. "You're not stepping. You're... you're just... patting it. Step into it. Use your whole body. You're not afraid of the ground, are you?"
"What about me?" one of the other kids asked, stepping forward. "My dribbling... it's... it's bad."
Kian looked. The kid was dribbling. It was a high, slow, sloppy dribble, his head down, watching the ball as if it were a venomous snake.
Kian couldn't take it anymore. This... this disrespect to the game. It was... it was an offense.
"You're not dribbling," Kian said. "You're... you're slapping it. You're hitting it. You're punishing the ball for... for existing. Stop."
The boy froze.
Kian got down on one knee, to the kid's level. The move was so sudden, so paternal, that the children all took a sharp breath.
"You don't hit it," Kian said, his voice low. "You push it. Feel it. With your fingertips. Not your palm."
"It's not... it's not a hammer. It's... it's a drum. Feel the rhythm. Duh-dum, duh-dum, duh-dum. You're... you're dancing with it." He was... he was quoting again. His father's ridiculous, pseudo-poetic nonsense. And it was working.
"Now... keep your head up," Kian commanded.
"But... I'll lose the ball," the kid whimpered.
"You will lose the ball," Kian said. "A thousand times. A million. Who cares? The ball... the ball knows where the ground is. It'll come back. You... you need to know where everyone else is. You need to see the court. If you're looking at the ball... you're blind. And you... you suck."
He stood up. He was surrounded. He was... coaching.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. He felt sick. He had... he had just... taught them. He had used the "gift." He had passed on the exact lessons his father had beaten into him.
He looked at the small, hopeful, trusting faces.
He was in hell. This was hell.
And then... the "gift" did something else. It took over.
The frustration and self-loathing were still there, but they were suddenly... muffled. Replaced by a cold, clear, perfect focus. He saw not six kids, but six problems to be solved.
"You're all... you're all a mess," he announced. The kids flinched.
"You," he pointed to Milo. "Your shot is... it's a crime. You," he pointed to Ana, "can't pass. You," he pointed to Timmy, "are afraid of the ball." He looked at the other three. "And you three... you're just... standing there. You're wasting space."
"What do we do?" Milo asked, his voice trembling.
Kian looked at the hoop. He looked at the cracked asphalt. He looked at his... his students.
"Fine," he snarled, as if they had forced him. "Fine. You want to... to not suck? Line up. On the baseline."
They scrambled, falling over each other to form a ragged line.
"We... we're going to do Mikan drills," Kian said, the words feeling alien, coated in rust. "And it's... it's not a... a thud. It's a kiss. You kiss the glass. It's... it's soft. You're all just... noise. You have to be... quiet."
He was running a practice.
He was in a light sweat. He was... pacing. He was correcting footwork. He was showing them how to pivot, how to see the open space. He was, for all intents and purposes, a terrifyingly intense and effective basketball coach.
He was lost in it. He was... he was gone. The part of him that was just Kian—the artist, the brother, the son—had vanished. He was... he was the Coach's Son.
They'd been at it for almost an hour. Kian was furious that he was sweating. He was angry that he was... invested.
Milo had been practicing his shot. His elbow... it was in. It was tucked.
"Okay," Kian said, tossing him the ball. "Do it."
Milo took a breath. He bent his knees. He put his arm in the "L." He didn't think. He just... released.
The ball flew in a high, perfect arc.
Swish.
The sound of the lumpy ball hitting the bare, chain-less rim and dropping through echoed in the quarry.
Milo's jaw dropped. He stared at the hoop.
"I... I..." He turned, his face split by a grin so wide it looked like it must hurt. "I DID IT! I DID IT! Did you see that? It... it swished! I SWISHED!"
He'd broken the "quiet" rule. He was screaming, jumping up and down.
Kian opened his mouth. He was going to yell at him. He was going to tell him to shut up.
But... he stopped. He saw the kid's joy. He saw the... the result. The kid's form was... it was good.
And Kian felt a dangerous, terrifying, utterly unwelcome emotion bubble up in his chest.
Pride.
He was proud of the kid.
He hated himself. He loathed himself.
"Don't... don't yell," Kian said, but his voice had no bite. He was too shaken.
"Okay, okay, quiet, quiet!" Milo said, trying to contain himself. He looked at Kian, his eyes shining with pure hero-worship. "What now... Coach?"
"Don't. Call me. That," Kian snapped, the word a physical blow. "Ever."
"What. The. Actual. Hell."
The voice was not a child's.
Kian froze.
The "gift," the "coach," the "zone"... it all shattered, like a mirror dropped on concrete.
He turned, his whole body moving as one, slow, dreadful motion.
Silas and Ren were standing by their bikes, about twenty feet away. Their mouths were hanging open. They were staring.
They were staring at Kian. Sweaty. On a basketball court. Surrounded by six small children, all of whom were now, at Kian's unspoken command, standing in a perfect defensive stance, their knees bent, their arms out.
Silas looked at Ren. Ren looked at Silas.
"I... am I," Silas said, pointing, "am I... high? Is this... is this an alternate dimension, Ren? Did we... did we take a wrong turn?"
Ren just shook his head, his analytical brain visibly smoking, trying to process the data. "I... I have no framework for this. My... my entire understanding of... of you," he said, pointing at Kian, "is... it's... corrupted."
Silas's shock suddenly morphed into a grin. A massive, world-ending, insufferable grin.
"Oh. My. God," Silas breathed, his voice filled with joyous, triumphant laughter. "He... he... you melted! You TOTALLY melted! The puppy-dog eyes! They got you! You're COACHING! You're... you're COACH KIAN!"
The spell was broken. The humiliation was absolute.
Kian's face, which had been focused, went... white. It was a cold, pure, terrifying white. A coldness born of pure, unadulterated humiliation.
He had been seen. He had been caught. He had been caught playing. He had been caught caring.
He turned, his back to his friends. He looked at the kids. They were looking at him, confused, scared by the new arrivals and by the sudden, terrifying change in Kian's demeanor.
"Get out," Kian said.
"What?" Milo asked, his smile vanishing. "But... but, Coach, we were..."
"I said... GET OUT!"
Kian's voice wasn't a yell. It was a roar. It was so loud, so full of sudden, unexpected venom, that the kids physically recoiled. Ana flinched, as if she'd been struck.
"I'm done. It's over," Kian snarled, his voice trembling with a rage he couldn't control. "Go home. And don't come back. Ever. Do you understand? This is my place. Go!"
The kids were terrified. He wasn't their hero anymore. He wasn't their "Mister." He was... he was a monster.
"But... but..." Milo's eyes were filling with tears. "We... we were quiet..."
"GO!"
The kids scrambled. They grabbed their lumpy ball, their backpacks, and they ran. They ran as if they were running from Devin all over again. They ran from him.
Kian was left in the middle of the court, his chest heaving, his hands balled into fists.
"Dude," Silas said, walking his bike forward, his joking demeanor completely gone. He saw his friend was genuinely... shaking. "That was... that was brutal, man. They were just kids."
Kian turned his burning, furious, self-hating gaze on his friends.
"You," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "shouldn't have come here."
"We... we were coming to see if you wanted to go to the comic shop," Silas said, holding his hands up, trying to placate him. "Kian... it's... it's okay..."
"It's NOT OKAY!" Kian shouted, and the sound echoed off the warehouse wall. He stalked past them, his movements sharp, angry. He grabbed his sketchbook, shoved it in his bag. "You don't get it! You... you never get it! It's not... it's not 'just basketball'! It's... it's... his! It's... it's in me! And I... I... I let it out!"
He couldn't finish. He couldn't explain. He couldn't articulate the feeling of betrayal. The feeling that his own body, his own mind, was a traitor. That his father had planted a... a virus in him, and it was still there, waiting.
He got on his bike.
"Kian, wait!" Ren called, his voice calm, rational. "Talk to us!"
But Kian was gone. He pushed off, his pedals a blur, his bike skidding on the gravel path. He rode away from the court, away from his friends, away from the confused, tear-stricken faces of the kids, and away from the person he had just, for one horrifying, unforgivable hour, become.