Saturday morning brunch at the Vance estate was a civilized affair.
Sunlight streamed through the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows of the formal dining room, glinting off the heavy family silver. The air smelled of fresh coffee, warm croissants, and Alicia's signature lemon-ricotta pancakes. It was a scene of perfect, domestic, old-money tranquility.
And at the center of it, Leo Vance was a human sunbeam.
He was, for the first time in recent memory, truly, uncomplicatedly happy. He was the hero of the game. He had held hands with Chloe Kim. He had earned his grandfather's highest praise. He was, he felt, finally becoming the man he was supposed to be.
"So, I'm thinking," he said, taking a large bite of pancake, "that the key wasn't just the man-to-man. It was the communication. Julian and I, we were calling out switches before Redwood even set their screens. It was... it was like we were reading their minds."
Alicia, sitting at the head of the table, smiled. It was a genuine, relieved smile. The dark, tense cloud that had been hanging over her sons had, for the moment, lifted. Leo was bright. Kian was… well, Kian was present.
"It sounds like you were a true leader, honey," she said, passing him the syrup. "I'm so proud of you."
"And Chloe Kim seemed very impressed," Arthur Vance added, not looking up from his copy of the Wall Street Journal. His voice was a dry, amused rumble.
Leo's face went from a healthy, post-game glow to a bright, painful crimson. "Grandpa! I... we... she's just... she's nice."
"She is," Arthur agreed, turning a page. "And she's smart. Good choice."
Leo, flustered and grinning, turned his energy toward the one person at the table who hadn't spoken, the one person he desperately needed to connect with.
Kian was sitting opposite him, a ghost at the feast. He hadn't touched his pancakes. He was just moving a single strawberry around his plate with a fork, his eyes fixed on the intricate pattern of the china. He was already at the quarry in his head. He was already on the defensive, his mind running calculations on Sienna, Isa, and Silas. He was a tightly wound spring, and Leo, in his joy, was about to jump on him.
"You... you were right, Kian," Leo said, his voice earnest, his smile wide. He wanted, needed, to share this. To bridge the gap.
Kian's fork stopped moving. He didn't look up.
"Everything," Leo continued, his voice rambling, full of nervous energy. "The data... it was perfect. We switched to man-to-man, just like we talked about. Their corner threes... just... stopped. And Dylan... Coach tore into him after the game. He's making him do left-handed drills... all week. And Devin Brooks...!"
Leo leaned forward, his eyes bright. "He... he subbed in. With a minute left! He tried to taunt me, Kian. He... he said my name. And he... he drove right."
Kian was clenching his fork, his knuckles white.
"And I... I knew," Leo whispered, his voice full of the remembered thrill. "He hated the pressure. I... I read his pass. I... I got the steal. And... and Sam... Sam... he was in his spot! He... he wasn't at the logo. He was... he was in the corner. I... I passed it. He hit it."
Leo's face was a picture of pure, unadulterated joy and gratitude. "We won, Kian. Because... because of you. Because of what you saw."
The table was silent. Alicia's smile was frozen, her eyes wide, watching Kian. Arthur's paper was still.
Kian slowly, deliberately, put his fork down. He finally looked up. His eyes were not angry. They were not proud. They were... empty. They were arctic.
"So?"
The word was a splash of ice water. Leo's smile... faltered.
"What... what do you mean, 'so'?" Leo stammered. "We... we won. It was... it was epic."
"You won one game," Kian said, his voice flat. "It's... it's October. It's... statistically insignificant. You're... you're acting... like... like you won... the championship."
"Kian..." Alicia said, her voice a soft warning.
"He asked," Kian snapped, his gaze locked on his brother. "You... you think... that one pass... fixes... your team? Did you... did you watch... the first half? Your... your 1-3-1 trap... was... a joke. You... you bled... 22 points... from the corners. You... you were... lucky... they... they only... scored 42."
"We... we fixed it..." Leo said, his voice small, his joy rapidly deflating.
"You... you didn't... fix... Dylan Riley," Kian said, his voice a cold, analytical scalpel. "He's... he's still... a one-trick pony. He... he has no left hand. He... he has no court vision. He's a track star... who... who happens... to be tall. He's... useless... against... a real... scout."
"He... he's... he's learning..."
"And Sam," Kian continued, relentless, the words pouring out, his own frustrations from the week finding their target. "He... he hit one shot. One. A... a spot-up corner three. A... a goldfish... could... hit that shot. Did you... did you already... forget... the five... terrible, contested, logo-pull-ups... he missed? He... he got lucky. You... you got lucky."
Leo was... crushed. He was... shrinking.
"And... and Redwood," Kian said, his voice dropping, delivering the final, killing blow. "You... you do... realize... that... that they... they were missing... their two best players, right?"
Leo's head snapped up. "What?"
"Their... their starting center... Alexei Petrov... he... he tore... his ACL... last week," Kian said, his recall photographic and brutal. "And... and their... their All-State forward... Marcus Thorne... he... he was out... with mono. You... you didn't... beat... Redwood. You... you beat... their B-team. At home. By one... single... point. At the buzzer."
He leaned forward, his voice a low, vicious whisper. "So... stop... celebrating. You're flawed. Your... your team... is broken. And... you... you just... barely... won... against... scrubs."
The room was frozen.
Leo looked like he had been physically struck. He was pale, his eyes wide and wounded. Alicia had her hand over her mouth, her eyes shining with tears. She looked at her younger son as if he were a stranger, a monster she didn't recognize.
"Kian..." she whispered, her voice trembling. "That... that is enough. That is... cruel."
"It's just data, Mom," Kian said, his voice cold. "He... he loves... data. I'm... I'm just... giving it... to him."
THWACK.
The sound was sharp, violent.
Arthur Vance had slapped his folded newspaper down on the table.
Kian flenched. He had not, in his entire life, seen his grandfather move that fast, or with that much... anger.
"Kian," Arthur said. His voice was not loud. It was... deadly. It was the quietest, most dangerous sound Kian had ever heard.
Kian looked at him, his defiant mask firmly in place.
"For a boy," Arthur began, his voice a soft, surgical rumble, "who loathes... this game... who despises... this family's connection... to it... who lectures... his brother... for... for loving... it..."
He paused, his sharp blue eyes—Kian's eyes—pinning his grandson to the chair.
"...you seem remarkably... well-informed."
Kian's blood ran cold. The... the room... tilted. This... this was not... the script.
"You... you know... Redwood's... roster?" Arthur asked, his voice a soft, probing question. "You... you know... who... was injured? You... you know... what... mono... is? You... you scouted... a team... you... you claim... to despise?"
"I... I read..." Kian stammered, his defense weak, his mind racing. How?
"You... you analyzed... Crestwood's... defense," Arthur continued, relentless, his voice never rising. "You... you broke down... Dylan Riley's... flaws. You... you scolded... Sam's... shot selection." He leaned forward, his eyes boring into Kian's. "You... you watched... the game, didn't you, Kian? You... you didn't just... hear... about it... from Leo. You... you watched it. You... you streamed it... online. You... you watched... every... single... second... of your brother's... win."
It wasn't a question. It was a verdict.
Kian's... Kian's mask... cracked. He was seen. He was exposed.
Alicia was staring, her hand fluttering to her chest. Leo... Leo looked utterly baffled. He was looking at Kian, his head tilted, his... his own data... re-calculating. You... you... watched me?
"You... you preach... to us... about moving on," Arthur said, his voice laced with a cold, profound disappointment. "About... how much... you hate... this sport. About... how... it broke... this family. You... you wrap yourself... in this... this shroud... of... of artistic... indifference..."
Arthur paused. He looked at Alicia. He looked at Leo. He was about to detonate the bomb.
"...and yet... I... I hear... rumors... from... from my tenants... near... near the... old... industrial park..."
Kian's... Kian's blood... evaporated. He... he stopped breathing. NO.
"...that you... Kian Vance... are spending... every single afternoon... at that... broken-down... quarry..."
Kian's... Kian's mind... was screaming. NO. NO. NO. NOT HIM. PLEASE. NOT HIM.
"...teaching... a group... of small, fatherless children... how to play basketball."
Silence.
Absolute. Devastating. Silence.
Leo's head snapped toward Kian. His face was not just shocked. It was... it was exploding. His... his brain... could not... process... the words. TEACHING? KIDS? GRANDPA... KNOWS?
Alicia just... stared. Her... her son. Her... her cold, broken... boy. Teaching?
Kian... Kian was gone. He was... disassociated. He... he couldn't feel... the chair. He... he couldn't feel... his hands. He... he had been seen. He... he was known. Completely.
Arthur Vance leaned back, his work done.
"You... you lecture... your brother... for his passion... while you secretly... indulge... your own," he said, his voice now just tired, and filled with a deep, bottomless sadness. "You... you claim... to be bored... by his... victory... while you... you analyze... it... better... than his own coach. You... you use... your mother's... maiden name... to... to hide... from your father... while... every single action... you take... proves... that you are... exactly... his son."
He folded his paper.
"You are... a hypocrite, Kian. And... and frankly... I... I am deeply... disappointed."
Kian was shaking. He couldn't breathe. He was... drowning.
He... he stood up.
His chair didn't just scrape. It... it screeched... and fell over, crashing... onto the hardwood floor.
Alicia gasped.
Kian didn't look at her. He didn't look at Leo's stunned, betrayed, confused face. He didn't look at his grandfather.
He just... turned.
And he ran.
He didn't walk. He didn't leave.
He fled. He ran... out of the dining room. He ran... through the marble hall.
They... they heard... the front door... slam.
They... they heard... his sneakers... crunching... on the gravel. Running.
Leo, Alicia, and Arthur were left in the screaming, terrible silence.
Leo... Leo looked... at his grandfather. His... his mind... reeling.
"Grandpa...?" Leo whispered, his voice trembling. "He... he wasn't... at the library? He... he was... teaching... kids?"
Arthur just... slowly... sipped... his coffee.
"Don't act like you dont know"
He... he looked... at the door... Kian had fled... through.
"He... he is... more lost... than I thought," he said, his voice heavy. "And... and now... so are we."