The slam of the old oak doors echoed in the perfect, pristine gym, a sound of final, profound failure.
Leo Vance stood, unmoving, in the center of the court. He was panting, not from exertion, but from the sheer, concussive force of the confrontation. The air was electric with the things he had said, the things he couldn't take back.
Just... just like... him!
He had done it. He had deployed the nuclear option. He had taken his brother's deepest, most defining wound and poured salt directly into it. He had watched Kian, his "Ice-Man" brother, the one who executed Sienna James in a crowded cafeteria, completely disintegrate. He had watched him flinch, recoil, and flee.
And the victory felt... hollow. It felt exactly like a loss.
"Mister...?"
The small, terrified voice broke his trance.
Leo looked over. The other team. Kian's real team.
The six kids were huddled together by the free-throw line, looking at him with wide, terrified eyes. Milo was in front, his small body tensed, as if shielding the others. Ana was openly crying.
Leo had just come from his own broken team. Now, he was standing in the middle of Kian's.
"Is... is 'Mister'... okay?" Milo asked, his voice trembling. "What... what was that? Who... who... were you... talking about?"
Leo's rage was gone, evaporated, leaving behind a cold, heavy sediment of confusion and regret. He looked at these kids. He saw their new-looking basketball shorts. He saw their worn-out, non-regulation sneakers on the NBA-grade floor.
"He's..." Leo swallowed, his throat raw. "He's... complicated. He... he'll be... fine."
He looked around the gym. It wasn't just haunted by his father anymore. It was alive with Kian.
He saw the rolling whiteboard by the wall. It was covered in Kian's sharp, precise, analytical handwriting. There were diagrams. Arrows. Notes.
1-4 High Set. Option A: 'Hammer-Roll'.
Ana/Timmy = Hammer. Plant. Be a WALL.
Milo = Brain. Read the helper. Pass > Shot.
It wasn't just a play. It was a curriculum.
Leo walked over to the side of the court. He saw the equipment Kian had bought. The new, high-quality agility ladder, still in its box. The stack of twenty-four, bright-orange disc cones. The whistle... the one Kian had dropped... it was lying on the floor, a tiny, silver, damning piece of evidence.
This wasn't a game for Kian. This wasn't a whim.
This was work.
This was obsession.
Leo looked at the whiteboard again. Milo = Brain. You are me. Do not screw it up.
Leo finally, truly, understood. He had accused Kian of using him, of using the Crestwood team as his lab. He was wrong. This was the lab. These kids were the project.
Leo... he had just been overflow. He had been the side-effect of Kian's real work.
His team... his own team... thought Kian was some shadowy, creepy spy. They thought he was a villain.
But these kids... they looked at Kian like he was... everything.
He was a hypocrite. He was his father's son. He was a coach. But... it was worse than Leo thought. He wasn't just coaching. He was building. He was fixing.
Leo felt a deep, profound, and sickening wave of... empathy. He... he was the "Captain." He was the "leader." He... he loved... this feeling. The feeling of building a team.
And he had just... ruined... it... for his brother.
"You... you guys should... go home," Leo said, his voice rough. He couldn't look at them.
"But... Mister..." Milo started.
"He's not coming back," Leo snapped, his own pain making him cruel. "Not... today. Just... go. Please."
The kids, seeing the same brokenness in Leo's eyes that they had just seen in Kian's, finally understood. They gathered their things, their small shoulders slumped, and filed out of the gym, their sneakers silent on the perfect floor.
Leo was left alone. In his father's gym. In his brother's gym.
He looked at the whiteboard. At the diagram. Hedge-and-Recover. Kian had taught it to Leo... after... he had taught... it to... a... nine-year-old.
Leo... he had... to fix... his team. He... he had... to fix... Kian.
He... he didn't know... how.
He walked out of the gym. He didn't... turn off... the light. He... he left... Kian's... playbook... right... where it was.
Kian ran.
He ran from the accusation. He ran from the truth. He ran from the look of terror on Milo's face, a look he had put there. He ran from the hulk of his brother, standing in his sanctuary, radiating a rage that was justified.
Just... just like... him!
The words were an engine, a piston-drive of shame. You're a user. You control. You break.
He burst out of the gym's side door, his feet slipping on the damp flagstones. He ran down the ivy-lined path, past the pool house, his lungs burning, his vision narrowing to a pinprick. He wasn't thinking. He was a reaction. A flight instinct.
He burst through the old, wrought-iron side-gate of the estate, the one that led to the quiet, tree-lined road. He wasn't looking. He was just fleeing.
He slammed, at full, sprinting speed, into someone.
It was a hard collision. A bang of limbs, a clatter of a phone on asphalt, the skitter of... a book.
"Oomph!"
Kian fell back, his breath knocked out, landing hard on his hip. The other person... a runner... also... went down.
"God... I'm... sorry..." Kian gasped, his throat raw, his hands shaking... violently. He... hated... this. He... hated... mess. He hated... being seen.
"Whoa," the girl said, her voice breathy. She was already on her feet, brushing off her running shorts. "You... you came out of... nowhere. Like... a... bat... out of... hell. Are you... okay?"
Kian looked up.
Her.
The "Bus Girl." The new girl. The... Camus-reading... variable.
She was standing there, her face flushed from her run, her dark-curly hair pulled back in a high, messy ponytail. She wasn't... Sienna (angry). She wasn't... Chloe (worried). She was just... surprised.
Kian scrambled to his feet, mortified. He never lost control. And she... twice... in one week... she... had seen him... lose it.
"I... I'm... fine," he snarled, his voice a low, defensive growl. He hated... his hands. They wouldn't stop... shaking.
He crouched, gathering her things. Her phone. An earbud. Her book. The Stranger.
"You... you really... like... this book," he muttered, his sarcasm... a desperate... shield. He... he handed it... to her.
She laughed. A real, light... sound. "It's... good. It's... quiet. And... we... really... have to... stop... meeting... like this."
She... she looked... at him. Her... smile... faded. Her bright, green... eyes... focused.
"You're... not... okay," she said. It wasn't a question. It was a... statement of fact. "You're... shaking."
"I... I'm cold," he lied.
"It's... not that... cold," she said, her voice gentle, not pitying, just... observant. "You... you look... like you... just... saw... a ghost. Or... became one."
The exact... same... words... as his grandfather.
Kian... flinched. He... he looked... at her. Really... looked... at her.
"Who... are... you?" he whispered.
Her small smile returned. "I'm... Anya. Anya Petrova. I'm... new. I'm... in your... English class... and your... History class. We... sit... across... from each other... on the bus."
"Kian," he said, his voice rough.
"I know," she said. "Kian. The one... who... doesn't... talk. And now... shakes." She... tilted... her head. "So... what... ghost... did you... see... in the... giant... house, Kian?"
He... he should have... walked away. He... should have... put up... his wall.
But... he... couldn't. He... he was... too raw. And she... wasn't... pushing. She... was just... asking.
"I... I had a... fight," he said, the admission tearing from his throat. "With... my brother."
"The... Captain?" she asked. She'd seen Leo's game.
Kian nodded. "He's... disappointed... in me."
Anya... considered this. She... leaned... against... the... estate... fence.
"Disappointment... is... heavy," she said, her voice thoughtful. "It's... so much... louder... than... anger. Anger... is just... noise. It... burns out. Disappointment... it... stains. It... gets... into... everything."
Kian... stared at her. He... he couldn't... breathe.
She got it.
She actually, truly... understood... the weight.
"He... he thinks... I... ruined... everything," Kian whispered, a... a confession... he hadn't... meant... to make.
"Did you?" Anya asked. Her voice was... simple. Not... an accusation. Just... a... question.
"I... I thought... I was... helping," he said, the... words... just... spilling out. "I... I fixed... a problem. I... I gave him... data. And... it... it... broke... everything else."
Anya nodded, like this was the most logical thing in the world. "The... law of unintended consequences. You... solved... the equation... in front... of you. You... you just... didn't... check... your work... with the... rest of... the... universe."
Kian... looked... at her. His... hands... were... still... shaking. But... the... panic... was... ebbing.
He... he almost... smiled. "Yeah. Something... like that."
Anya smiled back. Her real, luminous smile. "Well. Disappointment... is... just... data, Kian. It... it just... means... someone's... expectations... were wrong. Either... yours... or his. You... you just... have to... figure out... which... equation... you... were... actually... supposed... to be... solving."
She... pushed... off... the fence. She... put... her... earbuds... back in.
"My... run... is... getting cold," she said. "Goodnight, Kian."
"Anya," he said.
She paused.
"Your... name... is... Petrova?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said, her eyes curious. "Why?"
"Redwood Prep," he said, his brain... finally... working... again. "Their... starting center... Alexei Petrov. The one... who... tore... his... ACL."
Anya's... smile... vanished. Her... face... went... cold. "He's... my brother."
She... turned. And... this time... she... was the... one... who... ran.
Kian was left... alone... on the dark sidewalk, his... head... spinning.
His problem... wasn't solved. His shame... wasn't gone.
But... he... wasn't... drowning... in it.
Disappointment... is just data.
He... he could work... with data.
He... he couldn't... go home. He... he couldn't... face... Leo.
But... he could... think.
He... turned. He... walked... away... from his... house. He... walked... into... the... night.