Dawn at the Vance estate was a silent, gray truce.
Leo had been awake since 4:00 AM. He hadn't slept. He had been studying. The thirty-page manifesto Kian had slid under his door was spread across his bedroom floor like the blueprints for a new world.
It was, Leo realized, the most Kian had ever said to him in his entire life.
He saw the diagrams for the "Hedge-and-Recover" defense, the exact solution to the pick-and-roll problem he'd been wrestling with. He saw the brutal, clinical, and correct assessment of Sam's emotional shot selection. And he saw page twenty-two.
SOLUTION: 'The Floater'. (For D. Riley).
Leo had read the paragraph four times, his awe growing with each pass. Kian hadn't just identified Dylan's flaw; he had empathized with it. He'd accepted it. He hadn't just said, "Get a left hand." He had written, 'Developing an off-hand layup mid-season is impractical. The muscle memory is too ingrained. A right-handed floater from the left-side baseline, however, utilizes existing strengths to counter a known weakness. It is a logical compromise.'
It was a peace offering. It was Kian, in his own, strange, data-driven way, trying to fix Dylan.
Leo felt a wave of profound guilt for the things he'd said in the gym, followed by an equally powerful wave of awe. He finally understood. Kian wasn't a spy. He was a doctor. He saw the disease in their play, and he couldn't stop himself from writing a prescription.
Leo put the pages back in order. He had his apology. He had his plan. He knew what he had to do.
He walked downstairs, the manifesto heavy in his bag. Kian was already in the kitchen, a ghost in his black hoodie, his back to the room as he grabbed a protein bar. He was tensed, clearly expecting another fight.
"Kian," Leo said, his voice rough.
Kian froze. He didn't turn around.
"I... I got it," Leo said, tapping his bag. "I... I read it."
Kian's shoulders tensed even more.
"It's... brilliant," Leo said, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't name. "All of it. The... the floater... for Dylan... it's... it's genius, Kian. I... I never would have thought of that."
Kian slowly turned. His eyes were shadowed, exhausted. He was stunned, silent, bracing for the but.
There was no but.
"I'm... I'm sorry," Leo said, the words clumsy, but real. "For... for what I said. In your gym. I... I was... way out of line. I... I didn't understand. I... I was a jerk."
Kian just looked at him. His brother... the Captain... was apologizing. To him. Kian, who had fled, who had been called 'Father'. He had no data for this.
"It's... it's fine," Kian mumbled, the only words he had.
"I... I have to... to fix this," Leo said, his voice gaining strength. "With the team. This... this..." (he tapped the manifesto) "...this is how I'm going to do it. So... thank you."
Kian just nodded, his throat tight. He grabbed his bag, needing to escape this new, unfamiliar, positive emotion. "I... I'm taking the bus. I... I have to... see someone."
Leo nodded, a new, respectful understanding in his eyes. "Yeah. Me too. I... I have to... fix my team."
The brothers, for the first time, were on the same mission.
Kian got on the bus. He was a man on a different mission. He wasn't hiding today. He wasn't a ghost.
He was Kian Vance, the kid who had failed an equation.
Disappointment is just data.
Anya's words. He had to fix that data. He had been rude. He had been cruel. He had treated her brother's injury... like one of Sam's flaws. A problem to be solved, not a wound to be respected.
He walked down the aisle. She was there. Back of the bus. Same seat as always.
She was reading. Medea. Of course she was.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't sit across the aisle. He sat in the empty seat next to her.
The bus was, for a moment, silent. He could feel Silas's gaze burning into the back of his head from ten rows up.
Anya Petrova slowly, deliberately, looked up from her book. Her bright green eyes were not curious today. They were cold.
"I... I thought... I told you... to stay away," she said, her voice quiet.
"You did," Kian said. His heart was hammering. This was harder than facing Sienna. This mattered. "I... I'm not... here... to sit. I'm... here... to apologize."
Anya's eyes widened, just a fraction.
"Yesterday," Kian said, his voice low, his words precise, as if he'd rehearsed them all night. "I... I was wrong. I... I conflated... your brother's...physical injury... with...a...statistical problem. It... wasn't... 'data'. It was... your family. It was... insensitive. And... it was...cruel."
He had never said this many real words to a stranger in his life.
"I... I didn't mean... to be...an analyst," he said. "I was...just...being...an idiot. I'm... sorry."
Anya just... stared at him. She was... disarmed. She had been prepared for sarcasm. She had been prepared... for a fight. She... she was not... prepared... for...a full, logical, and...total surrender.
Her... her face... softened. The... ice... cracked.
"Oh," she said, her voice small. "You... you are... sorry."
"I am," he confirmed.
She let out a long breath, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "You... you really...are...just...a...fixer, aren't you? You... break... something. You... analyze...the...breakage. And... you...fix it. Even... when...it's...you."
"I... I'm trying... to," he said.
"Well," she said, looking down at her book. "It... was... a...good...apology. Very...thorough. Logical. Accepted."
She... didn't... tell him...to leave.
So... he stayed.
They sat in silence for a full minute. Kian should have put his headphones on. But... he didn't.
"My... my brother... he's...Alexei Petrov," Anya said, her voice a quiet whisper, directed at the window. "He... he plays... for...Redwood Prep. Or... he did. He... he tore...his ACL." She paused, her voice hardening slightly. "That's why... we moved. To... be closer... to...the best... orthopedic surgeon... in the state. And... to a...less...intense... school environment... for him... to recover. He... he was...going...to...Duke."
Kian's... his blood... ran cold. This... this... was...the...game. His...father's...game. The... part...no one...talked about. The... part...that...broke...people.
"He... he will...get...another one," Kian said, his voice firm, analytical. "His... film...is...too good. A... torn ACL... is...not...a...career-ender. Not...anymore. The... surgery...is...better. He... will...come back...stronger."
Anya... looked... at him. Her... eyes...were...shining. "You... think so?"
"The... data...supports it," Kian said. "He... he's... a...good...asset. A... low-risk...investment. A... smart...program... will...take...him."
Anya laughed. It was a wet, broken sound. "A... 'good...asset'. You... really...are...like...no one...I've...ever met, Kian Vance."
"I... I know," he said.
She... smiled. A real smile. "So. You...and your...brother. You... fixed...that... equation?"
"We're... working...on...a...new proof," Kian said.
The bus pulled up to the school. Kian stood up. Anya stood up.
"Well," she said, pulling her bag onto her shoulder. "Don't... be...a stranger, Kian. My... life...is...too boring. I... I need... more...flawed...logic...to...argue with."
"I'll... see what...I can...do," he said.
They walked off the bus. Kian went left. She went right.
Silas... ran up... to him. "DUDE! You... were...TALKING...to her! The whole...WAY! What...did...you...SAY? Who...IS...SHE?"
"She's... Anya," Kian said, walking away.
"ANYA WHAT?" Silas yelled, running after him. "WHO IS ANYA?"
"Petrova," Kian called over his shoulder, a ghost of a smirk on his face. He left Silas to piece together the implications. He knew the name would hit the bus gossip circuit like a meteor.
7:30 AM. The Crestwood High locker room.
Leo had called an 8:00 AM, players-only team meeting. He was the first one there. He was terrified.
He had the manifesto. He had his mother's words. 'Be honest. Be a captain.'
The team filed in. One by one. They weren't talking. The music... wasn't on. The air... was toxic.
Sam. Marcus. Julian. They sat on the benches, their arms crossed.
Dylan Riley was the last one in. He slammed his bag into his locker and stood there, daring Leo to speak.
"Alright," Leo said, his voice shaking. He hated this. He hated confrontation. "Thanks... thanks...for...coming."
He walked to the center of the room. He held up the playbook.
"You're... right," Leo said, his voice clear, strong. He looked right at Dylan. "I... I was...using...my brother's...scouting. I... I was...dishonest. Not... to cheat. Not... to...spy. But... because...I was...a...coward. And... because...I...wanted...to win."
The room was dead silent. This... was not... what they...expected.
"I... I was...afraid...to...tell you," Leo continued, his voice raw. "Because... my brother... is...complicated. He... hates...this game. He... hates...all of...this. I... I thought...I...was...protecting him. And... in...the...process... I...betrayed...your trust. I... broke...this team. And... I am...sorry."
He looked at Sam. "Sam. That shot. You hit it. Period. The... data... that...got you...there... just...proved...what I...already...knew: That...you...are...clutch. That was...my pass. My trust. Your shot. Nothing...else."
Sam looked down, his face unreadable. But... he nodded.
"And you," Leo said, turning to Dylan. "You... you...think...I'm...a fraud. You... think...I'm...a puppet. You... think...my brother...is...a...freak... who...just...wants...to...laugh...at you."
"Pretty much," Dylan sneered.
Leo walked over. He held out... the playbook.
"Page twenty-two," Leo said, his voice a command.
Dylan, his face a mask of confusion, took the manifesto. He flipped through the pages. He found...his name.
He read. He saw the diagrams. He... saw...the...analysis.
'The floater. A counter to his own flaw. It is a logical compromise.'
Dylan... looked up... from the...papers. His... face... was...pale. He... was...speechless.
"He... he...fixed me," Dylan whispered, his voice full of a shocked... awe.
"He fixed ALL of us," Leo said, his voice ringing. He... gestured... to the...playbook. "This... this...is...everything. All...his...secrets. All...his...data. This... is...his...apology. And...it's...mine, too."
He looked... at his...team. "I don't...want...to be...a...'secret weapon'. I want...to be...a team. And this... this...is how...we win... the Winter Cup. Together. All of us. Using...every...weapon...we have. And this... this...is the...best...weapon... we've got."
He looked at Julian. "So... are we...a team? Or... are we...done?"
Julian looked... at the...playbook. He... looked...at Leo. He stood up. He... smiled.
"We're... a team, Captain." He looked...at Dylan.
Dylan was still...staring...at...page twenty-two. He... hated...Vance. But... that floater... it could...work.
He closed... the manifesto. He... tossed it... back...to Leo.
"...Fine," Dylan growled. "But... I'm...not...calling...him...'Coach'. And... you're...running...that...floater drill...with me...yourself, Captain. All...night."
Leo... beamed. The... mutiny...was over.