The whistle shrieked, and the sound in the Crestwood gym was different. It wasn't just Coach Miller's. It was Leo's. And Julian's. The practice, which had descended into a mutinous, toxic fog just days before, was now a loud, focused, and brutally efficient workshop.
Leo Vance stood at the top of the key, Kian's manifesto—now copied, annotated, and bound in a three-ring binder—open on the scorer's table next to Maya and Elara. He was running this.
"Alright, again!" Leo commanded, his voice ringing with a new, sharp authority. "Hedge-and-Recover! Scout team, run the St. Jude's pick-and-roll. Marcus, you are the hedger. I want you to attack the ball-handler. Show!"
The scout team guard dribbled hard off the screen. Marcus, the team's powerful but often-passive center, did as he was told. He jumped out, a massive, sudden wall, forcing the guard to stop, spin, and pick up his dribble.
"Yes!" Leo yelled. "Good! Now recover, Marcus! Julian! You see that? The roller was open for a split second. That's your man. You have to see that and drop. Let's go! Again!"
The team ran. They were sweating, they were gasping, but they were communicating. The poison had been drawn. Leo's raw, honest confession in the locker room—his apology—had been the antidote. He hadn't just taken the blame; he had shared the solution. He had made them partners in his "crime."
And now, Kian's "Bible" was their new religion.
At the far basket, Dylan Riley was in his own personal hell. Coach Miller, taking his cue from Leo's new player-coach role, had assigned Dylan to Julian.
"Your floater," Julian said, his voice smooth and patient. "Kian's right. It's a good counter. But you're jumping off the wrong foot."
"This is stupid," Dylan snarled, his face red with effort. The shot had clanged off the rim again. "It's awkward. It feels weak."
"It's new," Julian corrected, rebounding the ball and passing it back. "You're so right-hand dominant, you're trying to power it like a dunk. It's not power, Dylan. It's touch. It's an arc. Off the left foot, high release. Let it die over the rim. Again."
Dylan growled, but he took the ball. He drove left, planted his left foot, and pushed a high, soft, right-handed floater.
Swish.
Dylan stared at the net. He... he hadn't... done that...before.
"See?" Julian said, a small smile on his face. "It's in there. It's just math. Again."
On the sideline, Coach Miller watched, his arms crossed, a whistle in his mouth that he hadn't used. He was observing. He was watching his captain coach his star center, and his other captain coach his problem-child forward.
Maya Davis just smiled, checking things off her clipboard. Elara Chen, beside her, was typing, her face impassive.
"The... Hedge-and-Recover... rotation... is...improving," Elara murmured, her eyes on the court. "They've... cut... their... recovery time... by...0.4 seconds. It's... statistically significant."
"They're talking," Maya said, her voice full of satisfaction. "They're trusting each other. That's significant."
Miller just grunted, but he was pleased. "This... 'shadow coach' of Vance's," he muttered, "he... might be... a freak. But... he's... our freak."
The Crestwood Middle cafeteria was, as always, a warzone of noise.
Kian sat in his usual booth, his back to the wall, flanked by his two guards.
"Okay, I'm just gonna say it," Silas said, his mouth full of pizza. "It's weird."
Kian didn't look up from his sketchbook. "What is."
"The Anya Petrova situation! That's 'what is'! She's Redwood. Her brother is... is Alexei. That's... it's treason, man! It's Romeo and Juliet, but, like, with more sweaty people! What... what do you even...talk about?"
"We don't talk," Kian said, his voice flat. He was diagramming Ana's footwork for a baseline screen. "I... I sit. She... sits. We... don't talk."
"But... she knows... who you are!" Silas insisted. "She's Redwood. She's... a spy! She... she's probably... telling...her brother...all of...Leo's...plays!"
"Leo... doesn't have... any plays," Kian countered, his voice bored. "He has...my...manifesto. And that... is...public...knowledge. The... Hedge-and-Recover...is not...a...secret. It's... in a...book. She... can read... a book."
"Your... logic...is...flawed," Ren interjected, looking up from his phone. "The proximity... is...a...conflict of interest. Given...your...new role...as...shadow strategist... for...Crestwood."
Kian hated that name. "I... don't have...a role. I... I gave... Leo...a...book report. He's... using it. That's...all. She's... just...a person. Leave it alone."
"Fine," Silas grumbled, slumping back. "But... I'm watching her. She's... shifty."
Kian just sighed. He had to get to the lab.
In AP History, Kian was invisible. He was in the back corner, his hoodie up. He wasn't listening to the lecture on the French Revolution. He was working. He was on a clean page of his notebook, his pencil flying.
He was... designing...an out-of-bounds...play. A... simple...screen-the-screener...action... for...Milo.
He was so focused, he didn't feel the eyes on him.
Anya Petrova, sitting two rows up, was watching him. She wasn't spying. She was observing. She was fascinated.
She had seen him in the cafeteria, brutalize Sienna James. She had seen him on the bus, apologize with a logic that was almost poetic. She had seen him on the street, shaking and broken over a fight with his brother.
And now... this. This secret, obsessive... work.
She knew what he was drawing. She knew that formation. It was... basketball.
The... 'Ice-Man'... the...'artist'... the...Camus-reading...ghost... was...a...closet...coach.
This...boy...was...a...puzzle.
She... she had to... solve him.
The bell rang. Kian shut his book, his movements sharp, and was the first one out of the room.
Anya waited. She saw the notebook he'd been drawing in. It wasn't his art sketchbook. It was... a different one.
She walked out. She saw him in the hall, a black-hooded figure moving against the flow of traffic, his pace fast, his eyes on the floor. He... was...so...alone.
She... almost... followed him.
But... no. Not yet. The data... was incomplete.
4:00 PM. The private gym.
Kian blew his whistle. The shriek echoed off the pristine hardwood.
"LAZY!" he yelled. "Timmy! Your feet! They... are...stuck...in...mud! You... are...on...the agility...ladder! Not... in...a...swamp! High knees! Quick feet! Again!"
Timmy, his face red, gasped for breath, but he got back in line.
Kian was... relentless. He was Coach Kian in full. This was his world. His rules. Hissanctuary.
He moved to Ana. He was holding the heavy, canvas football blocking-pad.
"You... are...the...hammer," he said, his voice a low growl. "You... are...the...wall. Hit it."
Ana, who a week ago had been afraid to pass, set her feet. She grunted. And she threw her shoulder... into the pad.
THWACK!
The impact... surprised... Kian. He... stagnated... a step.
Ana... looked up, her eyes...on fire.
"That... was...less terrible," Kian said, his shoulder smarting. He... almost...smiled. "Your... footwork...was...off. Again!"
He blew the whistle. "Pick-and-roll! Option A! Run it!"
Milo took the ball. His team. His gym.
He dribbled hard off Ana's (now solid) screen. The defender (another kid) hedged hard, just as Kian had taught him.
Milo saw it. He read it. The pass... to Ana...was gone. The pull-up...was...covered.
He... stopped. He pivoted. He saw...Timmy...cutting...from the...weak-side... corner.
He... threw...a...perfect, one-handed...skip pass.
It hit...Timmy...in the...hands.
Timmy... panicked. He... fumbled... the ball.
Kian blew his whistle, the shriek... painful.
"GOOD!" he roared.
The kids froze. He... he had...never...said...that word.
MDigital... Milo!" Kian said, pointing at him. "The read! It... was...perfect! You... saw...the...third...option! You... didn't...force...the...play! You let...the...defense...give...you...the...answer! It... was...smart!"
Milo... beamed. He... was...glowing.
"IT... WAS...AWFUL!" Kian screamed... at Timmy.
Milo's beam... vanished.
"You... were...not...ready!" Kian yelled. "You... were...a...ghost! You caught...it...like...it...was...a...bomb! You must...ALWAYS...BE...READY! CATCH...AND...SHOOT! WE...RUN IT...AGAIN! UNTIL...TIMMY...STOPS...BEING...A...GHOST!"
He was... teaching. He was...fixing. He was...in control.
That night, the Vance dinner table was... almost...normal.
It was Leo, KType... Kian, and Alicia. Arthur was at a board meeting.
Leo was buzzing. "It... worked, Kian. The... Hedge-and-Recover... worked. Marcus... he...gets it. And Dylan... he...made...three...floaters...in a row. He... he...actually...smiled. I think."
Kian just shrugged, pushing his food around. "It's... a logical...play. It should... work."
"And... chloe..mom...called...our mom," Leo said, his voice dropping.
Kian froze. "What... what?"
"Chloe's mom," Leo said, his face flushing. "She... she invited...all of us... to...dinner. Next week. She... wants...our...families...to...meet."
Alicia stopped... eating. Her... eyes...lit up. "Leo! That's... wonderful! Chloe is... such...a...lovely...girl! Of course... we'll...go!"
"She... meant...all of us," Leo said, his eyes flicking, terrified, to Kian.
Kian... stared... at him. A... family dinner? With...people? Strangers?
"No," Kian said.
"Kian..." Alicia started, her voice a soft plea.
"No," he said, his voice final. "I... am not...going... to...a...'meet-the-parents'...dinner...for...my brother. That's... insane. I... I'm...busy."
"Doing what?" Alicia asked, her patience thinning. "Your... art project?"
Kian met her gaze. He knew... she knew. She knew... he was... lying.
"Yes," he said.
"Kian, please," Leo begged. "It's... important... to me. I... I...covered...for you. With the...team. Can't...you...just...do...this...one...thing... for me?"
Kian... looked...at his...brother. His... happy, glowing, in-a-relationship... brother.
He... was... asking. He... was...leveraging...his...social...capital.
Kian... hated...it.
He... let out...a long, pained...sigh.
"...Fine," he muttered. "I'll... go. But... I'm...not...talking. And... I'm...not...enjoying it."
Leo... beamed. "Thank you! Thank you! It... it'll be...great! You... you'll...like her, Mom. She's... amazing."
Alicia smiled. Her... boys. They... were...talking. They... were...negotiating.
It... was...a...start.