The morning sun bled through the high, arched windows of Victoria High, casting long, golden rectangles across the brand-new hardwood. The renovation was breathtaking—the dark, polished tiles at center court bore the VHBB emblem in a sharp, aggressive font that seemed to vibrate under the gym lights. Even the air smelled different: a mixture of expensive floor wax and the faint, rich scent of the new leather seats that had replaced the old wooden bleachers.
Travis stood at the entrance for a moment, absorbing the silence before the storm. This wasn't just a game; it was a legacy.
At the far end of the court, the rhythmic thud-thud-thunk of a basketball echoed. Green and Amole were already there, moving with a telepathic grace that made them look less like high schoolers and more like a miniature version of LeBron and AD. Amole, towering at seven feet, plucked a rebound out of the air as if he were reaching for a book on a high shelf, while Green circled the perimeter with the predatory focus of a veteran captain.
"The next thing I know, she's stomping into the elevator," Amole's deep voice boomed, his words punctuated by a heavy dribble. He was recounting the hotel drama with Sam, his face a mask of confusion.
"So, which one is it?" Green asked, his tone clipped. He launched a jump shot that snapped the net with a crisp swish. "You can't play both sides of the fence, man."
"I'm not trying to," Amole grunted, sprinting toward the paint. He took two massive strides, launched his frame into the air, and hammered home a dunk that made the entire backboard shudder. He hung from the rim for a second, his massive hands gripping the mesh. "Sam is just... she's being Sam. Dramatic. Like we haven't already had this conversation."
Travis finally approached, his sneakers chirping against the floor. He began a series of circus-style handles, the ball blurring between his legs and behind his back before he let fly a long-range jumper. Splash.
"Impressive," Amole said, dropping from the rim and offering a meaty palm for a handshake. "How'd you end up in the mix? I didn't see you on the varsity roster last term."
"Miss Clara's recommendation," Travis replied, keeping his eyes on the ball as it bounced back to him. "I'm just here to play. And hey—congrats on the Celtics' interest. That's huge."
Green didn't join the greeting. He stood off to the side, spinning a ball on his fingertip, his gaze cold. To him, Travis wasn't just a new teammate; he was an intruder in the ecosystem, especially with the rumors swirling about Travis and Cherry.
The tension broke when Coach Benjamin's whistle shrieked through the hall. "Listen up! Principal Wilson has the tech crews coming in to rig the cameras for the broadcast. This championship is going global on the registry, so we're moving the scrimmage to the back gym. Let's go!"
The transition to the old gym felt like a step back in time—dimmer lights, tighter space, and a heat that built up quickly once the whistle blew.
The scrimmage turned into a battlefield. Travis, acting as captain for the Yellow team, called "Tails" on the coin toss and won the opening possession. But the "friendly" nature of the tryout evaporated within minutes. Green played with a chip on his shoulder, his defense bordering on assault. During a fast break, Green's elbow caught Travis square in the ribs, a "message" sent in the heat of the paint.
"What's going on with you two?" Coach Ben roared, stopping the clock as the players stood panting, sweat dripping onto the floor. He snapped his fingers sharply. "Is someone going to explain why my court looks like a street fight?"
Silence followed. Amole dapped his forehead with a towel, looking between his best friend and the newcomer. No one spoke until the game resumed. Even without Sam and Cherry in the stands to watch, the air was thick with the need to prove something. Louise, sitting solo in the front row, cheered for Amole, her green crop top flashing his name, but the real war was happening between the 1 and the 2 guards.
Despite Travis's hustle, Green's experience was undeniable. He bypassed Travis with a lightning-fast crossover, banked in a layup, and closed the game 22-10.
Later, in the steam-filled locker room, the bravado faded into exhaustion. Travis sat on the bench, dejected, his head in his hands. "I suck," he muttered. "I'm never going pro."
Amole, busy applying Fenty skin lotion to his massive shoulders, let out a huff. "Bro, stop. You're sulking over a scrimmage. Your highlight videos are lit—you've got the bounce."
"That's just because Sam only films my winning angles," Travis countered.
"Or maybe it's because you were too busy trying to ruin Green's day instead of playing your own game," Amole said, his voice dropping to a serious register. "Listen, I liked Cherry too. But I didn't sabotage my best friend over it. She's into you now. Take the win, man, and focus on the hoops."
Amole glanced over and saw Green heading for the exit. "Come on. Work this out."
They intercepted Green halfway to the door. The captain looked wary, his jaw set, but Travis stepped forward first, his hand extended.
"I don't want any beef, man," Travis said clearly. "It's about the game. The truth is... I enrolled here because of the program you built. I actually look up to your playstyle."
The admission caught Green off guard. The hardness in his eyes softened into genuine surprise. He took the hand, shaking it firmly before pulling Travis into a brief, respectful bro-hug.
"I had no idea," Green admitted, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Look, Cher is my homie. If you make her happy, we're good. Just don't let your game slack."
"Peace at last," Amole cheered, throwing a heavy arm around both of them. "Now that the drama is buried, Travis, you're driving. I am not walking to the lot when there's a G-Wagon waiting for us."