Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
I walked towards the gym, my kit bag feeling heavier than usual. The conversation with Alex replayed in my head, each word a fresh stab. Someone else kissed her. The thought was a cold, hard knot in my stomach. I felt cold inside, a hollow ache replacing the earlier anger. Why is this kind of shit even happening to me? All I had done was try to be good, to be supportive, to build something real. And this is what I get? A betrayal? No, not a betrayal by her, not really. But a violation nonetheless. A violation of us.
I finally reached the gym. The familiar squeak of sneakers and the rhythmic bounce of a basketball offered a sliver of solace. This was my world, the place where things made sense. Leo, David, and Patrick were already there, changed and waiting by the locker room entrance.
"There he is," Leo called out, though his usual grin was absent, replaced by a look of concern. "You alright, man?"
"Yeah, fine," I brushed it off, forcing a neutral expression. "Just first-day jitters, I guess."
"Jitters?" David asked, raising an eyebrow. "You don't get jitters, Brad. You give 'em."
They didn't seem entirely convinced, but they didn't push. Patrick just gave me a quiet, understanding nod, the kind that said he knew something was up but wouldn't pry.
"Just need to get on the court," I said, pushing past them into the locker room.
I changed into my kit, the familiar ritual a small comfort. But even as I laced up my sneakers, the cold knot in my stomach remained. I walked onto the court, ready to lose myself in the drills, to burn off the frustration and hurt. And then I saw them.
The seniors or at least, the guys who considered themselves the leaders of this defunct program. They weren't practicing. They were just… there. Two of them were sitting on the bench, scrolling through their phones. Another couple were making half-assed attempts at shots, laughing when they missed air balls. Two more were leaning against the wall, wearing just their jerseys over jeans, clearly having no intention of breaking a sweat. They were all talking among themselves, completely ignoring the fact that practice was supposed to have started ten minutes ago.
A different kind of rage, cold and sharp, began to build in me. This was the program I was supposed to rebuild? This apathy? This blatant disrespect for the game? This immensely pissed me off.
"Seriously?" I said, my voice cutting through their lazy chatter. They all looked up, surprised by the interruption. I confronted them. "Practice started ten minutes ago. What the hell is this?"
A tall kid with bleached blonde hair, presumably the captain, smirked. "Chill out, freshman. It's the first day. Coach isn't even here yet."
"I don't care if the coach is here," I shot back, stepping towards them. "This is our practice time. And you're wasting it. This is exactly why this team is a joke. This destitute state of the team is because of your lax attitude."
"Whoa, easy there, hotshot," another senior said, stepping forward.
"He's right," Leo chimed in, walking up to stand beside me. "You guys are pathetic. We won the junior high championship, and you guys probably couldn't even win a game against sixth graders."
David and Patrick moved up behind us, a silent show of solidarity.
The seniors bristled, their lazy amusement turning to anger. The blonde captain stepped right up to me, puffing out his chest. "Listen here, freshman," he snarled, trying to use his height to intimidate me. "You don't come in here on your first day and start telling us how things are gonna be. Know your place."
"Yeah," another one added, sneering at Leo. "You little shits shouldn't go around thinking too highly of yourselves just 'cause you won some kiddie league trophy."
Normally, I would have handled this strategically. Used logic. Exposed their weaknesses. But I wasn't feeling right. The raw, wounded feeling from my conversation with Alex was still simmering just beneath the surface. His dismissive tone, the word "kiddie league"... it was the spark that lit the fuse.
"Kiddie league?" I repeated, my voice dangerously low. "We worked our asses off for that trophy. While you clowns were probably sitting around comparing hair gel." My control snapped. "Get the fuck off my court if you're not going to take this seriously!"
The blonde kid shoved me hard. "What did you just say, you little prick?!"
That was it. The dam broke. All the hurt, the confusion, the rage from the entire day exploded outwards. I shoved him back, harder. "I said get the FUCK out!"
The shove ignited the powder keg. The gym exploded into chaos. It wasn't a structured fight; it was a messy, desperate brawl. The seniors took immediate advantage of their bigger builds and size. Fists flew. A sharp pain exploded above my eye as knuckles connected with my face. I stumbled back, trying to regain my footing, but another senior caught me with a kick to the ribs that knocked the wind out of me.
I could see Leo and Patrick struggling, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers and strength difference. David was able to hold his own, his massive frame a bulwark against two seniors, but even he was being pushed back. The sheer number of seniors versus the four of us meant we were getting beat. I took another punch to the gut, doubling over, tasting blood in my mouth. My vision swam. The raw, ugly violence was a stark contrast to the controlled aggression of the court. This was just… pathetic.
"STOP THIS! AT ONCE!"
The voice cut through the chaos like a whip crack. It was someone new, someone whose authority was immediate and absolute. The punches stopped mid-air. The seniors, breathing heavily, froze, their angry expressions instantly replaced by a wary, almost fearful recognition. They immediately seemed to recognize the voice. They stepped back from us, dusting themselves off, suddenly looking like scolded children instead of aggressors.
I pushed myself up, wiping blood from my lip, and looked toward the entrance. There stood a person wearing a loose grey jumpsuit, casually spinning a basketball on his finger. At first, I thought this might be the coach, maybe a new assistant. But on closer look, I saw that it was another student. He was African American, lean and wiry, maybe a year or two older than us. His hair was styled in long dreadlocks that fell past his shoulders, the tips frosted in a shade of deep red. Silver rings glinted from piercings on his ears. He carried himself with an air of absolute, unshakeable confidence.
The seniors immediately obeyed and lined up almost militarily. The blonde kid, the one who had started it, went up to him, gesturing towards us, his voice a low, urgent murmur. I couldn't hear the exact words, but the body language was clear – he was framing the narrative to make us look like the instigators.
"That's bullshit!" I spat, stepping forward despite the throbbing pain in my ribs. "They were lounging around, disrespecting practice time! We called them out, and they jumped us!"
The figure with the dreadlocks slowly turned his gaze towards me. His eyes were dark, calculating. Before he could speak, the blonde senior, emboldened by the presence of his apparent leader, acted. He snatched the ball the figure was holding and threw it hard, right at my face.
Instinct took over. My hands shot up, a blur of motion honed by thousands of hours of drills. I dashed the ball away from myself, sending it skittering across the floor. But the sheer audacity of the action left me shocked. Who the hell was this guy?
The figure with the dreadlocks didn't react to his subordinate's aggression. He just took a slow step towards me, his expression unreadable. "When seniors are talking," he said, his voice quiet but carrying an immense weight, "the freshmen are supposed to stay quiet. If Mike hadn't thrown the ball I would have. Now shut the fuck up" He placed his index finger to his lips in a 'shhh' gesture, his eyes locking onto mine.
I felt a fresh surge of rage, hot and defiant, but the look in his eyes, the absolute certainty of his power, kept me silent. I was fuming but chose to stay silent.
"Damien we gotta teach this little up jumped shits a lesson man" said the blonde senior.
After the blonde kid finished his biased briefing, the figure—I now knew to be Damien—looked at me and the others. "So," he said, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. "You're the new blood? The junior high champs? Think you're hot shit?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and addressed the seniors, his voice becoming sharper. "This team has a hierarchy. It's built on one thing: how good you play." He then turned around to look at us as gestured loosely at the seniors. "As long as you satisfy the one at the top, the rest of you can do as you please." Damien then pointed a finger at himself. "I reign supreme. So, I allow them to do as they please. Understand?"
His arrogance, his blatant endorsement of the seniors' pathetic behavior, coupled with the lingering hurt from Alex and the physical pain from the fight… it all coalesced into a single, burning point of defiance. Screw the hierarchy. Screw his rules.
"That's the stupidest damn system I've ever heard," I said, my voice cutting through the tense silence.
Damien turned back to me, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. The amusement was gone, replaced by something predatory. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," I shot back, meeting his gaze without flinching. "A team built on letting slackers slack off isn't a team. It's a joke."
The gym was dead silent. Even Leo looked shocked by my direct challenge. Damien walks up to pick the ball. He then looks at me.
Damien's smile widened, turning feral. "Alright, hotshot. You wanna challenge the system? You challenge me." He bounced the ball once, the sound sharp and definitive. "It's on. One-on-one. First person who reaches ten baskets, wins. Winner takes the number one spot on the team. Loser shuts the hell up. You in?"
"I'm in," I said without hesitation.
The gym was silent except for the low buzz of the overhead lights and the echo of Damien's challenge hanging in the air. My ribs throbbed where the senior had kicked me, and I could feel the skin around my eye starting to swell. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the raw, festering wound left by Alex's confession and my own subsequent, ugly reaction. Damien's arrogance, his dismissive attitude, the sheer disrespect... it was the perfect outlet.
"I'm in," I repeated, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.
Damien smirked, that same feral smile I'd seen before. "Good." He tossed me the ball. "Your ball first. Half court. Let's see what the junior high MVP's got."
I took the ball, the familiar texture a small comfort. Leo and the others watched from the sideline, their expressions a mix of concern and anticipation. I dribbled slowly, sizing Damien up. He was lean, wiry, but moved with a coiled, predatory grace. His eyes were locked on the ball, intense and unblinking.
Okay. Let's start this.
I exploded forward, driving hard to the right. Damien mirrored me, his footwork quick and precise. I planted my foot, faked a crossover, and then stepped back behind the three-point line. He hadn't expected the range. He was a fraction of a second too slow closing out. I caught him off guard and rose up, the shot clean and pure. Swish.
"Yeah, Brad!" Leo yelled from the sideline. The cheer was a small balm on the raw wound inside me.
Damien just retrieved the ball, his expression unchanged. "Lucky shot," he muttered, passing it back to me.
I brought the ball up again. This time, he was closer, respecting the shot. I actioned for another three, rising up as if to shoot. Damien closed the gap instantly, his hand right in my face, leaving very little space. Okay, plan B. Instead of forcing the shot, I leaned back mid-air, creating separation, and transitioned into a fadeaway jumper, adding just enough arc to clear his outstretched fingers. Swish. Another three.
I began to feel confident now. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard. Maybe his reputation was overblown.
On the next roll, I went in for a layup. I hit him with my signature ankle breaker, a sharp, violent crossover that sent him stumbling backward, momentarily losing his balance. The lane was open. I drove hard, gathering the ball, rising towards the rim for what should have been an easy two points.
And then, impossibly, he was there.
He had recovered with inhuman speed. Damien came in running from behind me as he jumped high, his arm seeming to stretch forever. Just as the ball left my fingertips, heading for the backboard, his hand enveloped it, literally snatching the ball from me while I was still mid-jump in my layup. We landed almost simultaneously, him holding the ball, me looking up in utter disbelief.
This shocked me. No one had ever done that to me before.
Damien looked at me, spinning the ball casually on his finger. "I gave you the head start," he said, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. "Now we play for real."
He took the ball back to the half-court line. His dribble was low, hypnotic. He moved with a deceptive slowness, then exploded past me with a speed I couldn't match. I scrambled to recover, running up to defend against him, but he just pulled up at the elbow and downed a fadeaway two-pointer, the shot effortless.
Okay. This was real.
On the next roll, I used my fast, aligned crossover to get past Damien, but even though I created space, he was able to follow me, delayed but still there. He forced me into a tougher shot than I wanted, a running floater that rimmed out. He secured the rebound with ease.
Slowly but surely, I realized that Damien was very skilled. He wasn't just athletic; he was smart. He read my moves, anticipated my fakes. And he was definitely better at getting rebounds.
The match continued, a grueling back-and-forth. I was able to land points, a tough jumper here, a driving layup there when I managed to slip past him. But Damien was able to disrupt me constantly. His playstyle was suffocating. He effectively shut down my three-point plays, forcing me to make space or drive into the paint, where his length and timing made every layup a gamble. Some were successful, but many were blocked.
Being a point guard, I was unable to use the full range of my skills without teammates. My passes had no target. My screens were useless. It was just me against him, raw talent against raw talent, and he was exposing the limitations of my one-on-one game. Damien took advantage of this.
Throughout the match, I grew frustrated. The physical exertion, the mental strain, and the constant feeling of being outplayed started to wear on me. And being alone on the court, stripped of my team, my usual support system... it reminded me of how alone I felt after the fight with Alex. The images flooded my mind again: Alex kissing that boy, her telling me to leave, the empty chair next to me in class. My focus fractured. My resolve wavered. I started making mistakes—a sloppy dribble, a forced shot, a lazy closeout.
Damien capitalized on every single error. He scored again. And again. The gap widened.
Finally, the match ended. He hit a final, uncontested jumper. He had scored 20 points. I was stuck at 16.
He walked over to me, his expression unreadable. "You lost," he stated, point blank. "Stay the fuck out of my way and obey my orders. Absolutely. Are we clear hotshot ?"
I was shocked by the bluntness, the finality of it. But I had challenged him. I had lost. I accepted the outcome. I just nodded, too tired and too beaten down to argue.
He studied me for a moment, then, surprisingly, a flicker of something that might have been respect entered his eyes. "But you're good," Damien then praised me. "Easily the next best player here after me. So you can do as you please, so long as it's not contrary to what I've ordered."
Damien then left the court, telling everyone else, "Leave. Or do whatever the fuck you want. I don't care."
The seniors started laughing, relief and mockery on their faces as they looked at me and my friends. But before they could get too comfortable, Damien spun around, grabbed the ball, and threw it hard, hitting the blonde senior, Steve, square in the face. Steve stumbled back, clutching his nose as blood started to flow.
"Fuck off, Steve," Damien snarled. He glared at the stunned senior. "The kid's better than you'll ever be. So, you have no right or power over him. Understand?" Steve just nodded dumbly, fear replacing his earlier anger. Damien then finally left, disappearing into the locker room.
The gym was silent again. My friends surrounded me. "You okay, man?" Leo asked, his voice full of concern.
"Yeah," I lied, my voice hoarse. I could feel the bruises on my ribs forming, my eye swelling up. "I'll be fine. But I need to go home for now." I looked at them, seeing their own cuts and bruises from the earlier brawl. "You guys take rest as well. Get healed up."
I picked up my bag and walked away, leaving them standing there. I was reeling from the loss, the physical pain, and the emotional hurt, all of it coalescing inside me into a heavy, suffocating weight. Tears began forming in my eyes as I kept my head down while walking towards the car. I had never suffered this level of humiliation ever.