Gym
The atmosphere inside the gym was different; that's what Aaron thought as he walked out with his uniform already on. Inside, the air was heavy with a sharp smell of accumulated sweat, floor wax, and the undeniable electricity of competition. It wasn't just any practice; it was the official start of the road to the CHSAA championship.
"BASELINE! NOW!"
Coach Joe Arbitello's shout echoed as loud as thunder, making the more than twenty young men present stop shooting balls immediately. The sound of bouncing balls ceased abruptly, replaced by the rapid tapping of sneakers against the hardwood.
Aaron, calmly, walked with long strides toward the line. Beside him, Drew looked like he was living a nightmare. His friend's face still had a pale tint, and his eyes reflected the panic of someone who knows his body is about to be pushed to the brink of collapse.
"Dude... I think I'm going to die before the warm-up even ends," Drew whispered, his voice trembling as he lined up next to his friend.
Aaron, without looking away from the coach, responded in a low voice: "Breathe through your nose and exhale through your mouth. Keep the rhythm; don't try to win the sprint, just survive."
In front of them, Coach Arbitello walked back and forth like a general reviewing his troops. His gaze stopped for an extra second on Aaron, evaluating his 6'7'' frame. Beside him, his assistants, including Artie, held stopwatches and clipboards with stone-faced expressions.
"On my team, we don't give away minutes," Arbitello began, his voice cutting like a knife. "I don't care if you're a fourth-year veteran or a rookie who thinks he's the next Jordan or Kobe. If you don't run, you don't play. SUICIDES! NOW!"
FIIIIIIIIIT!
The sound of the whistle marked the start of the torture.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
The sound of Aaron's new sneakers, the Nike Air Max Stats, was music to his ears. At the first step, he felt perfect traction against the polished wood. Aaron shot forward. He wasn't the fastest in terms of pure speed, but his wide stride while running covered the ground with terrifying efficiency.
He reached the free-throw line, touched the floor—Plaf—and returned. Then half-court, then the opposite baseline. While the other players already began to pant and lose their form in their run, Aaron moved with precision and consistency. Meanwhile, his mind was elsewhere, analyzing his teammates.
To his right, he could see that Maurice was running with ease. He didn't seem to be pushing himself; he simply floated over the court, always maintaining the first position. A bit further back, Roland was giving his all, his face red from the effort, casting hateful glares at Aaron's back every time they crossed paths.
"LET'S GO, REED! MY GRANDMA MOVES FASTER THAN YOU!" shouted one of the assistants passing by Aaron's side.
Aaron didn't respond. He knew the coaches shouted to see who would break mentally. He kept running.
Pum, pum, pum. His heartbeat synchronized with his steps.
By the fifth set of suicides, the gym was filled with sounds of agony.
"Ugh... I can't...!" a freshman was heard collapsing near the sideline. The coaches didn't even look at him. Drew, for his part, was in his own world of pain. His knees shook and sweat poured down his forehead like a waterfall, but to Aaron's surprise, he didn't stop. Drew remembered Sunday's game, he remembered the practice and how Aaron dominated the game yesterday, and that kept him moving.
Finally, after thirty minutes of pure physical conditioning that left half the group dizzy, Arbitello blew the whistle again.
"Water! You have sixty seconds! If anyone vomits, do it off the court," the coach sentenced.
Aaron walked toward his water bottle, feeling the heat emanating from his muscles. He felt good. His body was responding better than he expected to the workload. He took a long sip of fresh water—Glup, glup—and felt life returning to his fibers.
While he wiped the sweat with his towel, he felt a presence beside him. It was Maurice, who was looking at him with an indecipherable expression as if he were analyzing him while drinking from his own bottle.
"Not bad," Maurice finally said. It wasn't a compliment; it was an observation. "But running is easy. Now we'll see if you know what to do with the ball when any of us are on top of you," as he pointed with his hand to the rest of the Varsity team who were drinking water and resting.
Aaron simply nodded, holding his gaze. "I'm looking forward to it."
Maurice let out a short, dry laugh as if mocking him and walked away. Aaron knew that was the start of the real challenge. It wasn't about Maurice; it was about getting noticed and making them see why he was there.
That moment came minutes later when the trial began.
The trial by fire: 1 vs 1
After the break, the gym was divided into stations. Coach Arbitello stood in the center circle and pointed to two people.
"Roland! Reed! To the center. Let's see which of you two deserves to be the starting power forward for the team."
A murmur ran through the gym. The players who were practicing shots on the side baskets stopped to watch. Roland stepped forward, beating his chest and stretching his neck. He had an arrogant smile. For him, this was the perfect opportunity to humiliate the new kid in front of everyone and secure his spot in the starting five.
"I'm going to teach you how we play on this team, kid," Roland whispered as he received the ball from the coach.
Aaron got into a defensive stance. He flexed his knees, lowered his center of gravity, and extended his long arms. His gaze was focused and fixed on the ball in Roland's hand. Meanwhile, his sneakers gripped the wood.
"Go ahead," Aaron said with a voice so calm it was unsettling.
Roland began to dribble. Pum, pum, pum. He tried a quick change of direction between his legs, trying to destabilize Aaron, but he didn't move or flinch at that. Aaron had his gaze fixed on the ball, analyzing every one of Roland's movements and the bounce of the ball in his hands.
Frustrated by not getting space, Roland decided to use force. He turned, giving his back to Aaron, and began to bump into him, trying to push him toward the low post.
Boom. Roland crashed into Aaron's chest. Although he moved slightly, he couldn't get the sufficient space he sought.
Boom. He tried again, applying more force, but Aaron maintained his position, while keeping his firmness and preventing Roland from reaching the hoop easily.
"Is that all?" Aaron provoked.
Roland, being furious, made a quick spin to his right and jumped for a layup. He was sure speed would give him the advantage. He rose into the air, extending the ball toward the hoop.
But then, a shadow loomed over him, blocking his path to the rim.
Aaron jumped. It wasn't just any jump; it was an explosion of power. His right hand rose into the air, surpassing the height of the rim.
PAF!
The sound of the block was so loud it echoed throughout the gym. Aaron not only blocked the ball but slammed it against the backboard with enough force that the ball ended up bouncing to mid-court. Roland fell to the floor on his back, looking up in total incredulity.
The silence in the gym was absolute. Not even the coaches said anything for three seconds.
"My turn," Aaron said, picking up the ball as it returned to him.
Now it was Aaron's turn on offense. Roland got up quickly, his face red with shame and rage. He stuck to Aaron, trying to use his physical advantage, even illegally throwing elbows, but Aaron ignored him as if it were nothing.
Aaron gave a hard bounce to his left—Pum—and then made a devastating crossover to the right. Roland, desperate to keep up with the rhythm, lost his balance and his sneakers slipped, ending with one knee on the floor.
Aaron had a clear path. But instead of a simple layup, he decided to send a message. He took two powerful steps, jumped from the block line, and soared. His hands gripped the ball firmly.
POOOM!
Aaron slammed the ball down with a two-handed dunk that made the backboard vibrate violently. The sound of the rim shaking was all that remained in the air.
Aaron landed softly, without celebrating, and returned the ball to Coach Arbitello.
"Not bad," the coach murmured, frantically noting something in his notebook. "Next pair."
As training continued with 3-on-3 drills, the gym doors opened again. A group of girls with short skirts and pom-poms in their hands filed into the other end of the court. They were the Royals' cheerleaders.
In the group, Meghan stood out in her white and gold uniform. Her black hair was pulled back into a perfect ponytail. As soon as she entered, her gaze searched for Aaron. When she found him, she gave him a flirtatious smile and a small wink before starting her warm-up routine.
"Hey, Aaron! Look at that..." whispered Drew, who was catching his breath near him. "I think your 'girlfriend' wants your attention." He finished by making air quotes with his hands.
Aaron looked at Meghan for a second, seeing her perform a flip with impeccable grace. It was an impressive sight, no doubt. However, out of the corner of his eye, Aaron noticed something else.
Coach Arbitello was watching him. He wasn't watching the game; he was staring at Aaron as if he were analyzing his character.
Aaron took a deep breath and turned his head, giving his back to the cheerleaders.
"Drew, concentrate. If you look at the girls instead of your mark, the coach will kick you out of here," Aaron said sternly.
Meghan, noticing that Aaron was ignoring her completely, pursed her lips in annoyance. She was used to all eyes being on her, especially those of the boys in her year. The fact that Aaron didn't even look at her twice hurt her pride.
Practice ended two hours later with a series of free throws. Aaron scored his ten shots without touching the rim with terrifying precision—Swish, swish, swish.
At the end, the players gathered in the center. They were all soaked in sweat, with red faces and burning muscles, but there was a sense of achievement in the air.
"Today you've shown that you have the drive," Arbitello said, this time with a less aggressive but equally firm tone. "But tomorrow will be worse. Study your plays. Reed, good job today, but don't relax. Roland, if you let a freshman break your ankles again, I'll put you on the bench without looking back."
The boys let out a nervous laugh and began heading to the locker room.
Aaron stayed on the court a moment longer, looking at the hoop. He felt the adrenaline slowly fading. It had been a good first day.
"Don't think you've won yet, kid," a deep voice said.
Aaron turned and saw Maurice. This time, they were alone while the rest of the players were already dressing in the locker rooms.
"That didn't cross my mind," Aaron said curtly, undeterred by Maurice.
"Just because you defeated Roland once doesn't mean anything," Maurice continued speaking with a threatening tone in his voice.
"Copy that," Aaron replied, rolling his eyes at Maurice's useless attempt at a threat.
Maurice, seeing that his attempt at intimidation had failed, clicked his tongue and left. Aaron picked up his backpack and walked toward the exit. He knew this was only the beginning. The CHSAA season was just around the corner, and he was ready to dominate it.
Authors thought's
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I've been reading your comments and noticed some of you mentioned the Knicks. That wouldn't be possible because they didn't have a 2014 pick due to the Carmelo Anthony trade. If you want them to draft Aaron, they'd have to give up even more picks (like 2016, 2018, or even 2020) and players—maybe even Carmelo himself. So, would you still want Aaron to go to the Knicks?
If that's the case, it's possible, but he would face much more difficulty in the league.