Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
The atmosphere was different today. The air felt thinner, sharper. The chaotic noise of forty kids trying out was gone, replaced by the echoing silence of a chosen few. The list had been posted. The tears had been shed. The fat had been trimmed.
Only eleven of us remained.
Coach Casey Jones stood at center court. He wasn't wearing his usual track pants and t-shirt. Today, he was in full coaching gear—grey sweats, a whistle around his neck, and a clipboard in his hand that looked like it contained the nuclear launch codes.
"Line up," Casey barked. He didn't shout; his voice just carried, filling the corners of the room.
We shuffled to the baseline. Leo was sporting a purple bruise on his cheekbone, but he grinned at me. Patrick had a split lip but looked more focused than I'd ever seen him. David loomed like a tower, his knuckles wrapped in white tape.
"Look to your left," Casey commanded. "Look to your right."
We did. I saw Steve, looking nervous but present. I saw Damien, sitting on the bench with his ankle elevated but holding a medicine ball like a weapon. I saw Packerd, the clumsy giant, and Charlie, the shooter with the anxiety issues. I saw the Gonzalez twins, bouncing on their toes.
"This is it," Casey said, walking down the line. "The honeymoon is over. Yesterday, I tested you. Today, I break you down so I can build you back up."
He stopped in front of me. "Naird, you think you're fast? You're not fast enough. David, you think you're strong? You're weak in the hips. Steve..." Casey sighed. "Steve, we're going to find out if you have a soul."
Casey blew his whistle. "Station work! I have designed specific hells for each of you based on your deficiencies. Check the whiteboard. You have thirty seconds to get to your station. Go!"
We scrambled.
I ran to the whiteboard. My name was next to Station 1: Contact Stability.
I looked over. Station 1 was just Casey holding a heavy blocking pad used for football tackles.
"Let's go, Naird!" Casey yelled. "Grab a ball!"
I grabbed a basketball and sprinted over.
"Here's the drill," Casey said, crouching into a defensive stance. "You're going to dribble the length of the court. I am going to hit you. If you lose the handle, you do ten burpees. If you stop moving, you do ten burpees. If you cry, you go home."
"I don't cry," I reminded him, getting into my stance.
"Drive!"
I exploded forward. I kept the ball low, my eyes up. As soon as I crossed the free-throw line, Casey lunged. He didn't tap me; he slammed the heavy pad into my shoulder.
Wham.
The impact jarred my teeth. My Agility stat fired, helping me keep my balance, but the sheer mass of Casey nearly knocked me off my line. I stumbled, the ball getting loose for a fraction of a second before I reeled it back in.
"Weak!" Casey shouted, turning to chase me. "Again! Absorb the contact! Use your core!"
I turned at the baseline and drove back. This time, when Casey swung the pad, I didn't just brace; I leaned into it. I lowered my shoulder, meeting his force with my own momentum.
Thud.
I bounced off, but the ball stayed glued to my hand.
"Better!" Casey grunted. "Again!"
For twenty minutes, he battered me. My arms burned, my core screamed, but I started to find the rhythm. I learned to lower my center of gravity at the moment of impact, turning my body into a wedge rather than a wall.
"Switch!" Casey yelled.
I rotated to Station 2, where David was currently gasping for air.
I looked at what David was doing. Casey had rigged a heavy sled—usually used by the football team—with 45-pound plates.
"Explosion, David!" Casey roared from across the court. "Don't push with your arms! Drive with your hips!"
David was bent low, his massive legs churning, veins popping in his neck as he pushed the metal sled across the hardwood. The friction was immense.
"It's... heavy..." David wheezed.
"So is the center you're going to box out in the playoffs!" Casey countered. "Move it!"
I watched David. He was relying on his upper body strength, his back bowing.
"David!" I called out as I grabbed a jump rope for my active rest. "Drop your butt! Drive through your heels! It's a squat, not a bench press!"
David adjusted, dropping his hips. Suddenly, the sled moved smoother, the power transferring from his glutes to the floor. He grunted, a primal sound, and drove it to the baseline.
"Good!" Casey acknowledged. "Naird, get on the Plyo boxes!"
I moved to the boxes. Casey had set up a gauntlet of three boxes increasing in height—24 inches, 30 inches, 36 inches.
"Depth jumps!" Casey instructed. "Step off, land, explode up immediately. Minimum ground contact time. I want you to be a spring, not a sandbag."
I stepped off the first box. I hit the floor and instantly sprang up to the next one. Bang-pop-bang. It was all about the Achilles reflex. My Vertical was already high, but this was about speed of elevation.
While I jumped, I watched Steve.
Poor Steve.
Casey had put him on the "Suicide Ladder." Steve had to run to the free-throw line, do five pushups, run back. Half court, ten situps, run back. Far free-throw line, fifteen jumping jacks, run back. Full court, twenty mountain climbers.
"I can't... breathe..." Steve gasped, collapsing at half court.
"Your lungs are lying to you!" Casey shouted, not unkindly. "Get up, Steve. Walking is quitting. Jogging is resting. Get up!"
Steve groaned, rolled over, and forced himself up. I saw Patrick, who was doing defensive slides with resistance bands around his ankles, slow down to watch.
"Don't look at him, Pat!" I yelled mid-jump. "Focus on your feet! You're crossing your ankles!"
Patrick snapped his head back, correcting his stance. He was fighting the burn, his face a mask of grim determination. He wasn't the most athletic guy on the court anymore, but Casey was right—his gas tank was bottomless. He just kept going.
And then there was Damien.
Even injured, he wasn't spared. Casey had him sitting on a plyo box, his left leg extended and protected. In his hands were two heavy battle ropes.
"Waves!" Casey ordered. "Don't stop until your arms fall off!"
Damien was whipping the ropes, sending heavy undulations down the length. His dreads were flying, his teeth gritted. He was staring at the wall like he wanted to punch a hole in it. Every slam of the rope was anger leaving his body—anger at the injury, anger at the situation.
"Faster, Damien!" Casey challenged. "Is that all you got?"
Damien roared, doubling his speed, the ropes becoming a blur.
"Time!" Casey blew the whistle.
We all collapsed. Packerd lay flat on his back. The Gonzalez twins were leaning on each other. I put my hands on my knees, sweat dripping from my nose onto the polished floor.
Casey walked among us, looking like he hadn't even broken a sweat.
"Water break," he announced. "Three minutes. Then we scrimmaging defensive rotations. If you can't move your feet when you're this tired, you can't play for me."
I grabbed my water bottle, my hand shaking slightly. It was brutal. It was excessive.
It was exactly what we needed.
…
The drive from the school to my house was quiet, mostly because Leo, Patrick, and David were too exhausted to speak. Coach Casey's "conditioning introduction" had been exactly as advertised—a physical dismantling designed to reboot our systems.
We pulled into the driveway. We parked, and the guys spilled out, groaning as their sore muscles protested the movement.
"Home sweet fortress," Leo muttered, grabbing his gym bag. He walked up the path like he owned the place, bypassing the front door entirely to head for the side gate. "If your mom didn't stock those blue Gatorades in the outdoor fridge, Brad, I think I'd resign from the friendship."
"She stocked them," I said, leading the way. "Try not to drink them all before we start."
David followed, ducking instinctively under the low hanging branch of the oak tree near the garage—a hazard he'd learned about the hard way two weekends ago. "I don't need Gatorade," he grunted. "I need a wheelchair. Or a new pair of legs."
Patrick brought up the rear, his face set in a grimace. "Casey is a sadist," he stated factually. "Effective. But a sadist."
We rounded the corner to the backyard. The "Sanctuary"—my court with the glass backboard and stadium lighting—sat waiting for us. It wasn't a shock to them anymore. They had spent almost every weekend here since the team formed, grinding out drills, playing 2-on-2, and arguing over fouls.
This was our second home.
Leo threw his bag onto his usual patio chair and immediately raided the mini-fridge built into the outdoor kitchen. He tossed a bottle to David and one to Patrick before cracking his own.
"Okay, Captain," Leo said, taking a long swig and wiping his mouth. "Casey killed our bodies. I assume you dragged us here to kill our brains?"
"Casey is building the engine," I said, walking onto the court and picking up a ball from the rack. "I'm tuning the transmission. We have the raw power now. But power is useless if we don't know how to apply it."
I dribbled to the top of the key, the familiar thump-thump of the ball on the high-quality surface centering me.
"Shoes on," I ordered. "We're going over the Pick and Roll geometry. Again."
David groaned as he laced up his high-tops. "Brad, we run P&R every weekend. It's the bread and butter."
"And every weekend, you set the screen flat," I corrected him. "Against the scrubs in the park, it works. Against Open Division teams? They'll slide under it and steal the ball before I even dribble."
I waved them onto the court. "David, set a screen for me. Leo, defend me. Patrick, you guard David. Go."
They moved into the familiar formation. David jogged up, planting his feet next to Leo. I waited for the contact, then drove left. Leo fought over the screen. Patrick hedged hard. I dumped the pass to David on the roll. He caught it and laid it in.
"Sloppy," I critiqued immediately, catching the ball out of the net.
"It went in!" David argued.
"Because Patrick is tired and Leo is giving you respect," I countered. "David, look at your feet."
I walked over and kicked the toe of his sneaker gently. "You're pointing at the sideline. That's a ninety-degree angle. It makes for a wide target, but it's easy to slip."
I grabbed his massive shoulders and twisted him. "Aim your butt at the corner of the backboard. Angle your hips at forty-five degrees. When you set this, you're not just an obstacle; you're a wedge."
I looked at Leo. "And you. You're giving him too much space before the screen hits. You need to be in his jersey. If I can see the logo on your chest, you're not guarding me close enough."
"If I get closer, you blow past me," Leo pointed out.
"That's where trust comes in," I said. "Trust that David is going to be there to stop me. Force me into him."
We ran it again. And again.
I watched David's adjustment. He started initiating the contact earlier, "headhunting" the defender rather than waiting for the defender to come to him.
Thud.
Leo ran right into David's shoulder. It stopped him dead.
"Damn, David!" Leo wheezed, rubbing his chest. "You're made of concrete."
"Roll!" I shouted.
David spun off the contact, diving to the rim. I threaded a pocket pass between Patrick's outstretched arms. David caught it in stride.
"Better," I said. "Now, we complicate it."
I signaled Patrick over. "We're running the Spain Pick and Roll."
Patrick's eyes lit up. We had watched film on this in my living room last Sunday, but we hadn't drilled it live yet. "Screen the screener," he said, nodding.
"Exactly," I explained. "High school defenses rely on helping the helper. When David rolls, Patrick's man is going to sink into the paint to stop the layup. That's the weak point."
I positioned them. "David sets the high screen for me. As he rolls, Patrick, you come from the low block and set a back-screen on David's defender."
"It's nasty," Leo commented, looking at the layout. "If I get stuck on David, and David's defender gets stuck on Patrick... who guards the rim?"
"Nobody," I grinned. "Or, if they panic and switch everything, Patrick pops to the three-point line. Wide open."
"Let's walk through it," David said, wiping sweat from his forehead.
We ran it at half speed.
Screen. I drove right. Roll. David dove to the hoop. Back-screen. David caught the pass and finished with a layup.
"Again," I ordered. "Full speed."
We drilled the Spain P&R for thirty minutes. The timing was tricky. If Patrick arrived too late, David would be called for a charge. If he arrived too early, the defense would adjust.
I watched Patrick. He wasn't the fastest, but his timing was impeccable. He understood the rhythm. He knew exactly when to plant his feet to catch the trailing defender.
"Patrick, pop out this time!" I called.
We ran it. David rolled. Patrick set the screen, then immediately flared to the corner. I drove, drew the imaginary help defense, and whipped a no-look pass to the corner.
Patrick caught it, set his feet, and fired.
Swish.
"That's a dagger," Leo cheered, high-fiving Patrick. "That play is going to ruin people."
"Only if we execute," I reminded them. "Water break. Five minutes. Then we do the 4-Man Spacing."
We retreated to the sidelines. The sun had fully set now, and the court lights were humming, casting sharp shadows on the court. It felt intimate, just the four of us in our own world, away from the school politics and the drama.
David sat on the hardwood, stretching his hamstrings. "You really think Casey is going to let us run this stuff?"
"He wants to win," I said, sitting on the bench and spinning the ball. "He'll let us run whatever puts points on the board. The conditioning he's doing? That's just so we have the legs to run this kind of motion in the fourth quarter when the other team is gasping for air."
"Speaking of gasping," Leo groaned, "I think I left my lung at the gym today."
"Get up," I said, standing. "4-Man Spacing. The Whirlpool."
We got back on court.
"This isn't a set play," I instructed, moving to the top of the key. "This is a philosophy. When the play breaks down—when the Spain roll fails, when the transition is stopped—we don't stand still."
I placed Leo on the wing, Patrick in the corner, and David in the low post.
"If I drive and get stopped, I kick it to Leo. The moment the ball leaves my hand, I don't watch. I cut."
I passed to Leo and sprinted through the lane to the opposite corner.
"Patrick, you fill my spot at the top. David, you flash to the high post."
We rotated. The spacing remained perfect, a diamond shape shifting around the perimeter.
"Pass and cut," I yelled. "Pass and cut. Don't let the ball stick."
We moved. It was clunky at first. David clogged the lane twice. Leo forgot to fill the empty spot. But slowly, the rhythm took over.
Pass to Patrick. Patrick drives, kicks to David. David posts up, passes out to me. I swing to Leo.
We were creating a vortex.
"Faster!" I pushed them. "The defense reacts to the ball. If the ball moves faster than they can think, they make mistakes."
I watched them. David was moving better than he had a month ago—Casey's sled work was already translating to his explosiveness. Leo was keeping his head up, seeing the floor. Patrick was the glue, always in the right spot, always ready to reset.
We ran the weave until our chests were heaving and our shirts were soaked through.
"Hold!" I called out, catching the ball at the top of the key.
They stopped, hands on knees, looking at me. They were exhausted. They were battered. But their eyes were bright.
"We look good," I told them, feeling a surge of pride. "Really good."
"We look tired," David corrected, but he was smiling.
"We look like a team that's going to shock the hell out of Division III," Patrick said, wiping his face with his jersey.
"Same time tomorrow?" Leo asked, reaching for another Gatorade.
"Practice at school first," I reminded him. "Then here."
"We're gonna live at your house, aren't we?" Leo sighed.
"Until we win State," I said. "Yeah. You pretty much are."
David stood up and grabbed his bag. "I call the shower first."
"In your dreams, big man," Leo shouted, sprinting for the back door of the house. "I'm smaller, I'm faster!"
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Will release the rest in sometime along with the first chapter of the new fic. I hope you support it. The poll will be live on the patreon by tomorrow you can then vote on whether you want chapters of this fic or not.