“Go!”
I explode off the line, pushing my body to its limits. Touch the free-throw line, back to baseline. Touch half-court, back to baseline. Touch the far free-throw line, back to baseline. Touch the far baseline, back to baseline. One suicide down, four to go.
By the third set, half the team is dragging ass, some even puking in trash cans along the sidelines. Weaklings, puke if you have to but then get back to it. Push through the pain, it’s all fucking mental, anyway. You have to have ultimate control overyour body and how it reacts. We’re wrapping up the final suicide when coach yells.
“Water break! Two minutes!”
I grab my bottle, squeezing water into my mouth and over my head. Across the court, Asher is doubled over, hands on his knees.
“You good?” I ask him, not because I give a shit, but because I need him functional for the season.
“Fuck you,” he pants, which means he's fine.
Cassian saunters over, somehow looking composed despite the sweat drenching his practice jersey. “Blond isn’t really his type, Ash,” he says, smirking.
Coach's whistle blasts again before I can respond, which is good because I was about to put Cassian through the fucking wall.
“Five-on-five! Black team—Devereux, Crawford, Miller, Zhang, Rodriguez. Red team—Crowe, Jefferson, Watkins, Parker, Hernandez. Let's go!”
I take my position at point guard, dribbling the ball slowly as I survey the court. The familiar rhythm centers me, gives my energy somewhere to go.
The court is my kingdom, and for a few blessed minutes, I lose myself in the game. Cassian guards me tight, his defense always a challenge worth meeting. I fake left, drive right, and break past him to slam the ball through the hoop with enough force to make the backboard shudder.
“That's what I'm fucking talking about!” Coach bellows, actually looking pleased for once.
We're up by six when the gym doors swing open, letting in a blast of cooler air and the high-pitched chatter of female voices. My concentration doesn't break—I intercept a pass from Jefferson to Watkins without even turning my head—but I clock the interruption. A group of girls filters into the bleachers,giggling and whispering like they're at a goddamn slumber party. Any other time and I’d enjoy the attention, it feeds my fucking ego even if I’d never touch any of them. I don’t shit where I eat.
I recognize the three bitches from hell—Blake, Bosworth, and Whitney—perched in the front row. They've changed out of their uniforms into tight tops and shorter skirts, perfume practically visible as it wafts across the court. You’d think with the amount of money their families make they could afford something that doesn’t assault my senses.
“Pick up the pace, fuckers!” I shout to my team, driving harder into the paint just to prove a point. I slam another dunk, hanging off the rim for a second longer than necessary. Not because I'm showing off—I don't give a fuck who's watching—but because I need to establish dominance. This is my court and if you give an inch someone will take a mile. I don’t feel like having blood under my fingernails right now.
“Devereux, stop hot-dogging and play the game!” Coach yells, but I can tell he's impressed.
The girls have brought reinforcements—a few more St. Augustine girls and even some guys from the debate team who probably came to drool over the girls rather than watch us play. The bleachers are filling up, the energy in the gym shifting from practice intensity to performance pressure.
I catch Asher shooting a wink toward the stands as he sinks a three-pointer. The responding squeals make me want to vomit.
“Focus, Crawford,” I growl, shoving the ball into his chest for the next play. “You can get your dick wet after we win on Saturday.”
“Jealous I might get some attention?” he fires back, his shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
“Please. I don't need to try.” And it's true. I can feel their eyes on me—especially the blonde one, Serena, who's practicallyundressing me with her gaze. She's been trying to get in my pants since freshman year, doesn't seem to understand that I don't recycle the team's leftovers.
We run another play, this time with Cassian breaking through our defense to score. The red team cheers, and I notice how Jefferson puffs out his chest when he catches one of the girls watching him with hungry eyes. Fucking pathetic. If they knew what a two-pump chump Jefferson is, they'd stop staring at him like he's God's gift.
The next play is a mess. Miller fumbles a perfectly good pass, and Coach loses his shit, throwing his clipboard to the floor with a crash that echoes through the gym.
“That's enough!” Coach Fontaine bellows, his face turning that special shade of purple that means we've pushed him too far. “Hit the showers. Practice tomorrow, usual damn time. And if any of you show up hungover, you'll run until you puke your guts out.”
Finally, I grab my water bottle and chug what's left, letting the cold liquid soothe my parched throat. My jersey clings to my sweat-soaked skin as I make my way toward the locker room, already planning the ice bath I desperately need.
But before I can get three steps off the court, I see Serena and her fucking entourage making a beeline straight for us. Serena's wearing a skirt so short it barely qualifies as clothing, and her top is cut low enough I think I see the edge of her nipple.
“Lucien!” she calls out, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “You were amazing out there.”
I stop dead in my tracks, fixing her with a stare that would make most people shrivel. “What do you want?”
She doesn't flinch, just steps closer, invading my personal space.
