CHAPTER 3

Ethan's POV.

"Coach, you can't be fucking serious."

The words tore out of my throat before my brain could stop them.

The locker room went dead silent. Nobody cursed at Coach Davis. Ever. But my hands were shaking, my blood boiling so hot I could feel it pulsing behind my eyeballs.

Coach didn't even look up from his clipboard. He just clicked his pen. "Watch your mouth, Thorne. My decision is final. Axel starts at the two-guard. Julian runs second unit. That’s the lineup."

"Julian has been busting his ass all summer!" I took a furious step forward, gesturing wildly toward Julian, who was still frozen, looking like someone had just ripped his lungs out. "He knows the entire offensive playbook inside out! He earned that starting spot with sweat and blood, Coach! And you’re just handing it to a guy who walked through the door ten minutes ago?!"

"I make the roster decisions, Ethan, not you," Coach said, his voice dropping into that low and dangerous tone that usually warned players to back off. "Axel has elite spatial awareness and an outside shot this team desperately needs. If Julian wants the spot back, he can outplay him. Now get your sneakers tied and get on the court. Scrimmage starts in three minutes."

Coach turned around and shoved through the doors, letting them slam shut behind him.

The silence that followed felt strangely loud.

Julian stared at the floor, his hands gripping the edge of the bench so hard as he sat. He didn't say a word. He just swallowed hard, looking like the news had knocked the wind out of him.

"Julian," I said, dropping down on one knee in front of him. "Hey. Look at me, man."

Julian slowly lifted his head, his eyes glassy. "It’s fine, Ethan. It's…whatever."

"It's not fucking fine," I snarled. "It's complete bullshit and you know it. I’m going to handle this. I swear to God I’m going to handle this."

From across the room, a loud, obnoxious snicker cut through the air.

"Oh, look at that," Mike drawled, leaning back against his locker with his arms crossed and a mocking smirk plastered across his face. "The great Ethan Thorne can't protect his little pets anymore. What happened, Captain? Thought you ran this program?"

I snapped and rose to my feet so fast.

"Say one more word, Mike," I hissed, pointing a finger straight at his chest. "Say one more fucking word and I'll knock your teeth down your throat before Coach blows the whistle."

He just rolled his eyes, laughing under his breath. "Whatever, man. Cry about it all you want. The transfer took Julian's chain in ten seconds flat. Let's see if he takes yours next."

I didn't waste another second on Mike. My eyes snapped across the room, locking directly onto Axel Mercer.

He was looking down at his hands, completely quiet and indifferent. He looked like he hadn't heard a single word of the fight, like he didn't give a single shit that he had just crushed my best friend's spirit.

Arrogant, silver-spoon prick.

I marched over to him, stopping right at his feet, casting a shadow over him.

"Get up," I snapped.

Axel slowly lifted his chin. His pitch-black hair fell slightly over his forehead. Those dark, empty eyes met mine, unblinking, showing zero emotion. No fear or remorse, just that same infuriating, bored wall.

"You think this is funny, Mercer?" I demanded, leaning down.  "You think you can just show up and take what people have bled for?"

Axel didn't answer. His throat bobbed with a slow swallow, his lips parting by a millimeter, but not a single sound came out.

"Cat got your tongue?" I sneered, stepping back and kicking the locker next to him with the heel of my sneaker. The metal boomed. "Don't get comfortable, pretty boy. Because the second we step between those lines, I’m guarding you. And I'm going to make you wish you never transferred to this fucking school."

Axel stood up. He was taller than me by an inch or two, his shoulders wider, his frame carrying lean, solid muscle. He looked down at me, his face a completely unreadable mask of stone.

Not saying a word, he just picked up his water bottle, walked past me, and headed for the gym doors.

"God, I hate him," I breathed out, my chest heaving. "I fucking hate him."

"Ethan, calm down," Julian said quietly, standing up. "Don't get yourself benched before the season even starts."

"I'm not getting benched," I grabbed the ball, spinning it violently in my hands. "I'm about to show Coach why hard work beats silver-spoon talent every single day of the week."

***

Coach blew the whistle, calling us to center court.

"White team on offense, Black team on defense!" Coach shouted, holding a basketball at the center circle. "Standard four-out, one-in motion. First team to twenty-one points. Losers run baseline drills until I get tired. Let's go!"

I slipped a white scrimmage pinnie over my head, clapping my hands with loud, violent slaps. "Let's go! White team, on me! Talk on defense, crash the boards! Nobody gives up an easy inch!"

Coach tossed the black pinnie straight to Axel.

"Axel, you're running the point for black," Coach ordered. "Mike, you're on the wing. Let's see some ball movement."

Mike took his spot on the perimeter, clapping sarcastically. "Feed me the rock, transfer! Let's show the Captain what real offense looks like!"

I didn't look at Mike. I walked straight up to Axel at the top of the key, dropped into a low defensive stance, and slapped both palms against the hardwood. The sharp smack echoed through the gym.

"Right here, pretty boy," I barked, my eyes locked onto the ball tucked against his hip. "Let's see what you've got."

Axel looked down at me. For a moment, his fingers tightened on the leather of the ball, but that cold, dead expression remained firmly in place.

Coach blew the whistle. "Check ball! Play!"

Axel bounced me the ball. I caught it, fired it back with a sharp chest pass, and lunged into his space.

Full-court press. No breathing room.

I drove my forearm into his hip, crowding his dribble and forcing him toward the sideline. "Come on!" I taunted, right in his ear. "Show me that game tape, Mercer! What happened to all that elite vision?!"

I expected him to panic—to pick up his dribble, turn his back, or call for a screen like every other pampered private-school transfer I'd played against.

He didn't.

With a motion so smooth it looked like slow motion, he dropped his hips, bounced the ball hard between his legs, and snapped a vicious behind-the-back crossover.

The change of direction was instantaneous.

My sneakers shrieked against the floor as I tried to recover, but my momentum carried me half a step to the left. That was all he needed.

Axel didn't sprint or exert himself. He just took one long, effortless stride to the right, clearing my shoulder by two inches, and pulled up at the top of the three-point line.

"Contest!" Julian yelled from the corner.

I scrambled back, lunging forward with my hand outstretched to contest the shot, desperate to block it.

Axel didn't even set his feet properly, his heels were barely grazing the floor, his body slightly off-balance as he rose into the air. It was terrible textbook form—the kind of lazy release that coaches spend years trying to drill out of kids.

He flicked his wrist, sending the ball into a high, lazy arc. Rip. The net snapped as the shot dropped cleanly through. Three points. The ball bounced twice on the hardwood before rolling away.

I landed on the floor, stumbling forward, staring at the basket in absolute disbelief. He didn't even look at the rim. He barely jumped two inches off the ground.

"Damn!" one of the sophomores on the black team shouted, raising his arms. "Clean!"

From the sideline, Mike practically doubled over, slapping his knees and laughing hysterically. "Yo! Did you see that?! Captain just got cooked! Absolutely cooked on the first possession! Where’s that lockdown defense, Thorne?!"

My face burned with scorching, humiliating heat. "Shut your fucking mouth, Mike!"

I whipped my head around to look at Axel.

Axel was already jogging back on defense. He didn't celebrate. His face was completely blank, his breathing steady, as if he had just tossed a piece of paper into a trash can from two feet away.

He's mocking me, I thought, my heart thumping violently against my ribs. He didn't celebrate because he thinks beating me is child's play.

"Inbound the ball!" I yelled at Julian, my voice cracking with rage. "Inbound the fucking ball right now!"

Julian caught the ball under the hoop and bounced it to me. I brought it up the court, my dribble aggressive and hard, pounding the leather into the wood. I waved off Julian's screen with a sharp jerk of my chin.

"Clear out!" I ordered. "Clear the side!"

Axel picked me up at the three-point line. He stood tall, his arms slightly spread, his dark eyes tracking my hips. He wasn't crowding me like I had crowded him; he was playing loose, daring me to shoot, looking completely relaxed.

"You think you're nice, Mercer?" I hissed, executing a rapid between-the-legs dribble. "That was luck. Pure fucking luck. Let's see you stop this."

I faked left, darted right and drove my shoulder into his chest.

Hitting him was like slamming into a brick wall wrapped in padding. He didn't give up an inch. His core was solid, absorbing my momentum without his feet sliding an inch, his chest right in my face.

I bit down on my mouthguard, spun back to the left on a tight pivot, and elevated for a mid-range fadeaway jumper. My form was perfect. Years of pre-dawn shooting drills, thousands of repetitions in the cold.

The ball left my hand, hit the backboard, and dropped through the net.

"Yeah! That’s what I do!" I roared, pointing two fingers at the floor. "Right back at you, pretty boy! Right back at your fucking head!"

Axel didn't react. He grabbed the ball off the net, stepped out of bounds, and fired a crisp, one-handed baseball pass across the entire court.

The ball sailed seventy feet to Mike, who caught it in stride and finished with an uncontested layup.

Two points.

It took Axel half a second. He hadn't even looked before he threw it; he just knew Mike was running.

"Good pass, Mercer!" Coach Davis shouted from the sideline, scribbling furiously on his clipboard. "Great court vision! That’s what I'm talking about!"

"Hell yeah, transfer!" Mike yelled, pointing back at Axel. "Feed me all day! Somebody tell the Captain to get some track shoes so he can keep up!"

I stood at mid-court, my lungs burning, my hands clenched into fists. We were down 5 to 2.

Every play after that felt like an agonizing nightmare.

I chased Axel through screens. I clawed at the ball, I bumped him, grabbed his jersey, pushed him on box-outs, doing everything short of tackling him to throw him off his rhythm.

It didn't matter.

Axel moved like water. Whenever I anticipated him going left, he casually shifted his weight and went right. When I stepped back to guard the drive, he pulled up from thirty feet out, sinking another three without even bending his knees all the way. He played with an infuriating, sleepy elegance, like a guy playing against middle schoolers at a local YMCA.

He didn't sweat it, he barely looked like he was trying.

What if hard work isn't enough?

The thought hit me like an ice pick to the chest.

I've spent my entire life in this gym. I wake up at five in the morning. I run until I puke. I study film until my eyes bleed. And this guy... this rich, quiet bastard doesn't even care, and he's completely outplaying me.

By the time the score was 18 to 14, Black team leading, my vision was swimming with red.

Mike was barking from the wing, the bench was whispering, and Coach Davis was watching Axel like he had just discovered gold in a ditch.

"Ball!" I screamed at Julian as we crossed half-court. "Julian, give me the fucking ball!"

Julian hesitated for a second, looking at the shot clock, then bounced the rock into my hands.

"Clear out!" I shouted, waving everyone to the opposite baseline. "Clear the whole fucking paint!"

"Ethan, run the set!" Julian pleaded, backing away. "Coach said motion!"

"I said clear out!"

I didn't care about the motion offense. I didn't care about the playbook. I didn't care about Coach Davis screaming my name from the bench.

My pride was on the line. My captaincy was on the line. My entire life was on this floor, and I was not going to let this silent transfer walk all over me.

Axel was standing at the free-throw line, waiting for me.

I took two hard dribbles between my legs, threw a vicious head fake, and attacked the lane with everything I had left in my legs.

I lowered my shoulder, determined to bulldoze straight to the rim. Axel shifted his feet, cutting off my primary angle, but I didn't stop. I gathered the ball with both hands, leaped off two feet, and exploded toward the basket for a vicious, statement layup, ready to finish through whatever contact he threw at me.

Try stopping this, you arrogant prick.

I was in mid-air, extending my right arm toward the glass, the ball rolling off my fingertips.

A massive shadow suddenly fell over me.

Axel didn't just jump. He seemed to glide into the air, rising with terrifying ease. His wingspan covered the backboard. He didn't even look stressed. His hair barely moved, his eyes wide and dark, his expression completely blank.

He met the ball at the absolute apex of my release.

WHACK!

His palm slammed into the ball. 

He didn't just block it. He swatted it so hard it shot off the backboard, flew across the court, and crashed into the tenth row of empty bleachers.

The entire gym fell silent.

I came crashing down onto the hardwood, my sneakers skidding out from under me, my hip slamming hard against the floor.

I looked up from the floor, gasping for air, my heart hammering in my ears like a war drum.

Axel landed lightly on his toes, barely making a sound. He stood over me, his broad chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. He looked down at me sprawled on the ground, his face completely devoid of emotions and totally bored.

He didn't say a single word. He just turned around, wiping the back of his neck with his forearm, leaving me lying in the dirt.