CHAPTER 5

Ethan's POV.

"Get your hands off me, Ethan!" Emily protested, yanking her arm out of my grip the second we turned the corner.

"I'm saving you from humiliating yourself," I snapped, staring back down the empty hallway. Axel had already disappeared into the shadows near the back exit, not bothering to look back once. "Did you not see his face? He was looking at you like you were a bug on his windshield."

"He was not!" Emily argued, her face flushed red as she fixed the strap of her bag. "He was about to give me his number before your loud, jealous ass stormed in here shouting like a maniac! You're literally cockblocking me on purpose!"

"I am not jealous of that arrogant prick!" I shot back. "And what the fuck did you just call it? Cockblocking? You're a girl, Emily!"

"It’s an expression, you illiterate caveman! You ruined my motion!"

"Your what?"

"My vibe! My game! God, you are so deeply uncultured it hurts my soul," she groaned, pressing two fingers against her forehead. "You have zero rizz, Ethan. Absolutely negative rizz. And now you're projecting your basketball trauma onto my love life."

"I don't have basketball trauma," I snarled, pushing open the doors to the student lot. "I have a starting spot to protect and a scholarship to win. And I'm not going to sit around watching my best friend throw herself at some rich boy who won't even speak two words to human beings."

"He’s mysterious!"

"He’s a mute asshole!" I said, snatching my car keys from her.

"Whatever," Emily scoffed, rolling her eyes as we reached my car. "Stay mad, Ethan. When he's taking me out to expensive sushi dinners in his luxury car, I'm not going to let you ride in the back."

"Good, because I’d rather walk through broken glass." I unlocked the doors with a sharp twist of my metal key. "Get in the car before I leave you here."

***

The next afternoon, Coach Davis called us into the film room before practice even started.

The projector cast a dim glow over the chalkboard. Coach stood with his arms folded over his chest, his whistle dangling against his shirt.

"Listen up," Coach barked, slamming his palm against the metal desk. The room immediately went dead silent. "Tomorrow afternoon, we’ve got scouts from three major Division One programs sitting in our bleachers. State, Metro, and Pacific."

A low murmur rippled through the room. Julian sat up straight beside me, his eyes lighting up.

"They’re coming to watch our offensive sets," Coach continued, his eyes scanning the room. "They want to see chemistry, they want to see pace, and above all, they want to see who can execute at game speed. We are running five-on-five for ninety minutes straight. If you take a play off, you sit the bench for the rest of the month. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Coach!" we yelled in unison.

My heart pounded against my ribs. This was it. This was the showcase I had been waiting on since junior year. State was my dream school. A full scholarship from them meant my parents wouldn't have to mortgage the house or skip payments on the auto shop's equipment.

"Ethan," Coach Davis said, nodding in my direction. "You're running point for the primary unit tomorrow. I want high tempo. Push the ball on every single turnover."

"Got it, Coach," I said, my chest expanding with pride. "We'll set the pace early."

Coach then shifted his gaze toward the back corner of the room. Axel Mercer sat alone in the last row, his dark gray hood pulled low and his legs stretched into the aisle. He stared at the floor.

"Axel," Coach called out.

Axel slowly lifted his chin, his dark eyes locking onto Coach without blinking.

"I spoke with the lead scout from State this morning," Coach Davis said casually. "They already watched your highlights from your old district. They specifically asked to see how you operate off the catch in our half-court offense. You’re our primary scoring option tomorrow. Make sure your legs are fresh."

My chest tightened.

Primary scoring option?

I sat frozen in my chair, my fingernails biting hard into my palms. I had led this team in scoring for two straight years. I had spent the entire summer in this gym until my knees wore out. And Coach was handing the keys to a transfer who hadn't played a single official game in our jersey?

From two seats over, Mike leaned forward, catching my eye with a disgusting, crooked smirk.

"Looks like your reign is over, Captain," Mike whispered under his breath, barely loud enough for anyone else to hear. "Better get used to passing the rock to daddy’s boy."

"Shut your mouth, Mike," Julian muttered from my left, shooting Mike a glare.

I didn't say a word. I couldn't. The anger in my throat was so thick it was choking me.

When practice started ten minutes later, I played like a feral dog.

During full-court sprints, I touched every single line, sprinting until my lungs burned out. I wanted Coach to see it. I wanted the whole room to see the difference between someone who was handed a gift and someone who earned every breath.

"Line up! Baseline to baseline! Thirty seconds on the clock!" Coach yelled, blowing his whistle.

We took our spots. I looked down the line. Axel was standing three spots over, barely sweating, his hands resting on his hips.

“Coach,” Axel said. His quiet, raspy voice cut through the squeak of sneakers.

Coach stopped his stopwatch. "What is it, Mercer?"

"Heel is a little tight," Axel murmured, looking down at his shoe. "Felt a pinch on that last rebound."

"Don't push it," Coach said immediately, waving his hand toward the bench. "Sit out the rest of the conditioning. Go ice it. I need you at a hundred percent for the scouts tomorrow."

Axel nodded once. He didn't argue or insist on finishing with the team. He just grabbed his towel, walked over to the bleachers, and sat down with a cup of Gatorade.

I stood on the baseline, gasping for air, staring at him in utter disbelief.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I whispered, my teeth grinding so hard.

"Thorne! Eyes forward!" Coach barked. "On the whistle! Move!"

I took off running. With every stride, Axel’s bored face flashed in my mind. He sat on the bench, sipping his drink, while the rest of us ran until we were ready to vomit.

He doesn't even want it, I thought, my heart hammering in rage. He doesn't need the money. He doesn't need the scholarship. It’s just a fucking game to him. And they're handing him the world.

***

By ten at night, the gym was dark except for the two court lights over the baskets.

The rest of the team had gone home hours ago. Julian had tried to drag me out around eight, telling me I was going to ruin my legs for tomorrow, but I shoved him off. I couldn't go home. If I went home, I would have to sit at the dinner table and look at my dad’s tired and greasy hands and tell him I wasn't even the main guy on my own team anymore.

Swish.

The ball dropped through the net, bounced twice, then rolled back to me.

My shoulders were screaming, my right knee was throbbing with a dull ache that pulsed every time I loaded my weight for a jump shot. Sweat dripped from my nose, stung my eyes, and soaked through my shirt, making it cling to my chest.

"Four hundred and eighty-eight," I counted aloud, my voice echoing off the empty walls.

I grabbed the ball off the bounce, stepped back behind the three-point arc, and set my feet.

Four hundred and eighty-nine.

The ball hit the back of the iron and bounced away toward the bleachers.

"Fuck!" I roared, kicking the floor with the toe of my shoe.

I stood there, bent over at the waist, hands on my knees, chest heaving. The gym air felt stale. My legs were trembling.

What if hard work isn't enough? The question hit me like a punch to the gut.

I had been told my whole life that if you put in the hours, if you bled for it, nobody could take it from you. But Axel Mercer didn't bleed. Axel Mercer sat out conditioning with a tight heel and got a personal evaluation from the top program in the state.

My phone vibrated on the bleacher bench.

I dragged my feet across the floor, wiping my face with the bottom of my soaked shirt, and picked it up.

It was a text from Emily:

Emily: If you're still in the gym I'm literally going to call your mom. It’s midnight Ethan. You’re giving obsessed.

Ethan: Shut up. Just finished.

Emily: Go home. You're cooked if you show up with dead legs tomorrow. Stand on business or whatever. Just sleep.

I dropped the phone back onto the bench and grabbed my water bottle, chugging the water until the plastic bottle collapsed in my fist.

I walked over to the locker room to grab my duffel bag and turn off the court lights. I pushed open the exit doors, and the cool night air hit my face.

The parking lot was practically empty. My beat-up car was parked under a yellow streetlight near the fence, looking small and rusted.

Then, headlights flashed at the other end of the lot.

A black sports car worth more than my parents' entire house roared as the engine started. The tinted driver’s side window was rolled down halfway.

Axel sat behind the wheel wearing a black jacket. He had probably spent the last three hours eating expensive takeout or lounging somewhere while I was here, working my ass off.

He put the car into gear and rolled toward the exit.

As the car passed under the streetlight, his eyes flicked toward the gym doors. He looked at me through the open window, his expression unreadable, then drove out of the lot.

"Fucking pretty boy," I spat, hurling my empty water bottle against the chain-link fence.

"I'll show you tomorrow," I breathed, storming toward my car, my hands shaking with hatred. "I'll make you choke on every single dollar you have."

***

The next morning, the gym was already loud.

The heat was already on, and the air smelled of eucalyptus balm. The stands were mostly packed, but three men sat in the first two rows near midcourt, wearing dark windbreakers with college logos stitched across their chests: State, Metro, and Pacific.

They held binders and digital tablets, talking quietly amongst themselves with coffee cups in hand.

My heart was doing flips, but I forced my chin up as I laced my snickers on the bench. My knees ached from last night’s five hundred shots, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins drowned it out.

"This is our day, Julian," I said, clapping Julian on the shoulder. "We run the break, we show them pace, we get these offers."

Julian nodded, though he looked nervous, tapping his sneakers against the floor. "Yeah. Let's get it, Captain."

Coach Davis blew his whistle, walking toward center court. "Alright, five-on-five! Black jerseys on offense, White on defense! Let's get a clean warm-up sequence before we start full contact!"

I stood up, shaking out my legs, slapping my cheeks with both hands to wake myself up. I was ready. I had my game face on. I walked over to the scorer's table to grab a ball, jogging past the row of scouts.

I put on my best professional smile, glancing over at the lead scout from State—a tall, graying man with an official clipboard resting on his knee.

I wanted to see my name. I wanted to see Ethan Thorne, Point Guard, Senior.

I slowed my pace slightly as I passed his shoulder, my eyes dropping to the open page on his clipboard.

The smile on my face died instantly.

There was no list of names. There was no chart of player rotations.

Taped to the center of the first page was an enlarged photograph of Axel Mercer, surrounded by red ink circles, physical measurements, and a bold heading scrawled across the top:

TARGET EVALUATION: AXEL MERCER (SG) - PRIORITY 1.

I stopped dead in my tracks, the gym noise fading into hollow ringing in my ears.

They hadn't come to see the team or the captain.

They had come for one person, and one person only.