CHAPTER 6

Axel's POV.

My phone vibrated on the bench for the fifth time in twenty minutes.

I didn't need to look at the screen. The caller ID was always the same: Dad.

Every call was an interrogation. Did you speak to the academic advisor? Did you submit your application to the finance program? When are you moving back into the main house? He couldn't comprehend why his only son was wasting his life in a public high school gymnasium instead of preparing to manage private equity firms.

He didn't know that basketball was the only place in the world where my head went quiet.

When the ball bounced, when sneakers squeaked against the floor, when plays unfolded in clean, geometric lines—all the noise in my skull stopped. The suffocating anxiety that made it impossible for me to order food or talk to my classmates vanished whenever I stepped between the painted lines. I didn't want scouts. I didn't want a scholarship; my family had more money than I could spend in three lifetimes. I just wanted to play. I just wanted to breathe.

And today, three Division One scouts were sitting in our bleachers with clipboards, waiting to judge every single breath I took.

My stomach twisted into tight knots.

Across the locker room, Ethan was tying his shoes. He pulled the laces so hard I thought the leather would rip right off the soles. His knuckles were raw, his face pale, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath his hazel eyes.

My chest tightened just looking at him.

He had no idea I had gone back to the gym last night.

By the time I got back to my condo, I still couldn't get Ethan out of my head. I tried to distract myself, but it was useless. I needed to clear my head if I wanted any chance of sleeping that night.

So I drove back to the gym, planning to get in a few shots alone. I had no idea Ethan was still there.

I parked in the far corner of the gravel lot behind the dumpsters, killed the engine, and walked quietly through the propped-open emergency exit by the weight room.

There he was, soaked in sweat, shivering in the cold night air.

I didn't say a word or make a sound. I had just sat in the pitch-black shadows of the upper bleachers for two hours, pulling my hood low, watching him shoot.

He had taken hundreds of shots. His form was mechanical, furious, relentless. Every time he missed, he cursed loudly, his voice echoing off the empty walls. Every time he dragged his tired legs back to the three-point line, my hands had ached to reach out, to hand him a bottle of water, to tell him that his jump shot was already beautiful, that he didn't need to destroy his joints to prove he belonged here.

But I knew the truth: if Ethan had looked up and caught me watching him, he wouldn't have felt supported. He would have felt humiliated. He would have thought I was laughing at him.

So I stayed in the dark, keeping him company in silence until midnight, waiting until he walked to the locker room before I returned to the lot and drove home to my empty bed.

And now, looking at him across the locker room, I could see the damage. His legs were completely dead. He was running on pure adrenaline.

"Yo, Mercer," Mike called out, slamming his locker shut and swaggering over to my bench. He was grinning, his chest puffed out like a peacock. "Big day, man. Lead scout from State has his eyes on us. You feed me on the wing like yesterday, and I'll make sure both of us look like stars out there."

I looked up at Mike. 

I didn't want to talk to him. I didn't want feed him too. I just gave a barely perceptible jerk of my chin, hoping he would go away.

Mike scowled, shaking his head. "Still doing the mute routine, huh? Whatever. Just pass the rock when I'm open."

"He's not passing you shit, Mike," Ethan’s voice cut through the room like broken glass.

Ethan stood up from his bench, stomping his high-tops against the floor to test the grip. His eyes were bloodshot, burning with a feverish, wild intensity that made my pulse jump.

"I run the point today," Ethan said, his voice flat and cold, pointing a finger at Mike's chest. "You run your route, crash the glass, and you shut your mouth. If anyone’s getting scouted today, it’s the guys who actually put in the work."

Mike laughed, though his eyes darted toward me. "Whatever you say, Captain. Just make sure you don't throw up on the court. You look like a walking corpse."

"Get on the floor," Ethan snarled.

He didn't look at me. He grabbed his basketball, shoved past Julian, and kicked the gym doors open with his sneaker.

The whistle blew, sharp and piercing.

"Five-on-five! White team offense, Black team defense!" Coach Davis shouted from mid-court, his clipboard tucked under his arm. "First team to thirty points! Game speed! Execute the sets!"

The three scouts in the bleachers sat forward in unison, their pens poised over their binders.

I took my position on the right wing for the White team, shaking out my arms. Ethan was at the top of the key, bouncing the ball hard. His chest was already rising and falling rapidly before the first whistle had even blown.

"Set the motion!" Ethan yelled, his voice cracking slightly. "Julian, corner! Center, set the back-screen!"

The drill started.

Ethan attacked the perimeter. His crossover was sharp, but his first step lacked the explosive burst he usually had. His knees were stiff from shooting hundreds of jumper in the freezing gym last night.

The defense collapsed on him immediately. Two Black team defenders hedged hard, trapping him near the sideline.

I recognized the defensive rotation instantly. It was a standard high-low trap. The entire right lane was wide open.

I cut hard toward the free-throw line, clapping my hands once to call for the ball. "Ethan! Here!"

The pass was simple. A basic chest pass would have broken the trap and given our team an uncontested layup.

Ethan heard me. His head snapped toward my direction, his hazel eyes locking onto mine for a fraction of a second.

He didn't pass.

Instead of hitting the open man, Ethan bit down on his lip, reversed his pivot into the teeth of the double-team, and forced up an off-balance, fading jump shot over two outstretched arms.

The ball sailed cleanly through the hoop.

"Nice shot, Thorne!" Coach Davis called from the sideline. "But remember to move the ball. Mercer was wide open at the elbow. Run the offense!"

Ethan didn't answer. He wiped a streak of sweat from his forehead with the collar of his jersey, his eyes flicking toward the bleachers.

The lead scout from State didn't even write anything down. He just shook his head, looking down at his phone.

A sharp pang of guilt struck my chest. He's trying too hard. He's panicking.

On the next possession, the Black team scored off a fast break. We brought the ball back up.

"Ethan," I said quietly as we crossed half-court, falling into stride beside him. "Let me set a down-screen for you. You'll get an open look from the wing."

Ethan didn't slow down. He didn't even look at me.

"Get the fuck out of my way, pretty boy," he hissed under his breath, his words coated in acid. "I don't need your charity."

Being called that by him sent a warm shiver down the back of my neck. My grip on my shorts tightened. He looked so furious, so wrecked, but his voice still did something reckless to my pulse.

Ethan waved me off with an aggressive chop of his hand, signaling a clear-out.

He drove again. Left, right, hard pound dribble. He threw a behind-the-back fake that almost shook his defender, but when he rose for the pull-up, his legs betrayed him. He didn't get enough lift.

Clang.

A brick. The rebound was tipped away.

"Thorne! What are you doing?!" Coach Davis blew his whistle, stopping the play entirely. He stormed toward the three-point line, his face turning bright red. "That’s two bad possessions in a row! You're forcing shots that aren't there! We have Division One programs watching us right now, and you’re playing like a selfish middle-schooler!"

Ethan stood at the top of the key, his hands on his hips, his chest heaving violently. His brown hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.

"I had the angle, Coach," Ethan argued, his voice shaking with defensive anger. "The defender was leaning…"

"The defender was all over you!" Coach shouted back. "Mercer has three inches on his man! Use him! If you don't start distributing the basketball, Thorne, I’m pulling you for the second unit!"

Ethan flinched as if Coach had slapped him across the face.

From the bench, Mike chuckled, leaning back with a smug expression.

Ethan’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck stood out like cords. He looked over at the bleachers. The scouts were watching, their expressions totally unimpressed. The State scout had his pen tapping against the clipboard, completely indifferent to Ethan's existence.

I wanted to say something, to tell Coach to back off, to step between them and tell everyone in the room that Ethan was the best point guard in the district when he wasn't exhausted to the bone.

My mouth stayed shut. The panic clawed at my throat, keeping me silent, keeping me cowardly.

"Check the ball," Coach Davis ordered, tossing the ball back to the Black team. "Keep playing!"

The scrimmage resumed, but the rhythm was completely broken.

Ethan played with reckless abandon. He hacked on defense, picked up cheap fouls, and sprinted on offense only to cut straight through my passing lanes, crowding the floor and clogging the spacing just so the ball wouldn't end up in my hands.

It was painful to watch. He was burning himself out, unraveling right in front of the very people who held his future in their hands.

With three minutes left on the clock, the Black team led 29 to 27.

Their point guard brought the ball up the court, looking to milk the clock. He attempted a sloppy bounce pass across the perimeter to the wing.

My instincts took over. I didn't think about the scouts in the bleachers.

I anticipated the passing lane, slid my feet two steps to the left, and jumped the route.

My fingers snatched the ball clean out of the air.

Turnover.

"Fast break! Go! Go!" Coach Davis screamed from the sideline.

I pushed the ball up the court with three long, explosive dribbles. The open floor opened up before me. There was no defender between me and the rim. I could have taken two steps, elevated, and thrown down a clean one-handed dunk that would have made the scouts stand up and cheer.

Then I heard footsteps pounding behind me.

To my left, sprinting with every ounce of life left in his aching body, was Ethan.

He was trailing the play on the opposite lane, his eyes locked on the basket, his face twisted in desperate, breathless determination. He wanted the score. He needed the score.

Take it, I thought. Show them what you can do.

I hit the free-throw line and gathered my steps. Instead of rising for the layup, I planted my right foot, elevated slightly, and used both hands to loft a soft, delicate, picture-perfect lob toward the backboard.

The ball floated gracefully through the air, perfectly cushioned, hanging two feet above the rim. It was the kind of pass that gave a trailing guard an uncontested, highlight-reel alley-oop finish.

All Ethan had to do was jump, catch it, and lay it into the net.

Ethan exploded off the hardwood.

He rose into the air, his wingspan extending, his fingers inches from the ball. The angle was flawless. The timing was undeniable. All he needed was to make a three-pointer. That was all we needed to win the game.

The lead scout from State stood up from the bleachers, his eyes widening.

I landed lightly on the floor, looking up at Ethan, waiting to see him slam it home.

In mid-air, Ethan’s eyes shifted from the rim down to my face.

The look in his eyes wasn't gratitude. It wasn't of triumph. It was pure, burning, unadulterated venom.

Instead of gripping the basketball, Ethan deliberately opened his hands flat.

He let the ball strike the tips of his fingers, purposely letting it slide right through his grasp. The ball sailed over his head, missed the backboard entirely, and bounced dead out of bounds against the far wall with a hollow thump.

A sharp, collective gasp echoed through the gym.

Ethan landed heavily on his feet, his sneakers screeching against the wood.

He didn't look at the ball. He didn't look at Coach Davis, who was currently turning purple with rage.

He turned his head slowly, staring right into my eyes, his chest heaving, his lips pulled back into a cold, vicious sneer of pure spite.

"Oops," Ethan whispered, loud enough only for me to hear. "Slipped.”