The gym doors burst open, and Milo steps inside with J.J. beside him.
The place is buzzing with energy—basketballs slamming into the hardwood, sneakers shrieking, voices overlapping in bursts of laughter, trash talk, and excitement.
Milo inhales sharply, rolling his shoulders.
This is it. His moment. His shot.
Beside him, J.J. adjusts his clipboard and inhales dramatically like he's about to narrate the start of a grand tournament.
"Ahhh, smell that, Milo?" J.J. sighs, stretching his arms.
Milo barely looks at him. "Sweat and anxiety?"
J.J. scoffs. "Wrong. This—" he waves his hand dramatically, "—is the coliseum of gladiators! The battleground where warriors will rise! And where some poor souls will get sent home in tears."
Milo sighs. "You are the least athletic person I know."
"And yet, I have the best seat in the house to watch you try to be great. Now—" J.J. flips his clipboard like it's a strategy book. "—let's analyze the competition."
His eyes scan the court, and he immediately grimaces.
"Oh. Look at this."
Milo follows his gaze.
The Returning Starters
At the center of the gym, a group of players already look like they own the place.
J.J. sighs. "Trey's walking around like he's already wearing a championship ring."
Milo's jaw tightens as his gaze settles on Trey Williams.
Tall. Strong. Confident. The kind of guy who moves like he already knows the outcome.
Trey spins a basketball lazily on his fingertips, smirking like he's waiting for the inevitable. Like he's already stepping into the shoes left behind by—
The legend.
The star captain from last year. The one everyone depended on. The one who could take over a game whenever he wanted.
His absence left a hole.
A vacancy.
And only one player was going to fill it.
J.J. keeps going. "Marcus is still ridiculous, by the way."
Milo looks up just in time to see Marcus Lee flick a perfect three-pointer—smooth release, no hesitation.
Swish.
He doesn't even look at the rim. Didn't need to.
J.J. shakes his head. "Dude's a robot. It's unfair."
And then—
J.J. groans.
"And of course, we've got Mister Show-Off."
Milo's eyes shift to Xavier Jones.
Dribbling at hyperspeed, the ball a blur between his legs.
One-handed.
And he's not even looking.
He's talking to someone else—probably talking trash—while casually dodging a defender's hand without breaking rhythm.
J.J. shakes his head in disgust. "I've never wanted someone to trip over their own foot so badly in my life."
Milo smirks, but his mind is locked in.
And then—
J.J. clicks his tongue. "Oh, and there's Darnell. Looking like he's about to body slam someone."
Milo's stomach tightens.
Darnell Grant. The team's enforcer.
Darnell isn't graceful like Trey, or lethal like Marcus, or flashy like Xavier.
Darnell is just a problem.
Strong. Brutal. A defensive nightmare who doesn't care if he fouls you.
Right now, he's shadowboxing mid-warmup, rolling his neck like he's getting ready for a fight instead of a game.
Milo clenches his fists.
These are the guys he has to match.
These are the ones he has to prove himself against.
J.J. flips his clipboard closed. "So that means the four starters are locked in—Trey, Marcus, Xavier, and Darnell."
Milo nods once. "One spot left."
J.J. grins. "Exactly. And you're gonna take it, right?"
Milo doesn't hesitate. "I didn't come here for anything less."
J.J. chuckles. "Good. Because you've got competition."
Milo frowns. "Who?"
J.J. jerks his chin toward the far end of the gym.
"That guy. The tall one."
Milo turns—and sees him.
Ryan Carter.
6'5". At least.
Long arms. Unfair wingspan. Ridiculous reach.
He's stretching, standing near the starters, moving like he already belongs.
And worst of all?
Coach is already watching him.
Milo stiffens.
He's huge.
And suddenly—Coach Bryant's words from yesterday's race slam into his head.
"You're shorter than them, Carter. Their strides are longer. You have to work twice as hard to keep up."
Milo's fingers curl into a tight fist.
Not again.
J.J. keeps talking, but Milo barely hears him.
His body burns.
It's track all over again.
Falling behind. Losing ground. Watching taller players pull away.
J.J. nudges him. "So? Still feeling confident?"
Milo grins.
———————————-
From the bleachers, Lila Anderson clutches her book, fingers pressing into the cover.
She's sitting near the top row, tucked into the shadows, knees pressed together, pretending to read.
She hasn't turned a page in the last ten minutes.
Her gaze flickers toward the court.
Toward Milo.
He looks focused. Determined.
Her hands tighten around the edges of her sweater.
She doesn't cheer. She doesn't wave. She doesn't dare make a sound.
But deep down, she whispers—
"You got this, Milo."
————————————
Coach Davis blows the whistle, stepping onto the court.
The noise dies instantly.
The gym splits in two—starters on one side, hopefuls on the other.
Coach crosses his arms. "Listen up!"
"We've got one open spot. Everybody else? You're either proving you belong here, or you're proving you don't."
Milo sets his jaw.
He's ready.
The drills start. Sprints. Defensive slides. Passing exercises.
Milo pushes harder, faster than anyone else.
His body burns, but he refuses to slow down.
"I won't fall short again."
Coach's voice cuts through the noise. "One-on-ones!"
Milo wipes sweat from his forehead. His heart pounds.
Then—
"Carter! You're up!"
Milo steps forward.
Coach scans the group.
"Let's see… Ryan! You take him."
Milo's stomach tightens.
The gym suddenly feels smaller.
Ryan Carter steps onto the court.
Tall. Relaxed. Unbothered.
Like this is just another game to him.
Milo rolls his shoulders.
Ryan doesn't even look nervous.
J.J. murmurs from the sideline. "Alright… here we go."
Milo has no idea who Ryan is.
But he's about to find out.