Lincoln High wasn't just a school; it was a reputation. A building layered in legacy, championships, and community pride. The next morning, Dante stood in front of its iron gates, clutching his old drawstring bag over his shoulder. His stomach twisted with nerves, but his eyes locked on the tall brick building like it was a challenge. He wasn't just walking into a school; he was stepping into expectation.
Inside, students rushed between hallways with practiced ease. No one knew who he was yet, and that anonymity came as both relief and pressure. It gave him space to adjust, but also meant he had to prove himself from scratch.
Coach Hale had arranged everything. Dante was temporarily transferred as a "prospect", a status Lincoln offered to gifted athletes before making them full-time students. Until the paperwork cleared, he'd attend practices, shadow classes, and stay under the radar. But the court? That was fair game.
The gym buzzed with activity when Dante arrived. The varsity team was already mid-practice, running plays with speed and precision. Coach Hale gave him a nod from the sidelines.
"King, you're up," he called out. "Warm up with JV players for now."
Dante didn't flinch. He nodded and joined the second-stringers without complaint. It wasn't disrespect; it was hierarchy. Earn your spot.
The JV players noticed him right away. Whispers fluttered like static.
"That's the kid from East Side, dropped 40 in that summer league game."
"Heard he dunked over two dudes in one play," One kid added.
As warmups turned to drills, Dante made it clear he wasn't hype, he was real. Smooth handles, crisp passes, and sharp focus. But he didn't show off. He played like someone who knew he still had something to prove.
During a short break, a stocky guard named Jordan approached him.
"You play like that every day?" he asked, not unkindly.
Dante gave a half-shrug. "Only when I'm awake."
Jordan laughed. "Keep it up. Varsity's watching."
Dante glanced toward the far end of the gym. The varsity guys were in a huddle, but a few glanced his way. One of them, tall, lean, and sharp-eyed, held his stare longer than the rest.
That was Malik Jackson. Team captain. All-State guard. Scholarship offers already rolling in for him.
Coach Hale blew his whistle. "Scrimmage. Varsity versus JV. Let's go."
The room shifted. JV players tensed. Varsity stood loose, confident. Dante stepped onto the court like it was neutral ground.
The scrimmage was fast, physical, and intense. Every possession mattered. Dante didn't try to dominate, but he impacted. He made plays. Hustled. Took charges. Found open teammates. And when an opportunity came to slash through the lane, he didn't hesitate; he rose and finished strong over two defenders.
The gym paused.
Even Coach Hale gave a low whistle.
Malik called for the ball on the next play. He didn't say a word, but the message was loud: Let's see what this kid really has.
Dante tightened his laces.
The real test had just begun.
Malik brought the ball up with the relaxed, almost lazy swagger of someone who knew exactly how good he was. Dante squared up in front of him, heartbeat steady, knees slightly bent. This wasn't just another possession; this was a message.
The gym got quieter. Not silent, but charged. Even the JV guys on the bench leaned forward. It wasn't every day someone stepped up to Malik Jackson on their first day.
Malik tested him with a quick left-to-right crossover, smooth as silk. Dante slid with him, cutting off the drive. Then came a hesi dribble, Malik's signature move. Most defenders bit. Dante didn't. His eyes never left Malik's hips.
Malik grinned. "You got feet. Let's see if you got lungs."
He pushed off into a lightning-quick first step and blew past Dante, but not clean. Dante chased him down the paint, and as Malik rose for a floater, Dante's fingertips grazed the ball just enough to throw it off. The shot clanged off the front rim.
JV rebounded. Dante didn't celebrate. He didn't smirk. He just jogged back on offense, expression unreadable.
That said everything.
Coach Hale's whistle echoed through the gym. "Reset!"
He walked onto the court, eyes sweeping the players. "Alright, enough scrimmage. Bring it in."
Everyone gathered at center court, panting, sweating, waiting.
"Dante, nice work out there," Coach said evenly. "Keep showing me that fire. Malik?"
Malik, still breathing hard, nodded once. "He's solid."
The coach looked between them. "Good. That's what I want, iron sharpening iron. Dante, you'll run drills with varsity tomorrow."
That turned heads.
Some JV players looked surprised. A few varsity guys raised eyebrows, but no one spoke. Malik simply offered his hand.
"Welcome to Lincoln."
Dante shook it firmly. No smile. Just mutual respect.
After practice, Dante changed quickly in the locker room. The place smelled like old sweat, deodorant, and determination. As he laced up his battered sneakers, Rico's voice rang from the doorway.
"Already causing waves, huh?"
Dante looked up, surprised. "What are you doing here?"
Rico leaned against the frame, his backpack slung over one shoulder. "Coach Hale invited me to swing by. Wanted to see how you were adjusting."
Dante stood. "It's different. Fast-paced. Real structured. But… I like it."
"You would," Rico grinned. "Mr. Silent Assassin. Yo, you know Malik was watching your every move, right? Dude looked ready to throw hands when you blocked him."
Dante chuckled. "He's competitive. That's how it should be."
Rico's smile faded a little. "Just remember, bro… this place? It eats people. Talent's not always enough."
Dante nodded slowly. He knew. He'd seen it before, guys with insane skill who cracked under pressure. Or got distracted. Or just didn't have the grind.
But he wasn't most guys.
That night, Dante lay in bed in his small apartment. His mom, Alicia, was already asleep in the next room after pulling a double shift at the diner. The moonlight cast faint silver streaks across the ceiling. Dante stared at them, headphones on, listening to the quiet thump of an old J. Cole beat.
He thought about the court. Malik. Coach Hale's nod. The way the gym watched him like he was a spark waiting to ignite.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Coach Hale:
"Be at the gym by 6 a.m. Bring your jumper. We work before school here."
Dante smiled.
"No problem, coach," he replied.