Los Angeles | 2009
Alex's POV
Most people hate Mondays. It's the time when they have to leave the comfort of their home and start working again. For my Dad, it means going back to being a realtor; for Mom, it's the never-ending list of chores, PTA meetings, and keeping up with her children's lives. She can be controlling at times, but I think Luke and Haley really need Mom buzzing around like a helicopter. As for myself, I can pretty much take care of my own life—academics, cello lessons, even my chores.
Yet there are times I find myself slightly jealous of the attention Luke and Haley get from Mom and Dad. It's very typical of me, I know—middle child syndrome and all that—but it doesn't mean it's not true. Dad is always busy with his shenanigans with Luke; Mom is constantly trying to prevent Haley from veering into a lifestyle where she ends up a teen mom. Alex can take care of herself, they say. She's the smart one, the sensible one, the responsible one.
All of this would have been okay, too, if I didn't feel so lonely and detached from everything all the time. I have some "friends" at school, but we don't really connect. Most of them just remind me of Haley, always prancing about, trying to look good and on the prowl for boys. The boys aren't any better either; they're always on the hunt for some stupid adventure or trying to pull pranks.
When I'd joined Northwood, I thought I would find some people who were, at the bare minimum, like me. To a certain extent, I did. A boy named Sanjay Patel was really smart; we both competed for the top position in class. Yet he couldn't be my friend. He was always my opponent, someone I had to beat at all costs. Believe me, I tried, but there were always times where he edged me out. I think it has to do with his parents both being intellectuals—one is a professor, the other a doctor.
I love my parents, but they can never provide me with the intellectual stimulus I feel I deserve. Lately, though, there has been a potentially nice new addition to this idle life of mine. His name is Bradley, and I will be his chaperone today to help him around school. I really need to make a lasting impression before he realizes I'm a social recluse and leaves me as the social pariah I am.
I saw him before he saw me. Bradley was standing near the main entrance, his head on a swivel as he took in the chaotic morning rush of students. He looked exactly as he had at the dinner party—composed and observant, like a strategist surveying a new battlefield. For a fleeting moment, I felt a pang of my usual social anxiety, but I squashed it. I had a mission.
Taking a breath, I raised my hand and gave him a small, definitive wave. His light blue eyes scanned the crowd and locked onto mine. A look of relief washed over his face as he navigated the sea of students and made his way over to me.
"Hey," he said. "Thanks for this. It's a bit more… energetic than my last school."
"Welcome to Northwood," I replied, a small smile on my face. "Let's get you set up before the first bell. Your locker is this way."
I led him down the main hall, the noise echoing off the blue and gold banners. "Lockers are assigned by homeroom. Yours should be right around here… number 237." I pointed to a locker a few doors down from mine. "You'll want to memorize your combination fast. The five-minute break between classes is a war zone."
He nodded, already studying the lock. "Got it. What's next on the tour?"
"The essentials," I said, leading him towards the center of the school. "This is the cafeteria, or as I call it, the 'social ecosystem.' You've got your jocks, your preps, your drama kids… It's a fascinating, if terrifying, anthropological study. My advice? The pizza is edible on Fridays. Avoid the chili at all costs."
"Mean Girls reference, I see that you're a woman of culture indeed.", he said chuckling, I smiled back as well. He gets it.
Next, I showed him the gym. The scent of varnish and old sweat hit us as we peered through the doors. "Physical education is a required credit," I explained, "though I find the curriculum to be woefully uninspired. It's mostly just dodgeball."
Bradley barely glanced at the gym itself. His eyes were fixed on a set of double doors at the far end of the hall. "Is that the main court? The one the team uses?" he asked, his voice suddenly more intense.
"Yeah, that's the arena," I said.
"Can we see it?" he asked, already walking towards it, forcing me to hurry to keep up.
"It's not technically on the tour, but I guess so," I said, pushing open one of the heavy doors.
We stepped into a space that was suddenly quiet and vast. The court was pristine, the polished hardwood floor gleaming under the high-bay lights. The Northwood Knights logo was painted proudly at center court, and retractable bleachers rose high on both sides, empty and waiting.
Bradley just stood there, his gaze sweeping across the court, the hoops, and the championship banners hanging on the far wall. He wasn't just looking at a gym; he was seeing something else entirely. It was the same reverent look he'd had when he talked about the United Center.
"It's… a good court," he said finally, his voice quiet.
"It's a regulation-size gymnasium," I replied, adjusting my glasses. "Nothing more, nothing less."
He just smiled, not taking his eyes off the hoop. After a moment, he seemed to shake himself out of his trance. "Okay," he said, turning back to me. "Sorry. Where to next?"
"Class," I said, glancing at the clock on the wall. "And if we don't hurry, we're going to be late for Mr. Harrison's Algebra class."
"Well then, let's hurry up," he said as he walked out of the court. I made to follow behind him as he was about to make a wrong turn again.
"Left, not right, Brad," I called out. He halted, then glanced back at me with an apologetic smile.
"Lead the way, navigator," he signalled with his hand.
We arrived at class just as the bell shrieked, and Mr. Harrison walked in right behind us. I took my regular seat in the second row towards the middle, my gaze immediately drifting to Sanjay Patel, who was already sitting ramrod straight, pencil at the ready. Brad occupied a seat parallel to me, a bit closer to the window.
The moment Mr. Harrison started the lesson, my focus narrowed. It was a silent, unspoken war between me and Sanjay. My hand shot up first for the opening question. He answered the second. I finished the first row of problems on the worksheet before he did, but I saw him turn the page first. My pencil flew across the paper, my mind racing to stay one step ahead.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Bradley was not nearly as competitive as I thought he'd be. In fact, he seemed almost disengaged, his pen moving in lazy circles on his notebook. For a moment, I thought he might be lost. He was smart, sure, but maybe the pace was too much for a new student. I felt a strange pang of... responsibility?
I nudged him with my elbow. "Do you need help?" I whispered, pointing to a particularly tricky problem.
Bradley shook his head and slid his notebook slightly towards me. My eyes widened. The page was filled with intricate doodles of basketballs, court plays, and what looked like sneaker designs. But woven in between the art, in sharp, precise handwriting, was the entire worksheet, perfectly solved. He hadn't just kept up; he was already done.
I was so shocked I couldn't even form a question. I just stared at the page, my own half-finished worksheet suddenly feeling inadequate. I chose to stay silent as Mr. Harrison called out, "Mr. Naird, since you're new, why don't you come up and solve number seven for us on the board?"
Bradley walked to the front of the class, looked at the complex equation on the board for a beat, and then simply wrote the answer: x = 14.
Mr. Harrison stared at the board, then at Bradley. "Well, that's correct, but you've missed a rather important step. The process."
Bradley looked back at him, his expression calm. "Sorry, sir. I did the steps in my head. I'll be sure to write them out next time."
I could see it in his eyes—he simply didn't care. The classes that followed were an absolute bore for him. He mostly sketched intricate plays in his notebook, and at one point, he even passed the notebook to me. There was a beautifully drawn chessboard on it with him playing as white. Intrigued, and having already mastered the geography curriculum being discussed, I engaged him. We played the same match for the entire period, communicating our moves with subtle gestures and notes. He had me at checkmate just as the final bell rang.
"You're good, Dunphy," he said, his voice holding genuine respect but also a hint of analytical criticism. "You may be one of the best I've played against. If you hadn't lost your composure every time the teacher walked by, you might have even won."
"Thanks," I mumbled, wiggling my fingers, feeling both appreciative and a little awkward at being so accurately assessed.
"Welp, time to head to the court," he said, standing up and slinging his backpack and a kitbag over his shoulder. "Thanks for everything today. I'll see ya later."
"Ye-yes, see you soon," I said, flustered, as he walked away, leaving me with the lingering impression that I had finally met my match.
…
Bradley's POV
I made my way to the gymnasium, pushing through the double doors that led to the basketball court. It was definitely one of the better facilities I'd seen, and I felt a familiar thrum of excitement. I quickly went into the changing room and got into my gear. I wore my regular black Nike shorts and one of my prized possessions: the Air Jordan XIVs—sleek, black, with a design that screamed Ferrari-inspired elegance.
Pulling on my custom-made jersey, I made my way to the court. I had chosen the number 16 for my jersey—the first two digits of the Golden Ratio—because I wanted my game to be just that: perfect in its proportions, a blend of strategy and execution.
I spotted Coach Heath standing near the sideline with a clipboard in hand. I had spoken to him when I first came to get admission at Northwood. He seemed happy to have me join, saying I could make it into the Under-14 division easily enough.
I walked up to the coach, who turned and gave me a firm, welcoming handshake.
"Naird. Glad you could make it," Coach Heath said, his voice a no-nonsense baritone that echoed slightly in the big gym. "I've seen the tape your old coach sent over. Impressive stuff. You've got a good feel for the court."
"Thank you, Coach. I'm ready to work," I replied.
"Good to hear," he said, tapping his clipboard. "Now, your file says you're a point guard, and a damn good one. But on this team, that position is earned, not given. We have a scrimmage today. I'm going to put you through your paces and see how you handle the pressure. Your past accomplishments got you in the door, but your performance today will determine if you're running the plays or warming the bench."
"I understand completely, Coach," I said, a surge of adrenaline sharpening my focus.
"Excellent." He blew a sharp whistle that cut through the gym's chatter. "Alright, listen up, Knights! Huddle up! Huddle up!"
Players jogged in from all corners of the court, their sneakers squeaking on the polished floor.
"We're running a full-court scrimmage today," Coach Heath announced, his voice commanding the attention of every kid. "I'm splitting you into two teams, Red and Blue. Two primary, three reserve, and two subs on each squad. When I call your name, line up on the corresponding side. Blue team: Miller, Sanchez, Thompson…"
He rattled off the names for the Blue team, and then turned his attention to the other side. "Red team: Johnson, Washington… and Naird. Bradley, you're running point for Red."
I jogged over to the sideline where the other guys in red jerseys were waiting. A tall, lanky kid with a friendly face extended his hand first.
"So you're the new guy," he said with a grin. "I'm David Washington. I play center. Don't worry, I'll get you the rebounds."
"Brad Naird," I said, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you."
A shorter, incredibly fast-looking kid with an intense focus in his eyes nodded at me. "Leo Johnson. Shooting guard. Just get me the ball in the open, and I'll knock it down."
"Got it," I said. The other two players, a solid-looking power forward named Marcus and a reserve guard named Kevin, introduced themselves as well.
"Alright guys, listen up," I said, pulling them into a quick huddle. "I don't know their plays, and you don't know mine yet. So let's keep it simple to start. David, I want you setting high screens for me at the top of the key. Leo, you're my primary shooter. I'll look for you on the wings. Marcus, Kevin, crash the boards and look for the open lanes. We play smart, we play fast, and we communicate. Let's do this."
They all nodded, a new sense of focus in their eyes. We were the underdogs on paper, but I wasn't about to let that stop us.
The Scrimmage: Red vs. Blue
First Half
Coach Heath's whistle pierced the air. The Blue team's center, a big kid named Sanchez, easily won the tip-off, batting the ball to their point guard, Miller. The game immediately descended into the kind of chaos typical of an eleven and twelve-year-old's game: a flurry of limbs and enthusiastic, if sloppy, energy. Miller tried to drive baseline, but in his haste, he dribbled the ball off his own foot, and it trickled out of bounds.
Red Team ball.
"Okay, let's settle it down!" I called out as I took the inbound pass. I dribbled slowly, my eyes scanning the court, trying to impose some order on our chaotic offense. I motioned for David to come toward me. "David, just get in his way when I say so!" I yelled.
I pushed the ball to the right wing, Miller sticking to me defensively. "Screen, David, now!" I shouted. David lumbered over and set a clumsy but effective pick. Miller, caught by surprise, had to scramble around him. In that brief moment of confusion, I saw our power forward, Marcus, make a smart cut toward the basket. I zipped a sharp bounce pass into the lane. It wasn't perfect—a little behind him—but Marcus managed to corral it. He went up for a layup, flinging it a bit too hard off the glass. David, having followed the play, was there to fight for the rebound, tipping the ball back in for our first points.
"Good hustle, David!" I yelled, clapping my hands.
The first half was a messy, hard-fought affair. We weren't running intricate plays; I was mostly just directing traffic, my voice a constant stream of simple instructions. "Leo, stay wide!" "Marcus, back door!" "Watch the pass!" My Master Strategist talent wasn't about calling complex NBA sets; it was about seeing the simple geometry of the court that the other kids missed. I noticed Miller always looked down when he crossed over, so I poked the ball loose for a steal, leading to a frantic fast break that ended with Leo hitting a jumper.
But we were making mistakes, too. A pass of mine was too clever for its own good, sailing past a surprised Kevin and into the coach's hands. Leo, getting frustrated by his defender, forced a bad shot that air balled. The Blue team was bigger, and Sanchez was feasting on rebounds, getting easy put-backs.
At halftime, we were trailing, breathing heavily.
Red: 15, Blue: 18.
Second Half
"Okay, listen up," I said in the huddle, grabbing a water bottle. "We're getting tired, and so are they. That means we have to play smarter, not harder. Sanchez doesn't get back on defense after he shoots. Every time he takes a shot, David, you get the rebound and look for me immediately. We can beat them down the court."
The team nodded, catching their breath. This was a simple plan they could understand.
It worked. Two minutes into the second half, Sanchez took a short hook shot. He missed. David boxed him out, grabbed the rebound, and fired a long outlet pass to me. I was already at half-court. It was a two-on-one with me and Leo against a lone defender. I drew the defender to me and then shoveled a simple pass to Leo, who laid it in.
The Blue team's lead started to shrink. Miller got more aggressive, trying to take me one-on-one. He was quicker than me, but I used my intelligence, giving him space and forcing him into a long, contested jumper instead of letting him drive. He missed.
With two minutes left, the game was tied. 24-24.
I brought the ball up the court. My teammates were looking at me, waiting for a call. I saw Leo on the wing, looking tired but ready. I dribbled to the right, drawing the defense with me, then fired a hard, cross-court pass to the opposite side where Marcus was open. He caught it, took one dribble, and hit a mid-range jumper. We were up by two.
The Blue team rushed their next possession, and Miller threw up a wild shot. It was a bad miss. David secured the rebound and passed it to me. I slowed the game down, forcing them to foul me. I went to the line and calmly sank both free throws.
Swish. Swish.
We were up by four with thirty seconds left. The Blue team scored a quick layup, but it was too little, too late. We inbounded the ball, and I managed to protect it from Miller's frantic attempts to steal it as the final buzzer sounded. We had won, not with flash, but with grit and strategy. The team came together, patting me on the back, a shared look of exhausted triumph on their faces.
Coach Heath walked over to me, a pen behind his ear and a look of deep appraisal on his face. "You don't just play the game, Naird," he said, his voice low and serious. "You think it. You make your team better." He tapped his clipboard. "You've got the job."
Final Score: Red: 28, Blue: 26