Los Angeles | 2009
Bradley's POV
The only sounds on the court were the rhythmic slap of rubber on polished maple and the sharp, synchronized gasps of two pairs of tired lungs. Leo came at me with a hard crossover, low and wiry, his movements a blur of controlled energy. I gave him a step, anticipating the drive, but he pulled up short, his jumper leaving his hands a fraction of a second quicker than it would have a month ago. The ball kissed the back of the rim and fell through.
He flashed a grin, sweat beading on his forehead. "That's five-three, man. My ball."
I tossed him the ball, a genuine sense of appreciation cutting through my competitive haze. His improvement over the past few months was staggering. The raw talent had always been there, but now it was being sharpened by discipline. His footwork, once hesitant, was now decisive. He wasn't just playing; he was thinking.
"Yo," he said, panting as he wiped his face with the hem of his jersey. "You hear about the streetball championships? Venice Beach, next few weekends. Three-on-three."
"I've heard of it," I said, getting back into my defensive stance. "You thinking about signing up?"
"Thinking about us signing up," he corrected, dribbling the ball between his legs. "You, me, and David. We'd wreck 'em."
The idea sparked something in me—a different kind of competition, raw and unstructured. "I'm in," I said without hesitation. "Just have to get the official sign-off from my parents, but yeah. I'm in."
Leo's grin widened. "Knew you would be." He drove hard to his left, but I cut off his angle, forcing him to pick up his dribble. He pivoted, looking for an opening, and passed the ball back to me. "It's just… crazy, man," he said, catching his breath. "I've played my whole life, and I never thought I'd find a guy who loves this game as much as I do."
His words were genuine, a rare moment of sincerity in the middle of our battle. I felt the weight of that friendship, a bond. But my first instinct was, and always would be, to compete.
The words left my mouth in the same moment the ball left my fingertips. "I love it more than you do."
It sailed in a high, lazy arc against the bright afternoon sky.
Swish.
Leo just shook his head, a look of pure, exasperated disbelief on his face. "It's not fair, man. It's just not fair. You can shoot the lights out from anywhere."
We played on, the score forgotten, the game devolving into a pure, joyous battle of will. We were two kids drenched in sweat, pushing each other to be better, to be faster, to win. We didn't stop until our legs felt like lead and our lungs burned with every breath. I was leaning against the hoop's support pole, trying to remember what it felt like to not be exhausted, when a series of sharp, insistent chimes cut through the quiet.
My phone, lying on the bench, was lighting up with notifications.
My legs felt heavy with exhaustion as I walked over to the bench where my phone was chiming. The screen lit up with a text from Alex. A small, unconscious smile curved my lips as I read it.
Alex:When are you coming over? My mom is asking about lunch. She's making lasagna.
It was direct and efficient, but the final word was the real invitation. I began to type my reply.
"Judging by that smile, I'm guessing that was Alex," Leo said from behind me, his voice laced with teasing amusement.
A jolt of heat went through my chest. Why did just hearing her name from him feel like being caught? I took a long swallow of water, trying to force a casual indifference I did not feel. "It was," I said, my tone as even as I could make it. "I'm heading to her place after this."
"And you expect me to believe there's nothing going on between you two?" he asked, crossing his arms with a skeptical grin.
"That's exactly what I expect," I replied, my calm façade feeling thinner by the second.
"I don't buy it, man," he said, shaking his head. "I've seen the way you look at her. And sure, she's a nerd and not some cheerleader, but she also happens to be the only girl you give the time of day."
"That's an exaggeration. I talk to Jenna, Cathy, and the others," I countered, but the words felt hollow.
He laughed. "You call the girls who follow you around every day 'the others.' That tells me everything. You're talking to them, but you're only ever listening to her."
He wasn't wrong. On any of it. My carefully constructed arguments felt like sand falling through my fingers. "An interest in someone's intellect doesn't automatically equate to romantic attraction, Leo. That's a false equivalency." The words sounded smart, logical. They felt like a lie.
"Okay, Professor," he shot back, unfazed. "But what about blowing off bowling with me and David to play some video game with her? Or ditching your spot with us at the back of the class—the best seats!—to sit next to her at the front? Your actions don't match your argument."
"I'm allowed to have different circles of friends," I said, the defensiveness sharp in my own ears.
"Yeah, you are," he conceded, but his tone shifted, the teasing giving way to something more serious. "Just be careful. The 'other girls,' as you call them, have noticed. They're not Alex's biggest fans to begin with, and you ignoring them to hang out with her is making it worse."
His words landed, and the situation crystallized in my mind. He was describing the well-worn tropes of a teenage romance drama, with a set of rules I had never bothered to learn. And I, had somehow wandered onto the main stage without even realizing.
I let out a long sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. "I'll handle it," I said, the words feeling inadequate. "Come on, let's get some food before you have to go."
Leo's expression immediately brightened, the serious moment forgotten. "Mrs. Naird's cooking? Dude, I would never say no to that." He bounced up and jogged toward the house.
I followed him, the familiar comfort of the court giving way to the unfamiliar weight of a social complication I couldn't outthink.
…
Leo left after chowing down on Mom's food, he sure loved it. The rest of my morning passed in a quiet, domestic lull—a bath, a game of Scrabble with Erin that she almost won, and a lot of time spent just lazing around, letting the events of the last few weeks settle.
But as the afternoon sun slanted through my window, the conversation with Leo replayed in my mind. It was another problem to be solved, another set of variables to account for. Seeking something familiar, something quantifiable in the midst of this new, messy emotional landscape, I closed my eyes and focused inward, calling forth the one system I knew I could always trust to give me a straight answer.
The quiet hum of the interface responded to my will, and the translucent gold letters materialized in the air before me.
STATUS
Name: Bradley Mark Naird
STR: 13
VIT: 14
AGI: 15
END: 14
DEX: 13
INT: 30
TITLES: TRANSMIGRATOR
TALENTS: SHARPSHOOTER, MASTER STRATEGIST
A quiet sense of satisfaction settled over me. The numbers had moved. It wasn't a leap, just a small, incremental climb, but an improvement was an improvement. For months, I'd toiled away with no visible change, and I'd come to understand the reason: my pre-teen body was a bottleneck. My potential was capped by my physical limitations, allowing only my Intelligence to grow.
But this—this was the beginning of the shift. I was confident that puberty would be the catalyst, granting me the exponential growth I'd been working towards. Within a few years, I would easily be able to push my physical stats into the 30s, and from there, begin the long, arduous climb toward the elusive 40-point barrier.
Until then I had to focus on improving the skills I was already provided with, those I could improve on endlessly. Time to head out.
I took a little more care getting ready than the task strictly required. It was just a history project, but the quiet admission I'd made to my empty room the night before had changed the texture of things. The goal wasn't just to work on a project; it was to see her. I pulled on a clean polo shirt, the fabric soft and comfortable, and headed downstairs.
Mom caught me at the door, a knowing look in her eyes. "Going over to the Dunphys'?"
"Yeah, Alex and I are getting a start on the summer history project."
"That's wonderful," she said, then added smoothly, "Why don't you take Erin with you? I'm sure Luke would love to have a playmate, and it would give me an hour of peace. The detail can drive you both over."
I looked over at my sister, who was trying to teach a stuffed bear to play chess, and smiled. "Sure. Come on, Erin. We're going on a field trip."
She abandoned the game instantly and grabbed my hand. A few minutes later, we were settled in the back of the familiar black SUV, the interior all clean leather and quiet efficiency—a stark contrast to the Dunphy minivan. As we pulled away from the curb, I gave the lead agent, Harris, the address.
During the drive, Erin pressed her face to the window, watching the neighborhoods change, while I replayed the last few weeks in my head. When we finally turned onto the Dunphys' street, I leaned forward.
"Harris, when we get there, find a spot down the block. Low profile. I'll call when we're ready to leave."
"Understood, sir," he replied, his eyes on the road. I was learning.
He pulled the car to a smooth stop in front of their house. I got out with Erin and waited for the SUV to pull away before we walked up the driveway. I rang the bell, and a moment later, the door swung open.
And then the carefully arranged thoughts in my head went quiet. It was just Alex, dressed in a simple band t-shirt and jeans, her hair pulled back in a slightly messy ponytail. She pushed her glasses up her nose, and a small, hesitant smile touched her lips.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey," I managed to reply, my voice feeling a half-step behind my brain.
"Alex, honey, who is it?" Claire's voice called from inside, and then she appeared, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Oh, Bradley! And Erin, hello sweetie! It's so good to see you both."
Before Erin could reply, a muffled voice echoed from the living room, followed by the sound of something bumping into a wall. "Is that Erin? Is she here?"
A figure appeared in the hallway. It was Luke, his face a distorted, happy blur behind the large, transparent storage tub he was wearing over his head and shoulders. He waddled toward us, his arms held out like a miniature robot.
"Erin! I found a space helmet!" he announced, his voice booming inside the plastic. He turned his helmeted head toward me. "Bradley! Do you wanna play on the trampoline? We can be astronauts jumping on the moon!"
I couldn't help but laugh. "Maybe later, Luke. Alex and I have to work on our project first."
"Okay!" he said, then grabbed Erin's hand. "Come on, co-pilot!" The two of them disappeared back into the house, their excited chatter fading as they went.
Alex just shook her head, a look of fond exasperation on her face. "Sorry about... all this," she said, gesturing vaguely at the chaotic energy of her home.
"I think it's awesome," I said honestly.
We settled at the dining room table, the familiar scent of the Dunphy house—something like laundry detergent and cinnamon—all around us. We laid out our books, the silence stretching for a moment.
"Okay," Alex said, all business. "So, colonial trade routes. We need to analyze the economic and political impact on one specific region."
"Right," I said. "But just reading and taking notes is boring. How about a warm-up? Word association. I'll start." I looked at her, my mind suddenly sharp and focused on the game. "Triangular Trade."
She didn't hesitate. "Mercantilism."
"British Empire."
"Hegemony."
A slow smile spread across her face. "Show-off."
"Your turn," I countered, smiling back. And just like that, the project wasn't a chore. It was a game. Our game.
We went on like that, batting historical concepts back and forth, building a web of ideas that was far more interesting than any textbook chapter. She was explaining the nuances of the Navigation Acts, her eyes bright with an intellectual fire that I found myself getting completely lost in. She gestured with her hands as she spoke, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, completely absorbed in the topic.
I realized I hadn't heard the last ten seconds of what she'd said.
I was simply watching her. The way the afternoon light from the window caught the edge of her glasses, the fierce intelligence in her expression, the way her brow furrowed in concentration. My carefully planned strategies, my internal monologues, my entire analytical framework—it all just dissolved, replaced by a simple, overwhelming thought.
She's beautiful.
It was a new kind of quiet, a new kind of focus, and it had absolutely nothing to do with history.