Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
The office smelled of stale coffee and fresh paint. It was a small, windowless box tucked behind the equipment room of the Palisades gym, a space that had been used for storage until Casey Jones arrived. Now, a metal desk sat in the center, flanked by two filing cabinets and a whiteboard that still smelled of factory chemicals.
Casey sat behind the desk, his massive frame making the swivel chair look like a toy. He was leaning back, tossing a stress ball hand-to-hand, watching me with that heavy, assessing gaze he used before a spar.
"So, Naird," Casey began, tossing the ball up one last time and catching it with a snap. "We have a team. We have a gym. We have... whatever the hell you call that offense you were running yesterday." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Now, tell me the roadmap. How do you want to proceed with the Regional Tournaments?"
I sat opposite him, my posture relaxed but my mind already projecting the bracket.
"It's a ladder," Brad explained, pointing to the empty whiteboard. "Currently, Palisades is ranked in Division III. That's the basement. We're playing against schools that barely field five proper athletes."
I stood up, grabbed a marker, and drew a pyramid.
"Since we are in Division III, we have to do more than just win games. We have to dominate." I tapped the base of the pyramid. "We will have to come out as the top team—undefeated in league play, high margin of victory. That is the only way for us to qualify for the Open Division playoffs."
"The Open Division," Casey mused. "That's where the private schools play, Roosevelts Sierra Canyon."
"Exactly," I said. "It's the shark tank. But if we win the Open Division, or even place high, the CIF rules dictate a promotion. We will be able to jump to Division I by next year."
I drew a line to the very top of the pyramid, circling the peak.
"And if we carry that momentum?" I looked at him. "We could also potentially win the State Championship."
Casey let out a short, dry laugh. He shook his head, looking at me like I'd just suggested we fly to the moon on a hang glider.
"Kid, slow your roll," Casey told him, leaning back again. "Winning State? With a team that was missing layups twenty-four hours ago? That might be a bit hard for now." He gestured to the middle of the pyramid. "Winning high in the Open Division? Making some noise? That is certainly doable. But State is a meat grinder."
"I don't play for 'doable'," I told him flatly. "I would still aim for State. Because what's the point of putting in the effort—the drills, the strategy, the pain—if not to get the highest reward available?"
I capped the marker with a sharp click. "We have the talent. I have the System. You have the conditioning. Why settle for a participation trophy in the Open Division when we can take the crown?"
Casey appreciated his enthusiasm; I could see the glint of respect in his eyes. He liked fight. But the coach in him—the man who had seen seasons collapse under the weight of expectation—remained cautious.
"I like the fire, Naird," he told him. "But stay grounded regardless. You aim for the stars, you might trip over your own shoelaces. We focus on the game in front of us."
"Agreed," I said, sitting back down. "But the vision remains."
The conversation shifted to the mechanics of the season. This was the friction point I had anticipated.
"Now, regarding the game management," I started, keeping my tone diplomatic. "Since you are a football coach, you can't be expected to know the nuances of basketball rules and plays. The illegal defenses, the three-second violations, the specific rotations of a triangle offense..."
Casey interrupted him, holding up a hand. "Stop right there."
He stood up and walked to the bookshelf behind him, pulling out a thick binder. He slammed it on the desk. It was the NFHS Basketball Rulebook, alongside a coaching manual for the Princeton Offense.
"I can read, Bradley," Casey said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'm a professional coach. It's my job to know the game. I will learn all the necessary things needed by the end of the week. Don't mistake my background for ignorance."
"I don't doubt your ability to learn," I still emphasized, leaning forward. "But reading a book and seeing the floor are two different things. I have been dissecting this game since I could walk."
I locked eyes with him. "Regardless of you learning everything about basketball, I will manage the team strategy and plays. I call the offense. I call the defensive sets."
Casey stared at me. The air in the small office grew thick. Two alphas, one territory.
"You're a freshman," Casey reminded me softly.
"And you're a football coach," I countered. "We stick to our strengths. You build the engine; I drive the car."
He had seen the scrimmage. He knew I had organized a defense out of chaos in seconds. He knew I saw angles the others didn't.
"Fine," Casey grunted. "You have a high IQ. I'll grant you that. But I will also partake in these strategy decisions. I'm not just a whistle-blower. If I see a weakness in the opponent, we exploit it. If I see a player slacking on a rotation, I pull him."
"Input is fine," I again made it clear. "But I will have the final call. Not you."
Casey frowned "No, that doesn't work. If we're on the sideline in the fourth quarter and we disagree, we can't have a debate. I'm the adult in the room, Naird."
He paused, studying me. He knew I wouldn't yield easily.
"Tell you what," Casey proposed. "If it comes to a contention—if you want to run a play and I hate it—we allow the team to decide."
I narrowed my eyes. "A vote?"
"A trust exercise," Casey corrected. "If you're the leader you think you are, they'll follow you. If I'm doing my job right, they'll trust my judgment. In a stalemate, the team picks the play."
I could see that Casey will not allow me absolute control. He had too much pride for that. But I ran the calculations instantly.
Leo respects my IQ. Patrick is competing with me but follows my lead on the court. David does whatever wins. Steve is terrified of Casey but indebted to me for the exhibition game.
And Damien? Damien was a wildcard, but he cared about winning. He knew I was the best chance at that.
I have the votes, I surmised. Even if Casey disagrees, the core unit—Leo, Patrick, David, Steve—will follow my lead. And the others will follow once we start winning games with my strategies.
"Acceptable, we let the team decide."
Casey smirked, likely thinking he had won a concession. He didn't realize he had just handed me the reins wrapped in the illusion of democracy.
"Good," Casey said, sitting back down. He pulled a notepad closer. "Now, my domain. Conditioning."
He flipped the pad open. It was filled with scribbles—names, weights, times from the combine yesterday.
"We are too small and too slow," Casey outlined. "I will design player-specific training regimens in order to bring everyone to their highest physical levels."
He pointed to a name: David.
"David is big, but he's soft. He needs explosive power. I'm putting him on a heavy lifting program. Squats, deadlifts, sled pushes."
He pointed to Steve.
"Steve has no stamina. He's doing interval training until his lungs bleed. And you," he looked at me. "You're fast, but you're light. You get pushed around by bigger bodies. We're going to add lean mass. Plyometrics and core stability."
"That works. If we can outrun them in the fourth quarter, my strategy becomes ten times more effective" I stated without conflict.
Casey tapped the desk with his pen. "There's one more thing."
He looked at the roster sheet—a list of fifteen names.
"Fifteen is too many," Casey then stated. "Half those kids on the 'Black Team' yesterday? They looked like they were going to pass out during the warm-up. They don't have the heart for this."
He looked at me with a cold, ruthless practicality. "We will need to kick out players from the team. It is too crowded and needs to be streamlined. I want a roster of ten. Maybe twelve, tops. The rest? Cut 'em."
The roster sheet lay on the metal desk between us, a piece of paper that held the fate of fifteen teenagers. Casey picked up a red marker, uncapped it with his teeth, and looked at me.
"Let's trim the fat," Casey grunted. "Who goes?"
I didn't hesitate, I reached over, took the marker from his hand, and drew four thick, violent lines through four specific names.
"Jackson. Meyer. Rizzo. And Johnson," I listed, capping the marker and tossing it back onto the roster. "Gone. Immediately."
Casey picked up the sheet, squinting at the crossed-out names. "Right off the bat, huh?" He tapped the paper. "I can see Meyer and Johnson. They were gasping for air five minutes into the suicides. But Jackson? He's a senior. He's got size. He's six-two. In this league, height is a premium."
"Height is useless if it doesn't leave the ground," I had to win this argument above all else. "Jackson is lazy. He thinks his seniority guarantees him minutes. He sets soft screens because he doesn't like contact, and he refuses to box out because he thinks rebounding is beneath him."
Casey leaned back, studying me. He sensed there was more to it than just basketball mechanics. "You crossed them out fast, Naird. That's not just analysis. That's personal."
"It's both," I admitted, not breaking eye contact. "Their attitude is lackadaisical. They skipped three practices last week because they thought 'freshman captain' meant 'optional attendance'. They poison the locker room."
I paused, deciding to lay all the cards on the table.
"And on my first day at this school," I finally mentioned, "those four cornered me in the gym. They assaulted me. They tried to put me in the hospital because I didn't 'respect the hierarchy'."
Casey's expression darkened instantly. The playful cynicism vanished, replaced by a hard, cold look of disgust.
"They jumped you?" Casey questioned.
"They tried," I corrected. "It didn't end well for them. But I don't want guys on my team who look at me with disdain. I need guys who look at me with trust."
Casey was none too appreciative of that. He shook his head, looking down at the names with newfound contempt. "Cowards. You try to jump a teammate? You're trash."
He picked up the red marker and drew another line through Jackson's name, pressing so hard the tip squeaked.
"I was gonna kick them out based on their performance either way," Casey stated flatly. "Jackson moves like he's running in timberlands, and Rizzo has the hand-eye coordination of a brick. But hearing they tried to jump you? Now I'm going to enjoy posting this list."
He looked back at the remaining names. "Okay. The trash is out. Who stays?"
I pointed to two names near the bottom of the senior list.
"Packerd and Charlie," Brad made a point to keep them.
Casey frowned. "Charlie? The kid who airballed the game-winner in the scrimmage?"
"He airballed because he was panicked," I argued. "But remember his form. His elbow was tucked. His release was high. In practice, when he has rhythm, he hits forty percent from deep. He's a spot-up shooter. If I draw the double team, I need someone in the corner who can stretch the floor."
"He's mentally soft," Casey countered.
"Then we harden him," I said. "Or at least, we teach him to breathe. I can get him open looks where he doesn't have to think, just shoot."
Casey grunted, conceding the point. "And Packerd? He's a foul machine. He hacks anything that moves."
"He's aggressive," I said. "Jackson avoids contact; Packerd seeks it out. He's clumsy, yes, but he sets hard screens. He boxed out David yesterday—and David is a tank. Packerd didn't win the rebound, but he kept David from getting a clean grab. We need an enforcer off the bench. Someone to give us six fouls and a few bruises."
Casey nodded slowly. "Okay. The 'Goon' role. I can respect that. I can teach him to move his feet so he stops picking up charging calls."
A detailed discussion ensued as we went down the rest of the list, dissecting the sophomores and the remaining bench warmers.
"What about the twins?" Casey asked, tapping two names. "Gonzalez brothers."
"Keep them," I said. "They're fast. They play soccer in the summer, so their footwork is good. They don't have handles, but they can run the floor on a fast break."
"Agreed," Casey said. "Conditioning is decent. They didn't quit on the sprints."
He pointed to another name. "Simmons?"
"Cut him," I said ruthlessly. "He cares more about his hair than the game. I saw him checking his reflection in the trophy case during a timeout yesterday."
"Done," Casey laughed, crossing him out. "Vanity is a disease."
We debated for another twenty minutes. We argued over a junior who had good hands but slow feet. Casey wanted to keep him for potential; I thought he clogged the lane. Eventually, Casey won that one, arguing that you can't teach size.
Finally, Casey sat back, looking at the scarred, ink-stained paper.
"Ten guys," Casey summarized. "Your starting five: You, Leo, Patrick, David, Damien." He tapped the bench list. "Reserves: Steve, Packerd, Charlie, the Gonzalez twins."
"Eleven if we keep the slow junior," I noted.
"We'll keep him on probation," Casey decided. "Practice squad. If he speeds up, he suits up."
He folded the paper. "This is a lean roster, Naird. If we get into foul trouble or catch the flu bug, we're playing Ironman basketball."
"Then we get in better shape than everyone else," I said. "We don't need depth if we don't get tired."
Casey grinned. "Music to my ears."
He stood up and tacked the paper onto the corkboard behind him. "I will post the list tomorrow morning on the locker room door. There's gonna be some crying."
"Let them cry, better they cry now than when we lose a game."
I checked the clock on the wall. 4:15 PM.
"Shit," I muttered, standing up abruptly.
"What?" Casey asked.
"I'm late," I said, grabbing my backpack. "I have... an appointment."
Casey looked at me, scanning my sudden urgency. "Appointment?"
"Something like that," I said, heading for the door.
"I need your head in the game Naird don't lose focus" Coach Casey (CC?) yelled as I was leaving.
"Focus is my middle name, Coach," I shot back.
I then made my way out from the office, bursting through the gym doors and into the cooling afternoon air. I sprinted across the parking lot toward the black SUV.
I checked my phone as I unlocked the door. Two texts from Alex.
Lexi: You didn't forget, did you?
Brad: On my way
I winced. I was already running a bit late. I threw my bag into the back seat and told Harris to fire up the engine.
"I'm coming, Lexi," I whispered, peeling out of the lot.