Kian slung his bag over his shoulder, the familiar weight a comfort, an anchor back to reality. He'd already put the game—the pest control—out of his mind. It was over. The noise was gone. Now, he could go home.
"Let's go," he said again, not looking back.
He walked toward his bike, which was chained to a rusted fence post. Ren and Silas, after a second of stunned paralysis, finally snapped into motion, scrambling down the concrete stands to follow him.
"Kian... what... what was that?" Silas finally managed to say, his voice an octave higher than usual. "You... you dunked! I didn't even know you could jump that high! And the backward shot? Was that a fluke? It had to be a fluke, right?"
"He's not answering you, man," Ren said, his own voice unusually tight. He was watching Kian with a new, sharp intensity. "He's in his 'shutdown' mode."
"But, dude!" Silas was practically vibrating. "He just took on three high schoolers! Three! And he didn't just beat them, he... he dismantled them! He broke their ankles, their pride... Devin was literally crying!"
"They were loud," Kian said, his voice a low monotone as he crouched to undo the lock on his bike. "Now they're not."
"MISTER! MISTER, WAIT!"
Kian froze, his hand on the lock. He sighed, a deep, frustrated sound. He didn't turn around. He just closed his eyes. More noise.
The sound of small feet slapping frantically on the cracked asphalt grew closer.
"Please... wait!"
Kian stood up slowly and turned.
The six kids from the court were running toward him, their faces flushed with adrenaline and awe. The skinny one from before, the group's clear leader, skidded to a stop a few feet away, panting. The others huddled behind him, peering around his shoulders.
"What?" Kian's voice was flat, impatient, and cold.
The skinny kid, who couldn't have been more than nine, had to take a deep breath to speak. He was looking at Kian as if he was staring at a superhero who had just saved the city. His eyes were huge and shining.
"That... that was... that was the coolest thing I have ever seen in my whole life!" the kid burst out.
Another, smaller boy with glasses, peeked out. "You... you were like a ninja! You went whoosh and zhoosh and the ball just... it listened to you!"
"Are you... are you a pro?" a little girl with pigtails asked, her voice a whisper. "Are you famous?"
Kian just stared. His annoyance was a physical thing, a tightening in his chest. He hated this. He hated the questions, hated the attention, hated the shining, hopeful looks in their eyes. It was all so... complicated. He just wanted to be left alone.
"I'm not a pro," he said. "Go home. It's getting late."
He turned back to his bike.
"But... but... how?" the skinny kid, Milo, pressed, stepping forward again. He wasn't giving up. "How did you do that? The way you... you didn't even look! You just... knew! And the dribbling! They couldn't even touch you!"
Kian's hand tightened on his bike's handlebars. "I don't play."
"But you did!" Milo insisted, his voice cracking with earnestness. "You just... you just saved us! Devin and his jerks... they do that all the time! They take our ball, they push us... and we can't do anything. But you..."
The kid's entire body was vibrating with a desperate, simple request. "Please... will you teach us? Teach us to do that! Just... just the dribbling part! Or the... the backward shot! Please! We'll do anything! We'll... we'll buy you sodas!"
"We have... we have candy!" the little girl, Ana, offered, holding out a half-empty bag of gummy bears as if it were a treasure.
Kian looked from the gummy bears to the kids' faces.
And there it was.
It was the "look." The same one he'd seen on the bus, the one that made his chest feel tight. That pure, unfiltered, weapons-grade cuteness. Their eyes were wide, hopeful, and completely, devastatingly innocent. They weren't like Mia, the senior, who wanted something from him—his attention, his reputation. They weren't like his brother, who wanted him to be part of a team.
These kids... they just saw something beautiful, something impossible, and they wanted to know how it worked. They were puppies, seeing a magic trick.
Kian's jaw clenched. He hated this. He hated that this look... it worked on him. His anger and annoyance didn't disappear, but they were suddenly joined by a frustrating, unwelcome wave of... softness. He couldn't be cruel to them. He just... couldn't.
He had to settle for being firm.
He tore his gaze away from them and looked at a point on the warehouse wall. "No."
The kids' faces fell in unison. The light in their eyes dimmed.
"I don't teach," Kian said, his voice a little rougher than he intended. "And I told you, I don't play. That... that was a one-time thing. Pest control. That's all."
"Oh," Milo said, his voice small. He looked down at his sneakers. "So... you're not... you won't be back tomorrow?"
Kian was already swinging his leg over his bike. He saw Silas and Ren watching him, and he saw the exact moment they both registered his (infuriating) internal conflict. Silas was biting his lip to keep from smiling.
Kian looked back at Milo. The kid was trying to be brave, but his disappointment was a tangible thing.
Kian just... stared. He should say "no." He should say "never." He should say "get lost and don't bother me again." But the words got stuck. The kid's hopeful, now-crushed expression was a physical barrier in his throat.
"I told you," Kian said finally, his voice clipped. "Be quiet. This is a quiet place."
He didn't say yes. He didn't say no.
He just pushed off, his bike rolling. "Let's go, guys."
Silas and Ren scrambled onto their own bikes, following him. They rode in silence for a full minute, leaving the kids—who were now watching them go with a renewed, confused flicker of hope—behind at the quarry.
Finally, Silas pedaled hard to catch up, coasting alongside Kian. He had a massive, insufferable grin on his face.
"You so melted," Silas said, singing the words.
"Shut up, Silas," Kian growled, staring straight ahead.
"No, dude, you totally did! You were this close to saying yes! 'I... buh... fuh... be quiet!' That's Kian-speak for 'aww, you guys are so cute, okay, fine.'"
"I was telling them to be quiet. They're loud."
"They had you," Silas laughed. "Those little puppy-dog eyes? Your one weakness! That, and old-man-Vance."
"He's not wrong," Ren said, gliding up on Kian's other side. His voice was more serious. "You hesitated. You wanted to."
"I wanted to leave," Kian said.
"Which brings us back to the more important point," Ren said, his analytical gaze fixed on Kian's profile. "That wasn't 'pest control,' Kian. That was... practiced."
Kian's rhythm on the pedals faltered for just a beat. "It was luck."
"Luck?" Silas screeched. "Luck?! The 1-on-3? The nutmeg? The... the dunk? You've been holding out on us! You've been practicing! All this time, you... you practice!"
"The backward shot was luck," Ren corrected, his voice precise. "The footwork wasn't. The court vision wasn't. The ball-handling... that wasn't luck, Kian. That was work. Years of it."
Kian said nothing. He just pushed harder, his bike pulling ahead. The accusation—the truth—hung in the air between them. He did practice. Not often. Not because he wanted to. But because... because sometimes the memories got too loud, and the only way to silence them was to... to do it. To prove to the ghost in his head that he still could. That the "gift" his father had been so obsessed with was still his, to use or to waste as he saw fit.
"I don't play," he said, his voice sharp and final, a clear end to the conversation.
Silas and Ren exchanged a look behind his back. It was a look that said, 'Well. That's new.'
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
Kian split off from his friends at the main gates, his bike tires crunching on the pristine white gravel of the Vance estate's long, winding driveway. The contrast between the weed-choked, rusty quarry and this was always jarring. Here, everything was perfect. The lawns were emerald green, the hedges were perfectly sculpted, and the massive, white-columned house loomed at the top of the hill, a fortress of old money.
He wheeled his bike around the back, to the carriage house, and let himself in through the kitchen.
The house was quiet, smelling of lemon oil and the faint, sweet scent of baking bread.
"Kian, darling, is that you?"
He followed the voice to the grand library. His grandfather, Arthur Vance, was in his usual spot, a high-backed leather wingchair, a thick book in his lap. A fire crackled in the hearth, even though it wasn't particularly cold.
Kian's face, cold and hard from the ride, softened. The smallest, most genuine smile touched his lips. "Hey, Grandpa."
"You're late," Arthur said. He didn't look up from his book, but his voice was warm. "Silas and Ren keep you out?"
"Something like that," Kian said, dropping his bag by the door.
Arthur marked his page with a leather bookmark and finally looked up, his sharp blue eyes—the only eyes in the family Kian shared—surveying him. "You've been to that old court again."
It wasn't a question. Kian's smile faded. "How'd you know?"
"You smell of rust and... and frustration," Arthur said. He motioned to the chair opposite him. Kian sat. "That place is a ruin, Kian. Why do you go there? We have a perfectly good... well, we have a perfectly good half-court by the pool house."
"The 'ruin' is quiet," Kian said.
"Mm." Arthur stared into the fire. "A court isn't for quiet, Kian. It's for... noise. For squeaking shoes and a shouting crowd and the swish of a net." He looked back at Kian, his gaze softening. "It's for playing."
"I was just thinking."
"Were you?" Arthur's gaze was knowing. "Or were you... remembering? You know, you have his eyes, but you have your mother's stubbornness. It's a... volatile combination."
Kian shifted. This was the one conversation he couldn't just walk away from. "Grandpa..."
"When are you going to stop?" Arthur asked, his voice gentle.
"Stop what?"
"Punishing the game... for what the man did."
Kian's jaw set. The warmth was gone, replaced by the familiar cold. "I'm not. I just... I don't like it. It's boring."
"You, my boy," Arthur said, a sad smile on his face, "are the worst liar in this family. You never were any good at it." He sighed and picked his book back up. "But, like your mother, you'll come to it in your own time. Or you won't. Either way, you're late for your snack."
Kian stood, grateful for the dismissal. "Love you, Grandpa."
"I know. Now go, before your mother sends a search party."
Kian left the library and headed for the main hall. He could hear his brother's voice before he even saw him.
"—and then, Coach Miller, he was right! Dylan only goes left! He can't... oh, hey, Mom. He's... he's fast, but he's predictable. And Sam... God, Sam was 4-for-15 again. I'm not... Kian!"
Leo came bounding out of the home gym, a massive, gleaming space that took up an entire wing of the house. He was drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, and he was vibrating with a manic, post-practice energy. He had clearly just finished a second workout after his tryout.
Alicia, their mother, was leaning against the grand staircase, smiling, a glass of water in her hand for him. "Leo, honey, breathe. You're going to pass out."
"I can't, Mom! Tryouts were... they were something." Leo beamed at Kian, his passion making him oblivious to his brother's closed-off expression. "Man, you should have been there. It was... well, it was a mess. But a good mess! This new kid, Benjy, he's a freshman, tiny, but he can fly."
"Don't care," Kian said, his voice flat. He tried to walk past, up the stairs.
Leo's face fell, his excitement deflating like a popped balloon. "Kian, come on. Just... just for one second. Can't you just... listen?"
"No."
"It's about you!" Leo blurted out, frustrated.
Kian stopped, his foot on the third step. He turned his head slowly. "What did you say?"
"Coach Miller," Leo said, stepping forward. "He... he asked about you. Julian, too. They... they want you on the team, Kian."
"I'm in middle school," Kian said, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Next year! He wants you practicing with varsity next year. He... he said he remembered seeing you play. When you were a kid." Leo, in his excitement, rushed on, "He said... he said you got more of Dad's genes than I did. He said you had the... the 'gift'."
The air in the hallway went arctic.
Kian's hand, resting on the polished banister, tightened until his knuckles were white. He turned, his whole body now facing his brother. His eyes were not just cold. They were ice.
"He said that," Kian whispered.
"Yeah!" Leo said, somehow missing the change. "He said you were 'magic.' He knows how good you are! If you just came... "
"Coach Miller," Kian interrupted, his voice a low, vicious hum, "is a... a showboating, second-rate hack who only got the Crestwood job because he... because our father... made a call for him. He's a leech. He was one of them. One of the... the parasites who hung around, telling him how great he was."
"Kian..." Leo's voice was small now. He knew he'd crossed a line.
"And you," Kian said, taking a step down, "you... you listen to him? You want to play for him? You're running suicides and listening to his locker-room speeches... all for him?"
"I'm not... I'm playing for the team, Kian! I'm playing because I love it!"
"You love it?" Kian's laugh was a sharp, ugly sound. "You love his game. The game that broke this family. The game that he chose over us. Over Mom. Over you."
"That's not... Kian, that's not fair!" Leo's voice was rising, hurt and angry. "It's just a game! It's not his!"
"It is his!" Kian snapped, his voice finally rising. "It's all he ever cared about! And you... you're just like him!"
That, finally, silenced Leo. He looked as if Kian had physically slapped him. His face went pale, his eyes wide with shock and a deep, profound hurt.
Alicia stepped forward, her face stern. "Kian Arthur Vance. That is enough."
Kian looked at his mother, then at his brother's devastated expression. The coldness in his eyes flickered, replaced by a flash of... something. Regret? But it was gone as fast as it came, buried under the ice.
He said nothing. He just turned, his back to both of them, and walked up the stairs.
This time, his door didn't just click shut. It slammed, the sound echoing through the massive, perfect, silent house.
Leo stood in the hall, his shoulders slumped, the sweat from his workout suddenly cold on his skin. He stared at the spot where his brother had been.
Alicia came up and put a hand on his arm.
"Why...?" Leo whispered, his voice thick. "Why does he say that, Mom? He knows... he knows I'm not like him. Why would he say that?"
Alicia sighed, her eyes on the top of the stairs. Her face was etched with a sadness that was years old.
"He doesn't hate you, Leo," she said, her voice soft. "He's just... he's angry. And he doesn't know where to put it all."
"He puts it on me," Leo said, his voice bitter.
"He puts it on the game," she corrected gently. "And you, my sweet boy... you are the game. You're all of the good parts of it. The hard work, the passion, the loyalty. Everything... everything his father wasn't."
She squeezed his arm. "He's just... he's still so lost, Leo. He's still that ten-year-old boy, waiting on a court for a father who never came home."
Leo looked down at his own hands. The calluses were rough against his palms. "So what am I supposed to do, Mom? Just... stop? Stop playing? Is that what it will take to... to get my brother back?"
"No, honey," Alicia said, her voice firm. "You're supposed to be his brother. You're supposed to be patient. And you're supposed to keep being everything he's afraid to be."
She kissed him on the cheek. "Go get a shower. You stink."
Leo nodded, but he didn't move. He just stared up the stairs, at the closed door, wondering if all the hard work in the world would ever be enough to fix the one thing he couldn't control.