The locker room was loud, but it wasn't a party. It was the sharp, percussive sound of relief.
The air was a fog of steam from the showers and the acidic, celebratory sting of cheap sparkling cider being sprayed. Music blared from a single speaker, but it was competing with the sounds of tape being ripped off ankles and the slam of locker doors. It was the sound of a team that had been through a grinder and just barely come out on top.
Leo was one of the last ones in, his hair soaked in sweat, his jersey heavy. He'd been mobbed by the "Blue Wave" student section, his hand stinging from a hundred high-fives.
The moment he walked in, Sam—his face bright red, his uniform stained—grabbed him in a sweaty, desperate hug.
"YOU PASSED IT!" Sam screamed over the music, shaking him. "I was... I was scared, man! I was 1-for-5! I was bricking everything! And you... you still... you passed it!"
"You were in your spot, Sam," Leo said, his voice hoarse, a massive grin plastered on his face. "I trusted you. You hit the shot."
"I... I hit the shot!" Sam repeated, his voice cracking, as if the reality was just setting in. He looked around, his eyes wild. "I HIT THE SHOT!"
"ALRIGHT, MUSIC OFF! SHUT IT UP! BRING IT IN!"
Coach Miller's voice sliced through the noise. The speaker went dead, leaving a buzzing, expectant silence. The team—gassed, sore, and victorious—shuffled to the center of the room.
Miller was pacing, his face flushed, his expensive polo damp with cider.
"I have... two things... to say!" he boomed. "First: That was the gutsiest win I have seen from a Crestwood team in five years. You got punched in the mouth. That 1-3-1 was my call, and it was garbage. And you... you adjusted. You listened. You fought. You didn't play 'showtime.' You played defense. You played ugly. And you won. I am proud of you."
A ragged cheer went up. Miller held up his hand.
"Second," he said, his smile vanishing, his eyes turning to steel. "It was ugly. We got lucky. Our transition defense was lazy. Our rotations were slow. And some of you... some of you thought you could just show up."
His eyes found Dylan Riley. The "Flash" was sitting on a bench, his head down, untaping his ankles. He hadn't played a single minute in the fourth quarter.
"Riley!" Miller snapped.
Dylan's head shot up.
"You are fast," Miller said, his voice sharp. "But tonight, you were predictable. You were one-dimensional. That Redwood defender... he owned you. Why? Because you're a one-trick pony. You have no left hand. You spin... every... single... time. Until you fix that, until you become a basketball player instead of just a track star... you are a liability. You understand me?"
Dylan's face was white. He just nodded, his jaw clenched. "Yes, Coach."
"And Moss!" Miller pointed to Benjy, the athletic freshman, who flinched. "You... you have wings, son. I see you in practice. You can fly. And you took... zero... shots. You grabbed one... rebound. You... you are playing scared. I need... you... to be aggressive! I need... you... to attack! I don't care if you miss! I care... that you're invisible! Fix it!"
"Yes, Coach," Benjy mumbled, staring at his sneakers.
Miller's gaze swept the room. "Vance. Hayes." His captains. "Your call to switch to man-to-man... it was the right call. It won us the game. Sam. That shot... that took guts. Good. Now... hit the showers. We have a short practice tomorrow. We don't get complacent. But... tonight," his promoter's smile returned, just a crack. "Tonight... you can smile. You earned it. Get out of here."
The team broke, the tension snapping. As Leo headed to his locker, he was intercepted by Maya Davis. She was standing by the door, clipboard in hand, her face a mask of cool professionalism.
"Captain," she said, her voice crisp.
"Manager," Leo replied, grinning.
"Official stats," she said, tapping her clipboard. "You were right. They shot 83% from the corner against the 1-3-1. In the second half, after the switch, we held them to 31% from the field. Your adjustment... was the entire game."
"I... I had good data," Leo said, his mind flashing to Kian.
"And your steal on Brooks," she continued, her eyes sharp, analytical. "That... seemed... personal. You... you knew... he was going to throw that pass, didn't you?"
Leo's face went hot. He thought of Kian's voice: Hates pressure. All right-hand. He just shrugged. "I... I just... I saw... his eyes."
Maya looked at him for a long, uncomfortable second. She knew there was more, but she let it go. "Good eyes, Captain. That was... a hell of a debut."
"Thanks, Maya," Leo said, his heart full. "We... we all... earned it."
Twenty minutes later, Leo was showered, changed, and walking out of the locker room. The gym was quiet, the only sound the pop-pop-pop of the janitor's mop. The air smelled of popcorn and victory.
He was buzzing. He was alive.
He walked into the main lobby, and his heart did a stupid, clumsy lurch.
She was there.
Chloe Kim was leaning against the far wall, by the trophy case, her hands in the pockets of her jacket. Her friends were gone. She was waiting.
She saw him, and her face lit up with that smile, the one that felt like it was just for him.
"So," she said, her voice a little shy, now that they were alone. "The... the hero... finally... emerges."
Leo felt his face go hot. "I... I... it wasn't... it was the team..."
"It... it was," she agreed, walking toward him. "But... you... you led them. That... that pass, Leo... I... I get... basketball. My dad... he's a fanatic. Most guys... they... they take... that shot. They... they want... the... the glory. You... you gave it away."
"He... he was in his spot," Leo repeated, feeling stupid. It was the only thing he could think of.
"You trusted him," she corrected, her voice soft. "That's... that's better... than glory."
They just... stood there, in the empty, echoing lobby, smiling at each other.
"So," Leo said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. "The... uh... 'The Grind'? You... you still... want... to...?"
"I... I definitely... still want... to," she said, laughing. "I'm... I'm starving."
"Me too," Leo said.
The walk to the coffee shop was... easy. Leo, who was normally awkward and clumsy with his words, felt... fluid. He was high on adrenaline and victory, and Chloe... she was just... easy.
She didn't play games. She didn't mock him. She listened. She asked about the game. She asked about Julian. She asked why he'd switched to man-to-man.
"That... that was your call, wasn't it?" she asked, as they crossed the street.
"It... it was... partly," Leo said. "The... the data... was... obvious. The... the team... saw it..."
"But you... you saw it... first, didn't you?" she said, her eyes sharp.
Leo looked at her. "Yeah. I... I did."
"The Grind" was quiet. A few other students were there, finishing up homework. It wasn't a party. It was... calm. They found a small booth in the back. For the next hour, it was a blur. They just... talked.
And she listened.
"So," she said, sipping her hot chocolate. "You... you knew... that... that Brooks guy... was going to... throw... that pass."
"I... I had a hunch he didn't like pressure," Leo said carefully.
"And you trusted Sam. Even after he was bricking... everything." She looked at him, her head tilted. "You... you're different, Leo. You... you don't... think... you're... a gift. You... you know... you... you have... to earn... it."
Leo... Leo felt... seen. In a way that... that no one... ever... had. Not his mom. Not his grandpa. Certainly not Kian.
"I... I..." he started, his throat thick. "I... I do... work... hard..."
"I... I know," she said. She... she reached across... the table. She... she put her hand... on top... of his.
It was... warm.
"I... I work hard, too," she said, her voice soft. "My... my piano... my... my grades... It... it doesn't... come easy... for me. I... I get it."
Leo... Leo just... looked... at her hand. He... he turned his own hand... over. He... he held... hers.
They... they just... sat... like that.
It was almost midnight when he got home. The walk from The Grind had been silent, electric. He'd walked her to her door. It... it had been... perfect.
He was... floating.
He opened the massive front door of the Vance estate. The house was... tomb-silent. It was a cold, dark, marble void.
The contrast... from the warmth... of "The Grind"... from the light... in Chloe's... eyes... it was... jarring.
"Leo?"
A voice from the dark. Leo jumped.
The... the light... in the library... flicked on.
Arthur Vance was sitting in his high-backed chair, a book on his lap. He... he had waited up.
"Grandpa," Leo said, his voice full of relief. "You... you scared me."
Arthur just... looked at him. He smiled. A real, proud... smile. "Heard... there was... a... a game... tonight."
"Yeah," Leo said, walking into the room. "Yeah, Grandpa. We... we won."
"I... I heard... it was... a... a steal... and a... a pass... at the buzzer," Arthur said, his eyes shining. "I... I heard... the Captain... trusted... his teammate."
Leo... beamed. "Yeah. Yeah, he... he did."
"That's... that's not... talent, Leo," Arthur said, his voice soft. "That's... that's not... a gift. That's... leadership. And that... that's... harder. That's... better."
Leo felt his throat tighten. "Thanks, Grandpa."
"Go... go to bed," Arthur said, picking up his book. "You... you earned... it."
Leo nodded. He walked out, his heart so full he thought it might burst.
He walked up the grand, sweeping staircase. He was... the man. He... he was.
He reached the top landing. He walked down the hall.
He passed Kian's room.
The door was closed. As always.
But... under the door... was a sliver of light.
Kian was awake.
Leo... stopped. He... he had... to tell him. He... he had... to burst in... and... and say... "You were RIGHT! The data! Devin! The skip-pass! It... it all... happened! We... we WON... because... of YOU!"
He... he raised... his... hand... to knock.
And... he stopped.
His hand... froze... in the air.
He thought... of... Kian's face. The... the shame. The... the panic. He... he thought... of... Milo. Of... the quarry.
He's... he's... complicated.
Leo... realized... something.
If... if he knocked... if he... told... Kian... this... news... he... he wouldn't... be making... Kian... happy.
He... he would... be making... himself... happy.
He... he would be forcing... Kian... back... into... the game. The... the game... that Kian... hated.
He... he wanted... Kian... to be... happy... for him.
But... Kian... wasn't ready.
Leo... lowered... his... hand.
Leadership. That's... what... Grandpa... said.
Leadership... isn't... just... on the court.
He... he looked... at the... closed door.
"Good... good night, Kian," he... whispered... to the... wood. "And... and... thanks."
He turned. He walked to his own room.
He closed the door, leaving his brother alone, with his own demons, in the dark.
Leo was the captain. He had the win. He had the girl.
But... it... it still... wasn't... enough. Because... the one person... he... really... needed... to share... it with... was... on the other side... of a locked door.