The next morning Trey stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection as he ran a hand over his head. His hair was a little messy, a bunch of twists that needed retwisting soon. He wasn't too worried about it, though. He tied a headband around his forehead, pushing them back, then splashed some water on his face.
He was 5'10", not short but not exactly towering over anyone yet. He had always played bigger than his size, but he knew that wouldn't matter at the next level. High school was different. Grown-man strength. Faster, stronger players. It was about time to start hitting the weights.
His arms were lean but defined, the result of endless hours in the gym. His mom always joked that he spent more time on the court than anywhere else, and she wasn't wrong. Basketball was what he did.
He grabbed his phone, checked the time, then threw on a hoodie before heading to the kitchen.
His mom was at the stove, flipping an omelet while talking to someone on the phone. She turned as he sat down. "Morning."
"Morning," he said, scrolling through his phone as she slid a plate in front of him. Eggs, toast, and some turkey sausage.
"You nervous?" she asked, sitting across from him with her own plate.
"For what?"
She gave him a look. "Tryouts."
Trey smirked. "Nah."
She shook her head. "You should be. Being too confident gets people in trouble."
"I'm not too confident. I just know I'm making the team."
She took a sip of coffee. "That's what I mean."
Trey didn't argue. He wasn't about to sit here and act like he was some long shot hoping to scrape by. He knew what he could do, and Coach Davenport knew too.
After finishing his food, he grabbed his bag and headed for the door.
"See you later," his mom called.
"See you," Trey said, stepping outside.
The day moved slowly.
The first period was math, and he barely paid attention. Geometry wasn't going to help him on the court.
The second period, history, was better, mostly because Mr. Hawkins didn't force them to take notes. He just threw on a documentary and let them chill.
Lunch was the same as usual. He sat alone, scrolling through his phone, occasionally looking up at the chaos around him. West Newark wasn't some elite private school where kids wore uniforms and sat in neat rows at lunch tables. It was loud, crowded, and unorganized. People yelled across the cafeteria, threw fries at each other, and played music from their phones.
Nobody messed with him, though. He wasn't the loudest, but people knew he hooped.
Even if the school wasn't known for basketball, some of them still recognized his name from middle school. A few kids had asked if he was trying out, but there wasn't any real excitement.
That was the thing about West Newark. Nobody expected anything from the team. It had been bad for years. Guys made varsity, played their games, and went home. No hype. No future D1 players. Just another school with a basketball team.
Trey planned to change that.
The last class of the day was English, and he kept checking the time, waiting for the final bell. Tryouts were at four, and he was already itching to get to the gym.
When class finally ended, he walked straight to the locker room to change.
The gym was filling up when he got there.
Trey looked around and saw some familiar faces. Most of these guys had played with him at West Newark Middle. They were decent, but he already knew what he was up against.
The real challenge wasn't the players. It was Coach Davenport his former AAU coach and the head coach.
Coach stood near the free-throw line, arms crossed, looking over the group. He was a big dude, built like he could still play if he wanted to, but the most noticeable thing was his bald head.
The AAU team used to joke about it, calling him "Coach Chrome" behind his back. Trey had never said it himself, but he had definitely laughed a few times when he heard it.
Davenport was all business, though. He wasn't the type to run soft practices or let guys mess around. He wanted defense, structure, and discipline.
Trey knew what to expect.
Coach Davenport glanced around the gym, eyes scanning the group. His expression didn't change much, but Trey could tell he was already evaluating everyone.
"All right, listen up," Coach said, clapping his hands together. The gym noise died instantly.
"We're not wasting time today. If you're here just to mess around or say you 'tried out,' leave now. I'm looking for players, not guys who want a jersey for social media."
Nobody moved, but Trey could already see who wasn't built for this. Some of these dudes had no business trying out for varsity.
"You're gonna get an email tonight," Coach continued. "If you make the team, you'll know. If you don't, keep working."
A few players shifted uncomfortably. Trey didn't react. He wasn't worried about emails. He was here to take a spot.
Coach nodded toward the assistant coach, Mr. Whitaker, who had a clipboard in hand. "We're starting with conditioning. No ball yet. If you can't run, you can't play."
Trey exhaled through his nose.
This was the part that separated the serious hoopers from the ones who just liked basketball.
The next thirty minutes were brutal.
Suicides, full-court sprints, defensive slides, wall sits. No breaks, just straight work.
Trey had always been in shape, but even he was feeling it by the time they got to the last set of suicides. A few guys were already gassed, bent over with their hands on their knees.
Coach paced along the baseline, watching. "If you're tired, quit now. Ain't no shame in knowing your limits."
Nobody left, but one kid looked like he was about to pass out. Trey didn't recognize him, but he wouldn't be surprised if he never saw him again after today.
They finally got a water break. Trey grabbed his bottle from the sideline, taking a long sip. He glanced at Coach, who was looking right at him.
"Didn't expect to see you here, Treyvon," Coach said, walking over.
Trey smirked, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "Why not?"
Coach folded his arms. "Figured you'd be at Lakemont. Or Whitmore. Someplace that actually gets scouts in the gym."
Trey shrugged. "I'm here."
Coach let out a short breath, something between a chuckle and a scoff. "Yeah, you are."
He didn't say anything else. Just patted Trey on the shoulder before walking off.
The second half of tryouts was about actual basketball.
They ran through passing drills, layup lines, and shooting reps. Trey hit most of his shots, smooth and controlled, while some guys bricked their way through the drills.
Then they moved into 4-on-4 full court.
This was where Trey knew he could separate himself.
He got matched up with a junior named Andre Wallace, who had been the backup point guard last season. Trey had never played with him, but he had heard the name. He was solid, but not a real threat.
First play, Trey got the ball at the top of the key. Andre picked him up immediately, arms wide, feet moving.
Trey jab-stepped left, then crossed over hard to his right. Andre reacted, shifting his weight, but Trey had already changed direction again, snapping the ball between his legs before attacking left.
He felt the slight hesitation in Andre's movements. Got him.
Trey exploded into the lane rising up for a smooth floater. The ball dropped cleanly through the net.
Coach nodded slightly, arms still folded.
Trey jogged back on defense, keeping his expression neutral.
One play didn't mean anything.
But he had their attention now.