By the third day of tryouts, bodies were dropping like Wi-Fi signals.
Eighty boys had become fifty. Fifty had become thirty-five. Now it was closer to twenty-five, and some of the cuts were surprising—especially the seniors.
Word spread fast.
A few upperclassmen, already halfway to stitched jerseys and inflated egos, had been pulled aside and politely told: "Thanks, but this program is heading in a different direction."
Darius was still in it.
He bagged his footwork drills. Beat his sprint time. Hit free throws like they owed him favors. Ran the offense with a sharpness that even surprised him sometimes.
He was in rhythm.
He was in command.
He was also—unfortunately—completely unaware of the giant rulebook being outlined by the new coach at the very first whistle of Day One.
Because he'd been busy…
…mentally browsing accessories.
While Coach Daniels stood in front of the team that first afternoon—arms crossed, laying out new principles, ethics, codes of conduct, and probably the meaning of life—Darius had been ten feet away, nodding slowly… but not listening at all.
…but not listening at all.
"Compression sleeve unlocks at 'Creative Instincts' trait level two...""If I match the Neon Pulse headband with the Fearless Fade shorts—drip rating is elite.""Do I need goggles just for the mystique?"
From the outside? Daydreaming.
From the inside? NBA tunnel fit calculations.
And now, days later, as more seniors packed their gym bags in silent shame and whispers of "yo this coach really different" circled the locker room—Darius felt a chill of realization.
Wait… new coach…?
New rules…?
Did I… miss all of that?
Cue inner panic.
"If I celebrate after a layup, is that grounds for expulsion?" "What if socks aren't team color?" "Was there something about gum? I was chewing gum."
Despite the mild existential crisis, Darius kept dominating the court. He nailed close-outs. Threaded bounce passes. He even took a charge during scrimmage like it was personal.
But every time Coach Mthembu glanced his way…
Darius stood up straighter. Smiled less. Stopped showboating like a Disney Channel villain.
Just in case.
Because while he didn't know exactly what this new coach stood for—
He was certain doing finger guns after a mid-range jumper probably wasn't it.
The gym smelled like sweat, sneakers, and ambition on the verge of combustion.
Two hours of drills. Scrimmages. Close-outs. Shooting under fatigue. Defensive rotations that made grown boys collapse in unison like synchronized traffic cones.
At the start of the week, there had been nearly eighty players.
Now?
Twelve.
Twelve boys stood on the same polished hardwood, in the same lines they'd stood in days before.
But now, it felt different.
More space between them.
Less noise. No nervous laughter. Just the quiet hum of oxygen and disbelief. Because a lot of the ones who looked the part—the tall, the fast, the stacked-on-pre-workout—had cracked the moment the ball actually hit their hands.
And Darius? Darius had quietly bagged his fundamentals.
Solid passes. Sharp cuts. A crossover that was finally starting to feel like Kai's again—not just mimicry.
Still…
He hadn't hit all five of his system objectives. One of them—a clean no-look assist during the chaos of scrimmage—had slipped away while he'd been double-teamed and forced into a bailout pass.
His progress bar was 92%. So close it was actually insulting.
"You did well," the system said. "But greatness isn't handed out for almost."
So when Coach Daniels stepped forward, clipboard in hand, and said, "Congratulations. You twelve are the 2025 Roosevelt Ravens," the gym lit up with cheers— …but not from Darius.
He just stood there.
Still. Sweating. Low-key calculating ways to bend time and retry that pass.
Around him, fist bumps. Shouts. A random chest bump that ended poorly.
And then—
Coach Daniels raised a hand.
"Before you start celebrating like you won something, remember this: making the team is step one."
The smiles wavered.
"Tomorrow, we play for starting positions."
Just like that, the joy evaporated like sweat in a furnace.
No more clapping.
And in the middle of it all—Darius was the only one still smiling.
Now it was heartbeats again.
"First five are earned," the coach continued. "And they're earned against each other. Bring everything you've got."
The message hit hard enough to echo off the walls.
Darius stood in the back of the huddle.
Eyes narrowed. Brain dialing in.
Twelve now... but only five will matter when the buzzer sounds.
And he planned to be one of them.
...
The next day, the gym had that charged silence—like thunder waiting in the walls.
Twelve boys. Two teams. One rolling sub.
And Coach Daniels, clipboard in hand, had called out the names with surgical finality.
Darius heard his name third.
"Starting point guard. Navarro."
No hesitation. No disclaimer. Just confirmation.
Across from him? Jason Dobbins, junior. Built like stability. The kind of player who'd been "the guy" since freshman year. Known for efficiency, calm under pressure, and a mid-range pull-up that made defenders reevaluate life.
Darius had heard of him.
Hell, in the stands during last season's games—he'd rooted for him.
But that was then.
He was here for that spot.
The teams jogged onto the court.
Starting five on each side. Colored practice jerseys. Clean floor. Shiny new pressure.
Darius bounced the ball once, glanced at Jason.
The junior smirked. "You ready to get run through, rookie?"
Darius smiled back. "You gonna talk me to death or play defense?"
The whistle blew. Game on.