The gym had changed.
It wasn't just the drills that felt sharper or the passes that landed smoother. It was the energy—charged, cohesive. The Roosevelt Ravens weren't just running plays now; they were learning each other. Strengths. Tells. Timing. Trust was building with every sweat-soaked repetition.
Coach Daniels ran practices with relentless tempo. No wasted minutes, no fluff. They pressed through defensive rotations, full-court drills, late-shot clock scenarios. Everyone was adjusting. Everyone was improving.
And Darius was rebuilding.
His body moved without hesitation again. He jumped, landed, pushed. The memory of the paint—the fear that once locked his legs—still hovered, but less like a wall and more like a shadow behind him.
Whenever he practiced dunks, it was quiet.
No defenders. No pressure.
Just breath, motion, rim.
And every time he lifted off the ground and came down clean, it chipped away at the trauma like worn paint flaking off steel. It wasn't gone—but it wasn't paralyzing anymore. The system tracked every step. Logged every jump. And quietly, it responded.
[Trait Unlocked: Fear Override]– Neural auto-stabilization during trauma recall– Momentum gain post-recovery
[Trait Unlocked: Rhythm Anchoring]– Boosts temporal awareness during high-pressure possessions– Activates clutch trigger in close-score scenarios
Training was paying off.
And this time, he wasn't doing it alone.
After practice, the team spilled into the locker room with loud laughter, half-unzipped jerseys, and the buzz of anticipation. Coach Daniels had just announced a friendly match against another school—something light to test chemistry and rotations before the season opener.
It wasn't pressure.
But it wasn't casual either.
Terrence tossed a towel at Noodle for missing a free throw drill. RJ joked about dropping thirty "just to remind the freshmen." Diesel sat in the corner stretching and eating sunflower seeds like he was already in warm-up mode.
Darius sat quiet, towel draped over his head, looking through the system interface overlay in his vision. Stats. Timing markers. Trait diagnostics. All lit up brighter than they had in weeks.
Jason walked by, brushing off sweat, and paused.
"You've been cooking lately," he said, nodding at Darius's gear bag. "Training on your own got you sharp. But this? You're leveling way faster now."
Darius cracked a small grin.
"Had to. You don't make the team just to sit on it."
Jason smirked.
"If you keep moving like this, you'll be starting before the season ends."
Darius pulled the towel down, eyes calm.
"Before the season ends?"
A beat.
"No. I'm starting before it begins."
Jason raised an eyebrow, amused. Then shrugged.
"Then I'd better make it hard for you.''
They fist pump and exchange the kind of look you get between players who know they're climbing toward the same spot—but the court only seats five at a time.
...
Darius stepped inside, the front door swinging closed behind him with a soft thud. The smell of garlic and simmering gravy drifted in from the kitchen before his sneakers even hit the mat.
His mom spotted him before he made it past the hallway. She looked him over—face first, then eyes narrowing on his shoulders, then his height.
"He's grown again," she murmured, half to herself, half in alarm. "Is it the food at that school? Or you're drinking fertiliser?"
She turned into the kitchen where Grandma was standing over a steaming pot, stirring like it owed her something.
"Ma," she called, "have you seen this boy? I think he's getting taller."
Grandma didn't look up.
"Mm," she said.
"I'm serious. He's going to be tall enough to start ignoring me soon."
"Let him try," Grandma muttered, sprinkling seasoning with the precision of memory. "I don't care how tall he grows. If he needs a hiding, I'll climb the counter and deliver it standing on the fridge."
Mom paused.
"You'd fall, Ma."
"I'd fall with purpose."
Mom opened the fridge, still side-eyeing Darius's sudden growth like it was a betrayal.
Darius wandered in behind them, stretching his arms, stomach growling after practice.
"What's all the whispering about?"
"Nothing," Mom replied quickly, too quickly. "Just talking about meal planning. Maybe switching up the starch."
Darius raised an eyebrow but didn't press. He reached for a bottle of water and casually said, "By the way—my math quiz's on Friday."
Mom barely turned. "And?"
"And after I pass it—top marks—you remember the deal. You said I could get that ball and the sneakers."
She exhaled slowly. "We'll see."
He squinted. "See? You already said yes."
"I said maybe."
"You said definitely, if I bring the A."
"Then bring the A," she said. "Ink doesn't lie."
He rolled his eyes and left the kitchen, shaking his head. Grandma didn't miss a beat, flipping a lid onto the pot.
After a moment of silence, Mom sighed again. Her voice softer now.
"I think he's serious," she said. "Not just about school."
Grandma shrugged. "Good. Let him be serious. Better that than moping in front of a screen like the rest of them."
The back door unlocked. Dad stepped in, tie loosened, face tired.
"Evening," he said.
Mom spun.
"He wants shoes. Equipment. The whole thing. You said this would pass."
Dad looked between them, confused. "I literally just got in."
"You promised it'd be temporary," Mom snapped. "Something small."
Dad opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"You promised," she repeated, softer now.
She walked down the hallway without waiting for an answer.
Dad turned to Grandma.
"I don't know what happened," he said.
"She remembered your promise," Grandma replied, still stirring. "And now your sauce is bubbling over."