Ten seconds left on the clock, I thought, my eyes flicking from the scoreboard to the defender in front of me. I dribbled hard, crossed him up, and stepped back with precision. The shot felt perfect the moment it left my hands.
The ball soared through the air.
Swish.
The buzzer blared as the net rippled.
The gym erupted. My teammates tackled me in celebration, the crowd chanting my name like I was a hero in a movie. We were going to nationals. I should've been floating, but deep down… something told me this moment wouldn't belong to me for long.
I figured the hype would cool off by morning—but school was electric. People stopped me in the halls. Even the teachers were smiling at me like I'd just saved the world.
As I stepped into my first class, the bell rang overhead.
"Well, look who finally beat the bell," my brother Flynn smirked, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place.
I gave him a glare sharp enough to slice steel. He went silent, that cocky grin vanishing like it had never existed.
When the teacher entered, the room snapped to attention. Mr. Willis launched into the lecture in his usual monotone, and—of course—Flynn answered every question like he'd written the textbook. Classic.
My mind wandered as the words blurred into the background. I thought about the game—the battles, the near losses, the way our team had clawed through every obstacle. We earned our place at nationals. But somehow, something bigger was just around the corner. I could feel it.
The bell jolted me back, and chairs scraped as students poured into the hallway, chatting, laughing, grabbing gym bags.
I moved with the crowd, blending in as we headed toward gym class.
Coach's voice boomed the second we stepped into the gym. "Basketball today!"
Chris and I lit up. We exchanged a quick grin and threw our fists in the air.
"Let's go!" we shouted, already itching to play.
Coach tossed us the ball, and it was like flipping a switch—we were in sync. Fast breaks, crisp passes, perfect rhythm. Like we shared the same brain on the court.
Flynn? Not so much.
He missed every pass, stumbled over his own feet, and clanked shots like the rim owed him money. It was brutal.
But Coach didn't look annoyed—if anything, he looked intrigued. He studied Flynn like he saw something the rest of us didn't. Like buried underneath the mess was something special.
Then he said it.
"How'd you like to try out for the team?"
Chris and I froze. We turned to Coach, then to Flynn—who looked like he'd been hit by a bus. His jaw dropped, eyes wide, stuck somewhere between panic and disbelief.
Coach held his gaze. "I said, how would you like to try out for the team?"
Flynn blinked like he was snapping out of a trance. He nodded slowly, trying to play it cool with a shaky grin—but it was clear he had no idea what just happened.