Jace redirects Marcus around a flare screen and keeps Noah upright. Marcus resents the correction because it came...
Noah Kim came off the right wing smiling, and Jace's stomach dropped because Marcus Bell was already dribbling toward the flare screen that had destroyed Noah's ankle in the failed season.
The scrimmage clock above Court Two showed two-eighteen. Blue jerseys led White by six, fifteen to nine. Nobody else saw danger in the spacing. Ty Shaw planted his feet at the elbow. A sophomore defender trailed Noah by half a step. Marcus picked up his dribble too early, eyes locked on the corner pass that would send Noah jumping into a defender's landing space.
"Marcus, wait!" Jace shouted. "Flare coming left. Switch the angle!"
Marcus fired him a look instead of the ball. "You call my offense now?"
That half second saved Noah's foot. The screen hit late. Noah curled wider, landed balanced near the sideline, and caught the pass with both sneakers under him. His shot clanged long, but he stayed upright.
Coach Voss's whistle cracked. "Freeze."
Every player stopped where he was. Noah looked down at the hardwood as if it had moved. Marcus held the follow-through of a pass he did not want credited to Jace.
"Park," Voss said. "What did you see?"
Jace could not say that in another life Noah had landed on the defender's shoe, grabbed his ankle, and spent the opener pretending pain was leadership. He pointed instead. "Ty's hips were facing the sideline, not the rim. The defender under Noah had both heels inside the lane. If Marcus throws on the first window, Noah lands where the closeout is still arriving."
Voss walked to the elbow and checked the bodies. "Bell?"
Marcus bounced the ball once, hard. "He guessed."
"Maybe," Voss said. "Run it again."
The leverage changed. Marcus had to prove Jace wrong inside the drill, not with a laugh from the varsity line.
They reset. This time Marcus snapped the pass early on purpose, trying to show that talent beat caution. Jace left the weakside block, slid across the lane, and got a fingertip on the ball. It skipped to the baseline. White ball.
Devon Reed, watching from Court One, pulled one earbud free. "Bench kid got a deflection?"
"Bench kid got lucky twice," Marcus said.
Jace bent at the waist, lungs already raw from morning sprints. His advantage had no stamina built into it. Each correct read still required his feet to arrive, his shoulders to absorb contact, his mouth to risk sounding foolish. When White inbounded, Marcus picked him up full court, chest to chest, turning irritation into ball pressure.
"You see this too?" Marcus asked.
"I see you reaching with your left hand," Jace said.
Marcus jabbed for the ball. Jace protected it on his hip, took two ugly dribbles with his off hand, and nearly lost it anyway. The sophomore on the wing laughed. Marcus heard the wobble and grinned.
"Memory does not fix handles," Jace muttered before he could stop himself.
"What?"
"I said move. Screen left."
Ty came up slow. Jace rubbed Marcus into the pick, felt the bump in his ribs, and hit Noah on the lift instead of forcing the remembered pass to the corner. Noah caught at the slot. His defender overclosed. Noah drove one dribble and fed Ty rolling down the lane.
Ty fumbled it off his knee.
The gym groaned. Coach Voss did not.
"Good window," she said. "Bad catch. Again from the dead ball."
That was almost worse for Marcus than praise. His jaw tightened. The scrimmage continued in rough fragments: missed boxouts, one Devon dunk on the other court that stopped everyone, Jace gasping after chasing Marcus around a drag screen, Noah touching his ankle once when a defender slid underneath him and then glancing toward Jace.
With thirty-four seconds left, White trailed by six. Marcus had the ball at the top against Jace. He called Ty up, rejected the screen, and drove right. In the failed timeline Jace had reached, picked up a cheap foul, and spent the next two drills sitting. This time he opened his hips, gave ground, and yelled, "Help nail!"
The help arrived. Marcus jump-passed anyway. Jace knew the habit, but knowing did not make his legs fresh. He lunged, tipped the ball, and crashed shoulder-first into the sideline chairs.
The whistle blew. No foul. Turnover.
His elbow throbbed against the metal chair leg. Noah offered a hand.
"How did you see the flare before Ty turned?" Noah asked quietly.
Jace took the hand and let Noah pull him up. Marcus was close enough to hear.
"I watched your feet," Jace said. "You always load before you cut."
Noah's smile faded into something sharper. "Nobody watches that in tryouts."
Marcus stepped between them. "Do not make him sound like a scout because he yelled once."
Jace wiped sweat from his chin. "Then make the next read clean and nobody has to talk about me."
For once Marcus had no quick answer. Coach Voss did. She tapped her clipboard and pointed at Court One, where Devon waited with the ball under one arm.
"Park," she called. "You like seeing things early. Guard Reed next drill."
Devon smiled without warmth. "Third string wants a star rep?"
Jace's ribs hurt. His left hand still felt loose on the dribble. Noah's ankle, though, was unbroken beneath him.
"No," Jace said, walking toward the lane. "But I know you hate bad spacing."