Jace absorbs Devon's shoulder on a curl cut and forces a kickout. He shows Devon the corner window that failed-sea...
Devon Reed hit Jace with his shoulder on the first curl cut, and the contact drove Jace backward so hard his shoes squealed into the painted lane.
"Legal?" Devon asked, already catching the entry pass.
Coach Voss did not blow the whistle. "Play."
Jace threw both hands up and fought for the angle. The scoreboard was off, but everyone in Northbridge Gym counted star reps like points. Devon was the senior wing, the player whose name appeared in local previews, the player who had scored twenty-eight in the failed district final while the rest of the offense stood and watched him drown. Jace was a third-string guard trying not to foul in front of the entire varsity line.
Devon jabbed baseline. Jace slid. Devon spun middle and rose. Swish.
"That is one," Devon said.
"Out of how many shots?" Jace asked, breathing through the ache in his chest.
Devon's eyes narrowed. "Enough that ghosts should not talk."
The next rep started on the left side. Marcus fed Devon off a pindown screen. Jace trailed over, shoulder brushing Ty's hip, and remembered the old film: Devon forced a pull-up whenever the corner defender tagged too deep, because he did not trust the corner shooter to lift. Northbridge's spacing had shrunk around his talent until every late possession became a dare.
Devon curled. Jace absorbed the shoulder again and stayed vertical. Devon bumped once more, expecting the reach. Jace kept his forearm off him. The shot came from two steps farther out and hit back rim.
"Better," Coach Voss said.
Not praise. Data.
Marcus collected the rebound. "He is still scoring whenever he wants."
"Then keep feeding him," Jace said.
Devon laughed. "You begging for punishment?"
"I'm asking whether you want eleven hard shots or nine good ones."
That made the gym tilt toward them. Devon walked the ball to the wing himself. "Say that again with your chest."
Jace wanted to shut up. His body was not built for this many collisions. His right thigh already had a bruise blooming where Devon's knee had clipped him on the second cut. But leverage lived in the open now: either Devon punished him alone, or he proved he could punish the whole defense.
"When Marcus enters from the top, the corner lift is open before your second dribble," Jace said. "You look it off because you think the pass is charity."
Devon bounced the ball once. "I do not pass to empty jerseys."
"Then make them full. Hit the window and yell at them if they miss."
Coach Voss folded her arms. "Run the action. Reed decides."
They set again. Ty screened on the right block. Jace chased Devon around the curl, felt Devon's shoulder, and held his line without sliding under him. Marcus delivered the pass. The weakside defender sank too far toward Devon's drive. Eli Navarro, a freshman with terrified feet and a beautiful release, stood in the corner like he wished the wall would take him.
"Lift!" Jace shouted.
Eli startled into motion. Devon gathered for the contested pull-up, saw the corner move late, and for one visible moment hated that Jace was right. Then he snapped the pass.
Eli caught at the break, rushed the shot, and air-balled it by a foot.
The varsity line erupted. Eli's face went red. Devon turned on Jace. "There. Full jersey?"
Jace wiped sweat from his upper lip. "Bad feet, good window."
"That does not show in a box score."
"It does if you pass it again."
Devon stared at him long enough that Marcus muttered, "Do not let him coach you."
The next rep came from the same side. Eli lifted earlier. Devon took the curl, drew two defenders, and fired the ball to the corner slot with less disgust in his wrist. Eli bent his knees this time. The shot kissed glass and dropped.
Nobody laughed. Eli looked like the rim had apologized to him.
Coach Voss marked the clipboard. "Shot quality matters. Reset."
Devon did not thank Jace. He spent the next five reps scoring anyway: one fade, one rip-through layup, one free throw after Jace arrived late and bumped him with a hip, two jumpers over hands that were technically there. Jace lost the drill by any normal scoreboard. Devon finished with eleven points. Jace finished with a sore shoulder, one legal stop, one foul, and two possessions where the ball moved before the defense collapsed.
On the final rep Devon caught, saw Jace shade baseline, and lifted the ball as if to shoot. Jace did not bite. He remembered Devon's frustration after the failed regional loss, towel over his face, saying no one had been where they were supposed to be. This was where it started.
"Corner," Jace said, barely above a breath.
Devon heard him. So did Marcus. So did Coach Voss.
Devon jumped, hung, and passed to Eli again. Eli missed long, but Ty grabbed the offensive rebound and scored through contact.
The whistle ended the drill.
Devon walked close enough that Jace could smell spearmint gum over sweat. "If you call me predictable in front of the team again, I will put you through the wall."
Jace nodded. "If I am wrong, you should."
That answer bought him half a smile and no mercy.
By afternoon the roster sheet went up outside the locker room. Marcus near the top. Devon circled in marker by some student manager who loved stars. Noah, Ty, Eli. Jace Park at the bottom of the varsity practice list, last name before the cuts.
Under the posted sheet someone had taped the first opponent scout. Ridgeview Rams. Physical guards. Hard hedges. Bench unit: non-factor.
Jace touched the word with one finger.
Devon passed behind him and said, "Ghosts do not get scouted."
Jace looked at Ridgeview's trap notes and felt the next bruise arriving before the game did.