BETWEEN WORLDS - Chapter 5
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The basketball felt foreign in Azeil's hands, like something from another life. Five days at Langston Hughes felt like five years, each hour a careful performance, each conversation a minefield. Standing alone in the empty gym as Friday afternoon light slanted through high windows, he bounced the ball once.
The echo came back different, nothing like Highland Prep's polished court. This floor was scarred with history, marked by countless games, shoes that had pivoted in victory and defeat. Including his own that February night.
One week. He'd survived one week.
"One day at a time," Principal Peterson had said Monday morning. By Wednesday, Azeil understood what that really meant. How each day required the same exhausting vigilance, the same careful calibration of every response.
He bounced the ball harder, feeling vibration travel up his arm. Six weeks since he'd touched a basketball. Since his mother was gone, leaving him in the wreckage of her life.
Rain drummed against the roof. His mother would've called it obvious literary symbolism.
Azeil moved to the free-throw line, feet finding their place by instinct. Dribbled twice, spun the ball, aritual as familiar as breathing, and shot.
Miss. Clanged off the rim. Failure echoed in the empty room.
He retrieved the ball, returned to the line. This time closed his eyes, breathed in, released like she'd taught him.
"Basketball is like life, little one," her voice whispered in memory. "Breathe through the pressure."
Swish. Perfect sound. Something tight in his chest eased. This had stayed the same while everything else changed.
Three-point line. Swish. Wing. Swish. Elbow. Swish. Each basket brought back thousands of hours of practice, movement language that had once been his natural expression.
Azeil began moving smoothly now, incorporating subtle moves. Shot fake, step-back, feet dancing across court in patterns carved into his nervous system long before Highland Prep, before his mother's diagnosis, before everything collapsed.
Lost in rhythm, he didn't notice the gym door opening.
"Damn, you still got it."
Azeil spun, ball clutched tight. Rashaad Williams stood in the doorway, tall frame outlined against hallway light, head tilted in that amused observation that had become familiar.
"Just shooting around." The careful neutrality slipped back like a mask.
Rashaad stepped in, door swinging closed. "After a week like this, I'd need to blow off steam too." Hands tucked in joggers. "You doing okay? First week at a new school isn't exactly vacation."
The question caught Azeil off guard. Rashaad had been the closest thing to friendly, showing him to classrooms, making space at lunch, deflecting whispers. But they hadn't gotten personal.
"I'm fine." Same response he'd given his father during each silent car ride.
Rashaad's eyebrow lifted. "Yeah? You've been walking around like you're expecting someone to jump you." He grabbed another basketball from the rack. "Can't be easy switching sides."
"I didn't switch sides. I didn't have a choice."
Something shifted in Rashaad's expression. Curiosity masked by understanding. "That’s true about most things." He dribbled casually, movements relaxed where Azeil's had been precise. "Mind if I join you? Or is this solo therapy?"
Before Azeil could respond, the gym door opened again. Khalil and Raffiel Johnson entered, twin frames confusing until Khalil's intensity distinguished him from his brother's calm. A week of observation had made these differences clear.
"Thought we heard someone in here," Raffiel said, nodding to them. "Courts at the park are flooded."
The twins approached with cautious interest that had marked their week's interactions. Not hostile like Zahair, not friendly like Rashaad. Something watchful, assessing.
"So," Khalil said, eyes moving between Azeil and the basketball, "you survived your first week at Langston."
Not quite question, not exactly statement. An opening, maybe.
Azeil nodded, grip loosening slightly. "Seems that way."
"Ain't died yet," Rashaad grinned, cutting tension like he had all week. "Though Mrs. Henderson's pop quiz almost took him out yesterday."
Small smile tugged Raffiel's mouth. "She's ruthless with those." Eyes tracking to the basket. "You playing or just standing around looking pretty?"
Casual verbal jostling. Invitation wrapped in challenge that teenage boys understood.
Azeil felt normalcy hovering within reach for the first time in weeks. Just basketball. Just a gym. Just Friday afternoon with no expectations beyond the next shot. He opened his mouth to respond—
BANG. The sound of the gym door connecting with the wall. It echoed so suddenly that all flinched.
Zahair Williams in the doorway, chest heaving like he'd sprinted the school's length. Eyes locked on Azeil with focused intensity.
"What the hell is he doing here?"
Peace shattered. Week one wasn't over yet.
Silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap. Only sound was rain against the metal roof and Zahair's sneakers squeaking as he stepped in.
"Z, man, chill," Rashaad said, stepping forward with hands raised. "We're just shooting around."
"We?" Zahair's eyes never left Azeil. "There's no we that includes him."
Azeil's spine stiffened. His mother's voice in his head like a thousand times before. Shoulders back. Chin level. Never let them see weakness.
"Last I checked," Khalil said, voice careful but firm, "nobody owns this gym."
Zahair finally broke his stare, betrayal flashing across his features. "Taking his side now? After what he did to us?"
"Nobody's taking sides," Raffiel said, always the diplomat. "It's just basketball."
"Just basketball?" Zahair's laugh could cut glass. "He stole our championship, and now you're acting like he's one of us after what, a week? A whole week of you strutting around like you own the place."
"I haven't been strutting anywhere," Azeil said. The words came with more control than he felt. A week of careful neutrality had built a dam inside him.
"He's right," Rashaad added. "Man's been keeping to himself all week."
Zahair ignored them, continuing his advance with predatory focus. "What are you even doing here? Highland decide their diversity quota was filled?"
The question landed like a physical blow. Azeil had heard variations at Highland, whispers about diversity scholarships following him through hallways lined with legacy portraits. He'd expected similar assumptions here, but from the opposite direction.
"I owe you nothing."
"You're not from here," Zahair pushed, inching close enough to Zahair that the two were staring at one another. "You sure as hell don't want to be here and I can promise you none of us want you here either.”
"Speak for yourself," Khalil muttered, earning another glare.
"What, you think he's gonna save our season? He's Highland Prep. He'll never be one of us."
The dam cracked. After a week of careful navigation, measured responses, strategic silences, something fundamental shifted.
"I'm not Highland Prep," Azeil said, voice dropping to a dangerous register he barely recognized. "Not anymore."
"Once prep school, always prep school. You think a week in our hallways changes anything about you?"
Rashaad stepped between them, lanky frame creating a barrier. "Z, this isn't the time—"
"When is the time?" Raw emotion momentarily overriding anger. "First, he takes our championship, and now he's here taking our gym, our team—"
"I didn't take anything from you," Azeil interrupted, the dam breaking completely. "I didn't steal your championship. I earned it."
The ball dropped from his hands, bouncing once with hollow sound before rolling away. Azeil stepped forward, moving past Rashaad to face Zahair directly.
"I earned every minute I played that night. Every shot, every steal, every point while you were busy underestimating me. Just like you're doing now."
Surprise registered on Zahair's face—like he hadn't expected Azeil to fight back. Surprise quickly transformed back into fury.
"You want to talk about earning? You haven't earned a single thing at Langston. You haven't earned the right to step on our court."
"Then let's settle it," Azeil said, words escaping before he could consider the wisdom. "Right here. Right now. One-on-one."
The challenge hung in air between them. For the first time in a week, Azeil felt fully present in his body, the careful performance abandoned for something raw and honest. Basketball had always been his clearest language. If words couldn't bridge the gap, maybe this could.
Ghost of a smile touched Zahair's lips. Predatory. "You serious?"
"Dead serious." Azeil retrieved the ball from against the bleachers. "First to eleven. By ones."
The Johnson twins exchanged glances, silent conversation with seventeen years' efficiency. Rashaad's shoulders relaxed, recognizing this confrontation had found its most constructive channel.
"I'll call it," Raffiel said, moving to the sideline.
Zahair stripped off his hoodie, tossed it toward bleachers. "Hope you've been practicing, prep school."
Azeil bounced the ball once, feeling its familiar weight. "More than you’ll ever know."
The gym fell quiet except rhythmic pounding of ball against hardwood. The other three retreated to sidelines, creating arena for what was about to unfold.
"Check." Azeil bounced the ball to Zahair.
Zahair caught it sharp, held it longer than necessary, passed back with enough force Azeil had to step forward. Message clear: nothing given easily.
"Winners take first possession at Langston," Zahair said, stance widening into defensive crouch. "But since you don't know how we do things here, I'll let you start."
Azeil's eyes narrowed, the only visible reaction to the taunt. He began his dribble low, controlled, assessing Zahair's defense. Exactly as he remembered from the championship game. Zahair was aggressive, physical, relying on superior strength and quickness.
The first move came without warning. Azeil crossed over sharp left then immediately back right, creating just enough space to rise for mid-range jumper, which arced through air, dropped through net with soft swish.
"One-zero," Rashaad called from sideline.
If Zahair was surprised, he didn't show it. He retrieved the ball, returned to top of key, and checked it with same aggressive force.
"Lucky start."
This time, Zahair pressed closer, forearm touching Azeil's chest, moving with practiced defensive slides. Azeil probed with hesitation dribbles, searching for weaknesses.
None. Zahair moved like a boxer, anticipating each feint, forcing Azeil toward baseline. When Azeil took step-back jumper, Zahair's hand altered the shot's path. Ball glanced off rim. Zahair grabbed rebound with satisfied grunt.
"My ball."
Zahair's offensive style contrasted sharply with Azeil's precision. He attacked like it was personal, each dribble filled with tension. Jab step and then a quick burst right left Azeil flatfooted. Zahair absorbed contact while finishing layup that rattled around rim before dropping.
"One-one," Khalil announced.
As the game progressed, their styles became clearer. Zahair all lightning strikes—sharp, aggressive. Azeil moved with fluid grace, economical and purposeful.
The score advanced: two-one, two-two, three-two, three-three. Neither could gain more than single-point lead.
With Azeil leading five-four, the intensity heightened. Sweat glistened, breaths labored. Zahair started talking more, trying to disrupt Azeil's focus.
"That all you got, prep school?" he taunted as Azeil worked his dribble at the top of key. "Those fancy coaches teach you anything besides pretty footwork?"
Azeil ignored him, driving hard towards the basket. Zahair moved to cut off the lane, but Azeil pulled up short, protecting the ball as he pivoted back to perimeter. The swift, unexpected change left Zahair off-balance. Azeil quickly accelerated past him, finishing with an effortless layup despite defensive pressure.
"Six-four," Raffiel called appreciatively. "That was clean."
Frustration flickered on Zahair's face. He retrieved the ball with unnecessary force, checked it hard enough for Azeil to step back. Next possession was markedly more aggressive. Zahair pressed closer, forearm adding pressure, feet shuffling with intensity.
Azeil sensed the shift, recognized desperation behind Zahair's increased aggression. He'd seen it before in Highland opponents whose competitive pride turned personal when losing became unbearable. He dribbled patiently, waiting for the perfect moment when aggression would create an opening.
Three dribbles later, it came. Zahair overplayed Azeil's right, expecting a drive that didn't happen. Instead, Azeil executed a behind-the-back dribble that froze Zahair, then accelerated into the open space. The move so smooth, so unexpected, Azeil found himself alone at rim.
Instead of a simple layup, he wanted more. A statement. He rose with surprising power, channeling pent-up emotion into one-handed dunk that echoed through gym.
"Damn!" Rashaad exclaimed.
"Seven-four," Khalil added, admiration evident.
Zahair stood still for moment, expression cycling through surprise, anger, something that might've been respect. Then lunged for ball, snatching it with violent intensity. Next possession was a blur of furious crossovers that had Azeil backpedaling, followed by an explosive drive that seemed to defy physics. Zahair finished with an emphatic dunk, hanging from the rim as if to counter Azeil's statement.
"Seven-five," he growled, dropping to the floor.
Intensity doubled. Every possession a battle between Azeil's precision and Zahair's power.
At nine-seven, Zahair found his rhythm. Two fadeaway jumpers defied Azeil's defense. Nine-eight. Nine-nine. The gym fell silent, even the rain fading as attention zeroed in on the court.
"Next point wins," Zahair said, breathing steady. "Let's finish this."
Azeil nodded, accepting the stakes. His lungs burned, but focus sharpened like the championship game's final minutes. For the first time in weeks, free from thoughts of his mother's absence. Just this moment. This opponent. This chance to prove himself.
He passed the ball to Zahair, who received it aggressively. Zahair's sequence wascalculated, a series of deliberate moves testing Azeil's defense. Right-to-left crossover, hesitation, another crossover. Each probing for the moment to strike.
Azeil tracked him, reading movements like a familiar text. When Zahair made his move, a quick step and spin back, Azeil was there, perfectly positioned to absorb the contact.
The final sequence unfolded quickly. As Zahair shot, his elbow collided forcefully with Azeil's chest, echoing their contentious history.
Azeil staggered back, breath escaping as past and present blurred. The ball left Zahair's hands but missed, ricocheting to the free-throw line. Despite pain, Azeil lunged for the rebound, claiming it before Zahair could react.
"My ball," Azeil panted, standing tall. Zahair's eyes flashed with frustration and fear.
"Lucky."
Back at top of key, Azeil checked the ball hard and, driven by emotion, attacked the basket with unexpected energy. A lightning-quick crossover caught Zahair off guard. Their bodies collided in mid-air, but Azeil adjusted, double-clutching to create room before releasing a soft shot that gracefully fell through net.
"Game," Raffiel called, his voice cutting through the sudden silence.
No one moved. Azeil and Zahair stood frozen under basket, breath ragged, sweat glistening. Neither willing to acknowledge what had happened.
"You pushed off," Zahair accused, lacking conviction.
"You elbowed me in the chest," Azeil countered, not in the mood for games.
Tension crackled with unresolved emotion. Then Zahair shoved Azeil.
"You think you proved something? One game doesn't make you belong here."
Azeil staggered back, surprised by the moment. When he regained composure, his expression shifted from neutrality to raw intensity matching Zahair's.
"I’ve got nothing to prove to you."
"That's where you've got it twisted. I run this," Zahair fired while closing the gap until they stood chest to chest. "You're not special. You think because you made one shot in one game that you are? Because you're not."
"Back off," Azeil warned, his voice dripping with intensity.
"Or what?" Zahair pressed closer, his face inches from Azeil's. "What you gonna do, you mulatto motherf—"
The slur was cut off as Azeil's control shattered. His hands slammed into Zahair's chest, pushing him backward with surprising force. Zahair stumbled, regained balance, and lunged forward in rage.
Chaos. Tangle of limbs as both boys fell to hardwood, throwing wild punches, grappling as tension erupted into conflict. Rashaad and Johnson twins rushed in, trying to separate them as they rolled in struggle for dominance.
"Get off him!" Rashaad shouted, pulling Zahair's shoulders while the twins freed Azeil. Once separated, both breathed heavily, faces set in mirrored fury. A thin line of blood traced Azeil's mouth where Zahair's elbow had struck.
"Don't ever let those words come out of your mouth again," Azeil spat, struggling against the restraining grip. "You don't know a damn thing about me."
"I've got you figured out," Zahair fired back, pulling against Rashaad's hold. "You don't know what it's like to live our lives. Up in that ivory tower of yours—"
"You think Highland was some paradise for me?" Azeil's voice cracked, raw emotion bleeding through. "You think I didn't hear the same shit every day from those white boys? 'Diversity admission.' 'Scholarship case.' You're no better than them."
The accusation landed like a physical blow, momentarily stunning Zahair into silence. In that brief window, a new voice cut through gymnasium.
"What the hell is going on in here?"
Five boys froze, staring at Coach Booker in the entrance. His strong frame filled the doorway with an expression promising consequences. He walked in with deliberate steps, each footfall echoing like a judge's gavel. His athletic gear emphasized his presence, broad shoulders stretching the polo with his arms crossed.
"I asked a question," he said quietly. "What's happening in my gym?"
No one responded. All five stood frozen, turned to stone by Coach's gaze.
Coach scanned the scene, scattered basketballs, sweat-slicked floor, blood at Azeil's mouth, Zahair's angry face.
"Williams," he said, finally, addressing Zahair with sharpness that made the senior flinch. "My office. Now."
"Coach, he—" Zahair began.
"Did I stutter?" His voice didn't rise, but something in it shifted, becoming harder, less negotiable.
Zahair's jaw tightened, muscles working beneath skin. For a moment, seemed he might challenge the order. Then his shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, fight draining from his posture.
"Yes, sir," he muttered, retrieving his hoodie with a sharp movement.
Coach watched him go, waiting until door closed before turning attention to others. Gaze settled on Azeil, clinical in assessment.
"Carter," he said, use of last name somehow more impactful than shouting. "Principal Peterson mentioned you might be stopping by the gym. Can't say this is what he had in mind."
Azeil met his gaze with the same careful neutrality he'd maintained all week, though the effort cost him more now, with adrenaline still coursing and the taste of blood metallic on tongue.
"It wasn't planned."
"Most fights aren't," Coach replied dryly. He glanced at Johnson twins and Rashaad. "You three, clear out. See you at practice Monday."
"Coach," Khalil began, protest in voice, "it wasn't entirely—"
"Monday," Coach repeated, turning back to Azeil with unmistakable finality.
The three Langston players exchanged glances, silent conversation. With reluctant nods to Azeil carrying more weight than a week's acquaintance suggested, they gathered things and headed for exit.
"You too," Raffiel murmured to Azeil as he passed, low enough for only Azeil to hear. "Monday."
The invitation lingered as the door closed, leaving Azeil with Coach Booker and remnant echoes of the confrontation.
Neither spoke for a moment. Coach sat on the bleachers, aluminum creaking beneath him, suggesting expectation without invitation.
Azeil remained standing, adrenaline still buzzing. He'd maintained his mother's composure all week, but now, with his defenses down, he was unsure how to rebuild or if he wanted to.
"So," Coach finally said, "you lasted a week before throwing hands with my team captain."
Azeil remained silent. What could he say? That Zahair had provoked him? That the slur hurt? After weeks of control, something had snapped.
"Got nothing to say?"
"Would it matter?" Words slipped out unfiltered. Surprisingly, Coach's expression shifted, not softening, but changing in way that showed recognition, not judgment.
"Peterson says you've got game, as if I don't know it already," Coach said, catching Azeil off-guard. "He thinks we'd be fools not to keep you. But he's not managing personalities on this team."
Azeil stayed silent, uncertain where Coach was going.
"I watched that championship game over and over. DVR'd it, studied it, replayed those final minutes about twenty times. You embarrassed my boys that night. They looked lost against your crossover."
Words sounded accusatory but felt like professional assessment. Coach spoke not as authority but as student of the game.
"That wasn't my intention."
"Intentions don't win games," Coach responded dismissively. "Results do. Yours spoke for themselves." He paused, his expression unreadable. "But that was then. Highland Prep. Different uniform, different coach, different life, from what I understand."
Cold feeling settled in Azeil's stomach. What did Coach know about his situation? About his mother? About the collapse of everything he knew?
"Peterson didn't give me details," Coach said, reading Azeil's thoughts. "Just said you're with your father now. Said you might need basketball as much as we need another guard." Beat of silence. "Way Zahair tells it, you've come to steal his spotlight. Way Peterson tells it, you're just trying to survive."
Azeil swallowed, throat suddenly tight. "He's not wrong."
"Which one?"
"Both of them," Azeil admitted, honesty surprising even himself. "Maybe not about stealing spotlights. But about needing this." He gestured toward the court, hoop, space that had always made more sense than the complicated world beyond its boundaries.
Coach nodded slowly, as if this confirmed something he'd already suspected. "Heard you've been keeping your head down all week. No trouble. No attitude. Now this." He gestured toward still-visible evidence of the fight. "So either Zahair pushed exactly the right buttons, or you've been wound so tight you were bound to snap eventually."
Azeil didn't respond. Both assessments contained enough truth to sting.
"I don't tolerate fighting on my team," Coach continued, tone hardening. "Don't care who started it. Don't care who said what. You put hands on a teammate, there are consequences."
Teammate. Word registered despite Coach's stern delivery. Not opponent. Not rival. Teammate, a designation that carried both promise and complication.
"But," Coach added, "I also don't tolerate the kind of disrespect I suspect prompted this little incident. Zahair will be running suicides until his legs fall off come Monday morning." He fixed Azeil with penetrating stare. "And you'll be joining him."
Azeil blinked, the implication taking a moment to register. "You're assuming I want to be on your team."
Coach's eyes narrowed slightly. "Am I wrong?"
"I don't know," Azeil said, honesty surprising even himself. "Basketball was... It was different before. Before everything changed."
"Different how?"
Azeil met Coach's gaze directly. "It made sense. Now, nothing does." He gestured towards the court where moments ago he'd fought for territory that wasn't even his. "I'm not sure I want this anymore. Not sure I belong here or anywhere else."
Coach studied him for long moment. "Fair enough," he said finally. "But here's what I know. You came to this gym today for a reason. Maybe you don't know the reason yet, but your body remembers what your mind is trying to forget."
He stepped closer, his height placing him several inches above Azeil's eye level. "I don't care what school name was on your jersey before. I don't care what circumstances brought you here. If, and that's your choice, if you step into my gym for practice Monday, you're Langston Hughes. Nothing more, nothing less. That carries responsibilities as well as privileges."
Something shifted in Azeil's chest, not commitment, but maybe recognition of an open door when most had been slammed shut. "I'll think about it."
"Good." Coach stepped back, creating space. "Now get that lip cleaned up before you drip blood all over my court. And Carter?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever Zahair said to set you off? File it away. Use it as fuel, not as excuse to lose control. That separates boys from men, what you do with the fire."
Coach walked toward his office, not looking back to see if Azeil acknowledged the advice. The door clicked shut, leaving Azeil alone in gym that had seemed like a temporary sanctuary thirty minutes earlier.
He raised his hand to his mouth, fingers coming away red. Dull, persistent pain reminded him of boundaries crossed and composure lost. For the first time in six weeks, since his mother's absence had shattered his reality, Azeil had allowed raw emotion to override restraint.
The realization didn't feel entirely unwelcome.
He got his backpack from the bleachers, body heavy with fatigue from the week spent navigating Langston Hughes, including the game. As he zipped his bag, he noticed the basketball at center court, an instrument of confrontation and connection.
Monday. Practice. The word held weight of decision, a step forward after weeks of standing still. Not a fix for everything broken, but something solid to hold onto in a confusing world.
Slinging his backpack over shoulder, Azeil headed for exit. The gymnasium quiet except rain's rhythm against roof.
Week one was officially over.
What came next was uncertain.
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Chapter Index
Between Worlds is a fiction novel by Craig Griffin. New chapters post every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Subscribe to get them delivered to your inbox.