BETWEEN WORLDS - Chapter 12
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The gym pulsed with anticipation, energy flowing through hardwood and bleachers like a live wire. Azeil sat alone on the bench, lacing his sneakers with deliberate care, each loop pulled tight, routine as breathing. Six weeks at Langston Hughes had transformed this space from unknown territory to something approaching sanctuary; not home yet, but no longer unwelcome. Around him, teammates performed their pre-game rituals. The Johnson twins stretched in perfect synchronization; Marco adjusted his wristbands exactly seven times, superstition honored; Zahair sat isolated at the far end, headphones sealing out the world, eyes shut in mental preparation.
Coach Booker occupied center court with his clipboard, engaged in quiet discussion. His stance, shoulders back, chin steady, echoed Azeil's mother's controlled presence in courtrooms, now softened by earned understanding.
"You ready?"
Rashaad settled beside him on the bench, already wearing his white LANGSTON jersey. Six weeks earlier, the question would have carried doubt about Azeil's place on Langston's court. Now it was simple concern between teammates.
"Born ready," Azeil answered, pulling the final knot tight. The response flowed naturally, nothing like those early awkward days at Langston.
Rashaad grinned, bumping his shoulder. "Save some magic for the fourth quarter. Heard you were here at five again this morning."
"Just working on things," Azeil said with a shrug, though the casual deflection couldn't mask the truth: while others slept, he arrived before dawn, his solitary dribbling echoing through empty space like a steady pulse.
"Sure, Early Bird." Rashaad surveyed the packed bleachers. "Half the school showed up tonight."
Azeil found her in the crowd, Nia, positioned halfway up with Zoe and her distinctive purple hair. Sensing his attention, Nia met his gaze without waving, just a slight nod that carried unexpected weight.
"Your girl's here," Rashaad observed, casual but perceptive.
"Not my girl." Whatever existed between him and Nia resisted easy definition, deeper than friendship, not quite romance, something built deliberately rather than carelessly.
"If you say so."
The gym doors swung open for more spectators. Azeil's eyes automatically searched for his father's familiar silhouette. Jackson had mentioned leaving work early: "Might make it, if Stanley cuts me loose... I'll try."
Azeil forced his attention back to the court, swallowing disappointment when his scan came up empty. Hope for parental presence had died with his mother, another necessary adjustment.
"Gather up!" Coach Booker called. The team formed their circle, Azeil now positioned naturally between Rashaad and Devon, fully integrated.
Coach surveyed each face, making silent contact with every player. When their eyes connected, unspoken recognition of their shared journey passed between them.
"Six weeks ago," Coach began, voice low enough for only the circle, "we started building trust, not just in plays and schemes, but in something that holds when pressure mounts." His gaze briefly found Azeil. "Tonight proves what we've become."
Westbrook High emerged from their locker room, navy jerseys contrasting sharply with Langston's white. Darius "Flash" Johnson moved among them, his scoring reputation casting a long shadow. Azeil studied him with analytical precision, the way his mother had taught him: slight leftward lean, right-hand preference, those telltale shoulder drops before attacking the rim.
"We're prepared," Coach continued, drawing them back together. "We've watched the film, drilled the sets. Now it comes down to heart." He extended his hand toward the circle's center. "Family on three."
Sixteen hands converged, different shades unified by shared purpose. Azeil's palm found its place between Khalil's dark skin and Marco's olive complexion, no hesitation, just belonging.
"One, two, three!"
"FAMILY!" Their shout rang through the gymnasium, a declaration that demanded attention. As the huddle dissolved, players scattered to final warm-up positions, and Azeil felt a familiar touch on his shoulder.
"Sticking with the plan?" Coach Booker asked quietly.
"Absolutely. Second unit needs leadership more than the first."
Coach's expression brightened with subtle approval. "Your mother approached those tournaments the same way," he said, the reference landing with warmth. "Could've taken over any game, but she always understood where the team needed her most."
The comparison settled deep in Azeil's chest, connecting him to the woman whose absence shaped every moment. Not just loss, but legacy, her wisdom flowing through his decisions, her perspective guiding his choices.
"Carter." The voice came from behind, tone carefully neutral, earned through six difficult weeks. Azeil turned to find Zahair at half-court, basketball resting against his hip, mirroring a photograph of Elise Carter tucked in Azeil's gym bag.
"Yeah?" Azeil responded, wariness still coloring his voice despite their fragile détente.
Zahair glanced toward Westbrook's star guard, then back. "About Flash, that shoulder tell before he drives. Seeing it in warm-ups."
The acknowledgment, that Azeil's scouting insight had value, that Zahair had actually listened, represented more progress than hours of forced conversation could have produced. Not friendship, but professional respect where hostility once lived.
"Watch for the head fake too," Azeil offered, seizing the opening. "Goes right after showing left three times out of four."
Zahair nodded once, accepting the information without verbal gratitude before returning to his routine.
Joining the layup line, Azeil felt the basketball's perfect weight in his hands, gravity and physics aligning with purpose. The Highland Prep version of himself would have calculated this moment, measuring angles and positioning for maximum impact. That version seemed distant now, like a fading photograph.
The Langston Hughes version continued emerging, still forming, increasingly genuine. Not Highland's polished star or Langston's suspicious transfer, but something new, forged in loss and rediscovered purpose. Reaching the line's front, Azeil gathered himself and drove toward the basket with fluid precision, muscle memory executing countless dawn sessions. The ball caressed the backboard and dropped cleanly through the net, its whisper cutting through the gymnasium's rising noise with quiet confidence.
Basketball remained constant, the court's dimensions, the hoop's height, the ball's weight unchanged despite seismic shifts swirling around them. In this perfect clarity, Azeil knew who he was and what he needed to do, not a starter seeking glory, but a stabilizer providing foundation.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Nia's gaze, her attention carrying neither the enthusiasm of Highland's student section nor the detachment of Langston's first days, but something more personal, connection transcending circumstance.
As he circled back to the end of the line, Azeil scanned the gymnasium entrance, hope and practicality battling once more. A tall figure ducked through the doorway, wearing work clothes with traces of motor oil, searching the court with purpose.
Jackson Carter had arrived.
Azeil felt a shift in his chest, not resolution or completion, but movement where there had been stasis. His father sat in the back, Nia stood in the middle, Coach Booker called from the sideline, and teammates gathered for warm-ups, different parts coming together to form something imperfect but strong.
With the buzzer sounding, the team had five minutes until tip-off. Coach Booker motioned for them to gather one last time, his calm demeanor revealing his awareness of what was at stake.
"Starting five: Zahair, Rashaad, the Johnson twins, and Jaxson," he announced. "Carter, you're first off the bench. Be ready at six minutes."
A moment of confused silence fell over the huddle. Several players exchanged glances, but Zahair broke the quiet.
"Coach, what about Carter?" he asked, genuinely confused, not challenging. "After his practice performance..."
The question hung in the air, significant because of its source. Six weeks ago, Zahair wanted to keep Azeil off the court entirely. Now, he questioned Azeil's absence from the starting lineup.
Coach Booker raised his eyebrows, surprised. "Carter will be first off the bench and likely finish with starters. This is what's best for the team." He glanced at Azeil. "And he knows it."
All eyes turned to Azeil, seeking signs of disappointment. Instead, they found calm acceptance, not resignation but strategic understanding.
"Coach is right," Azeil said. "This is the right call."
The moment passed quickly, but its significance lingered. Starters removed warm-ups, bench players settled courtside. Azeil stood next to Coach for a moment.
"They're bigger," Azeil noted about Westbrook's front line.
"But we're quicker. And smarter.”
As the starting five took the court for introductions, Azeil felt focused anticipation instead of exclusion. His role wasn't diminished by coming off the bench; it was defined by what the team needed most, where his skills could create maximum impact.
The realization became certainty as the referee took center court, ball in hand. No matter what happened in the next thirty-two minutes, Azeil was exactly where he belonged.
When the referee blew the whistle, the ball flew up, and the game clock began to count down.
"Six minutes and twenty-three seconds into the first quarter, Coach Booker shouted, 'Carter! You’re in for Raffiel.'"
Azeil stood smoothly, removed his warm-up jacket, and approached the scorer's table. The scoreboard read: Langston 8, Westbrook 14. Not a disaster, but not the hoped-for start. Westbrook's height advantage was proving problematic, their guards shooting over Langston's smaller defenders. "Flash" Johnson led with ten points, each celebration getting louder. Zahair defended him well, staying close and contesting shots, but Flash's scoring prowess was undeniable.
The referee signaled the substitution; Raffiel tapped Azeil's shoulder on his way to the bench.
"Stay connected on screens," Coach Booker instructed as Azeil entered. "And remember Flash's shoulder."
Azeil stepped onto the court, seeing familiar territory from a new perspective. As play resumed, he settled into defensive stance, analyzing Westbrook's set with precision his mother had instilled in him. Flash received the inbound pass, looking to isolate Zahair. Azeil positioned himself at the free-throw line for optimal help.
"I got him," Zahair said, establishing defensive communication.
Flash made his move, a hesitation dribble followed by a quick crossover, trying to create separation. Zahair stayed connected, forcing Flash toward the baseline.
Great offense often beats great defense. Flash elevated, creating space, the ball arcing toward the basket with precision.
Azeil moved before the shot peaked, reading the trajectory. As the ball glanced off the rim, he was perfectly positioned. Not outjumping Westbrook's taller players but outthinking them, securing the rebound through positioning. He pivoted and pushed the ball upcourt, scanning for opportunities instead of creating his own shot. At Highland Prep, he'd been a scorer, but at Langston, he was facilitator first.
He found Khalil on the left wing and delivered a bounce pass between two defenders. Khalil gathered it smoothly, euro-stepped the closing defender, and finished with a reverse layup.
"Nice pass," Khalil said as they transitioned back, meaningful acknowledgment from someone who'd been skeptical six weeks ago.
Westbrook pushed quickly. Flash received a screen, while Azeil and Zahair executed a defensive switch they'd practiced despite their tension. No communication needed, just instinct.
Now Azeil matched up against Flash, the conference's leading scorer facing the transfer still proving himself. Flash recognized the matchup, eyes glinting as he waived off a secondary screen.
"Fresh meat," he taunted, just loud enough for Azeil to hear. "Let's see what the kid's got."
The taunt didn't faze Azeil, who remained focused on the tells his film study had revealed: shoulder dip before a drive, head fake right before going left, weight shift before a step-back jumper.
Flash opened with his usual flashy dribbles, but when he made his signature shoulder dip to drive right, Azeil was already there, feet set, denying the lane.
Flash pivoted for his step-back jumper, but Azeil stayed close, hand up, contesting without fouling. The shot clanged off the rim, poor rotation, and Marco secured the rebound, immediately finding Azeil.
The Langston offense began to flow. Players moved with purpose now, cutting harder, screening with conviction. Azeil worked from the elbow, finding Devon for a clean mid-range jumper that pulled them within two. Coach Booker nodded from the sideline, this was what he'd envisioned, Azeil elevating others instead of hunting his own shot.
"Keep pushing," Coach called during a dead ball.
As the quarter progressed, Azeil found his rhythm, something more natural than his Highland days. When Westbrook collapsed on Devon's drive, he knocked down an open three. When Tyson rolled hard to the rim, Azeil threaded a perfect lob. He took charges, called out screens, commanded the defense with growing authority.
By quarter's end, Langston had knotted it 19-all. Walking to the bench, Azeil received high-fives that felt genuine, earned respect, not polite acceptance.
"Way to change the energy," Rashaad said, passing him water. "You're seeing everything out there."
Even Zahair, subbing out, gave him a nod, no hostility, just professional acknowledgment. The shift from outsider to teammate, slow but real.
Coach Booker gathered them, clipboard ready. "Good recovery, but we're just getting started. Westbrook will adjust. Flash won’t like being contained." His eyes found Azeil. "What do you see we can exploit?"
The public question marked acceptance, Azeil's basketball IQ now viewed as asset, not threat.
"Their help-side defense is slow," Azeil answered without hesitation. "Drive middle and the weak-side defender is late rotating. Plus Flash forces bad shots when he doesn't get touches."
Coach scribbled notes. "Second unit starts the quarter. Carter, you're running point. Devon and Tyson, set the screen then slip hard, their bigs are heavy-footed. Marco, be ready when they collapse. Lincoln, look for your shot when it’s in your hands." He checked his watch. "Starters back at six minutes unless we're rolling."
The second quarter opened with Langston's reserves against Westbrook's starters, Coach Booker gambling on the chemistry Azeil had built with this group. Westbrook's coach saw mismatch opportunity, telling his players to attack the "bench kids." He couldn't see what had developed in those early practices, Azeil, Devon, Marco, Lincoln, and Tyson finding rhythm together, building trust beyond formal team activities.
First possession, Azeil called "Carolina", a set designed for slow rotations. Devon screened high then slipped baseline as Azeil attacked the paint, drawing his man and the help defender. As the defense collapsed, he slipped a no-look bounce pass to Devon's cutting perfectly. Easy two.
"Again," Coach Booker shouted, recognizing the advantage.
Three possessions, three variations, three high-percentage looks. Six points in ninety seconds forced Westbrook's timeout. Jogging to the sideline, Azeil spotted his father leaning forward, elbows on knees, fully engaged.
A few rows up, Nia watched with the focused attention of someone who understood both basketball and Azeil, recognizing this went deeper than statistics. This was identity forming in real time, belonging earned through sweat and sacrifice.
"They're switching to zone," Coach observed as Westbrook huddled with their new alignment visible. "Perfect. Just like we practiced."
Azeil nodded, his mind already shifting to zone offense concepts they'd drilled endlessly. Stepping back onto the court, he felt convergence, Highland preparation, Langston present, his mother's lessons, his father's watching eyes, all aligning in crystalline clarity.
The ball went live, and Azeil settled into his stance, ready to conduct the next movement. Whatever the next twenty minutes brought, he knew with absolute certainty: he was exactly where he belonged.
The locker room hummed with quiet energy as players caught their breath, gulping water and toweling off sweat. Langston held a razor-thin three-point edge, 34-31, in a contest that carried playoff intensity despite being the season opener. Victory felt within reach but far from guaranteed, momentum had swung back and forth with neither team establishing true dominance.
Azeil sat against his locker, his breathing steady despite the growing fatigue. He'd posted ten points, six assists, and three boards in the opening half, solid numbers that kept Langston in striking distance when Westbrook threatened to break it open. But the box score told only part of the story; the real victory was the growing chemistry with teammates who'd viewed him with skepticism just weeks ago.
"They're making adjustments," Coach Booker announced, entering with his clipboard full of notes. "Flash is going to come out firing, he didn't appreciate being held to twelve."
Azeil caught Zahair's slight grin at the acknowledgment of his defensive work. The senior guard had frustrated Flash all half, staying attached without picking up cheap fouls. The kind of impact that never showed in a stat sheet but shaped entire games.
"Their coach is going to lean heavier on high screens," Coach continued, sketching Westbrook's likely adjustments on the whiteboard. "They want to force our rotations and exploit our size disadvantage."
Azeil studied the diagram, his mind already working through potential counters before Coach voiced them, a habit instilled by his mother, who'd taught him to see basketball as chess, where success came from thinking three moves ahead.
"Carter," Coach called, extending the marker. "You've been reading their sets all half. What are you seeing?"
Every player's attention fixed on him as he approached the board. At Highland Prep, his tactical insights had been dismissed in favor of his scoring ability. Here, Coach was positioning him as a resource for the entire team.
"They're overcommitting to the strong side," Azeil said, adding marks to the diagram with growing confidence. "When we reverse quickly, their weak-side help is consistently late." He circled a specific area of the court. "Get the ball here with crisp movement, and we'll have clean looks."
He handed back the marker, suddenly aware of the focused attention throughout the room. Their expressions carried the weight of genuine consideration.
"Sharp eye," Coach said, adding his own notes to Azeil's analysis. "We'll run 'Milwaukee' to get those quick reversals through the high post." He addressed the team. "Flash is pressing. When his shots aren't dropping, he forces instead of making the right read."
"Getting in his head," Zahair observed, having battled the rival guard for twenty minutes. "When I stayed down on his pump fakes, he started chirping at the officials."
"That's our edge," Coach agreed. "Stay disciplined, make him work for everything, and watch the frustration compound." His gaze landed on Azeil. "You and Zahair will split the assignment in the second half. Different looks, keep him guessing."
The directive linked former adversaries in tactical partnership. Zahair offered a professional nod, acknowledgment of the game plan's logic transcending personal history.
"Starting lineup remains the same," Coach announced, consulting his notes. "But Carter, I'm bringing you in at four minutes instead of six. Need your decision-making earlier."
Azeil nodded, prepared for whatever the moment demanded.
As Coach detailed defensive rotations, Azeil briefly assessed his physical and mental state. The game's pace reminded him of that championship battle against Langston months earlier, but the context felt transformed, then, desperation had fueled every possession; now, purpose guided his movements.
"Two minutes," the official called through the doorway.
Coach Booker gathered them into a tight circle, his expression carrying focused intensity. "This comes down to execution, not talent. They've got size. We've got speed. They're counting on individual brilliance. We win through collective effort."
"Hands in," Coach directed, placing his palm at the center.
Sixteen hands layered together, different but united in common purpose. Azeil barely registered the symbolism, his mind was already processing second-half adjustments, locked into the flow of competition.
"Family on three," Rashaad called naturally, taking leadership. "One, two, three!"
"FAMILY!"
The word carried genuine conviction. As they broke apart, Azeil felt a touch on his shoulder. Zahair stood beside him, his expression neutral but his eyes intense.
"That read you showed Coach," Zahair said quietly. "You caught that from the bench?"
The curiosity in his voice held none of the earlier edge. Azeil nodded, uncertain how to navigate this evolving dynamic.
"My mother taught me to watch for patterns," he explained. "Once is random. Twice is coincidence. Three times is a tendency you can attack."
Zahair's expression shifted, showing grudging respect, basketball recognizing basketball despite their complicated history.
"Smart," he said, the single word weighted with meaning. A slight nod toward the door. "Let's see if they picked up on it too."
The casual reference to their shared opponent marked a shift; for the first time, Zahair was viewing Azeil as an ally against Westbrook rather than an internal threat.
Walking toward the gymnasium doors alongside Rashaad, their strides naturally synchronizing, Azeil could hear the crowd noise building on the other side. The sound intensified as they prepared to emerge into the public arena.
"You feeling it?" Rashaad asked, his question carrying layers of concern for Azeil's mental state.
"Yeah," Azeil replied, surprised by how true it felt.
The doors swung open fully, releasing a wave of bright light and crowd noise. Azeil's eyes swept the stands, first locating his father, still leaning forward with complete engagement, then finding Nia, whose subtle nod carried specific acknowledgment meant only for him.
With halftime winding down, players scattered for warm-up routines. Azeil drifted to his familiar spot at the free-throw line, the basketball settling into his hands with comfortable weight. Each dribble and shot reinforced his growing certainty, he belonged here. Every twist in his journey had led to this court, this team, this moment. It wasn't the path he and his mother had mapped out, but it felt authentic.
As the officials signaled one minute remaining, Coach Booker pulled the starters together for final adjustments.
And that opportunity would arrive. He was certain.
The buzzer sounded halftime's conclusion, players moving into position for the second half's opening tip. Westbrook's starters appeared energized despite their deficit. Flash Johnson carried the swagger of someone who believed the game's outcome rested entirely on his shoulders.
Khalil caught Azeil's attention before jogging onto the court, their brief exchange communicating shared understanding. Teammates now, in practice and in truth.
The referee's whistle cut through the gymnasium's roar, the ball arced between the centers, and the second half commenced, sixteen minutes to determine victory or defeat, continuing the story Azeil was only beginning to comprehend.
Win or lose, he was no longer playing solely for individual achievement.
That, perhaps, changed everything.
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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.