BETWEEN WORLDS - Chapter 8
New to this story? Start from Chapter 1 or catch up with the Chapter Index.
The bass from Marcus Washington's house hit Azeil before he even turned the corner, each thump like a heartbeat through the night air. Highland Prep parties were different, pool houses and fancy spreads, parents away on business trips, music quiet enough not to bother neighbors or bring cops. This was raw energy spilling from every window, taking over the whole block.
Azeil stopped at the end of the street, thumb over his phone. He'd mentioned he'd text Nia when he arrived, but now he was unsure if he'd follow through. The hour since the game had been a blur, telling Jackson he was going out, walking blocks to Marcus's neighborhood following Nia's directions.
Each step had pulled him away from the isolation he'd been living in since transferring to Langston, and now, standing here, he wondered if he was ready.
Mom would've known what to say, would've prepped him with her lawyer analogies about social situations, figuring out the key players, understanding the unspoken rules, presenting himself to get the outcome he wanted. But she wasn't here, just that familiar empty ache in his chest.
The best way to honor someone who loved you is to live good with the love they gave you. Nia's words from the game came back, offering something he was still trying to accept. Maybe this wasn't betrayal but moving forward. Maybe it didn't mean abandoning Mom but carrying her with him different.
He typed: I'm here, end of the block.
Answer came right back: Stay there! Coming to you.
Azeil shifted his weight, recognizing that pre-game feeling in his stomach, anticipation, nerves, adrenaline he always got before big games. Weird how similar it felt, just a different arena.
A minute later, Nia appeared at the door, jogged down the steps. She'd changed from her Langston Hughes sweatshirt to something that caught the streetlight. Her hair was down, making Azeil suddenly aware of his jeans and hoodie, the same clothes from the game.
"You made it," she said, really smiling. "Half thought you'd bail."
"Thought about it," Azeil said, finding honesty easy with her. "Still might."
Nia laughed, voice cutting through the muffled music. "At least come inside before you decide. Marcus makes incredible nachos, worth the social anxiety."
As they walked toward the house, Azeil straightened his shoulders automatically, remembering Mom's lesson about projecting confidence when you felt anything but.
"Quick party briefing," Nia said, slowing as they got near the front yard where kids clustered under porch lights. "Marcus's parents are flight attendants, gone international this weekend. His older brother's 'supervising,' but really just making sure nobody breaks anything expensive."
"Sounds about right," Azeil said, recognizing the universal parent-free house dynamic.
"Basketball team usually shows up late," Nia continued, something careful in her voice. "Zahair should come since we won, which could get interesting."
The implication settled. Football team won, so Zahair might show, but that just made Azeil more determined. He couldn't avoid him forever, especially if he went to Monday's practice.
"I'm not worried about Z," he tried to sound more confident than he felt.
Nia studied him, expression saying she wasn't totally convinced but liked his attitude. "Good. Tonight isn't about him, or basketball, or any of that. It's about..." She gestured at the house, music and laughter pouring from windows. "This. Being sixteen and alive on a Friday night."
Being sixteen and alive felt simple and impossible at the same time after Mom died. The idea of just existing, free from all that grief weight, seemed close and impossibly far away at once.
"Lead the way," he decided, choosing to move before doubt could take over.
Nia took his arm as they walked through groups of curious students in the front yard. Whispers followed them, the Highland transfer and Nia Robinson, an unexpected pair that would feed Langston's gossip mill.
The open front door released music and voices into the night. Stepping inside felt like becoming a different version of himself, though Azeil knew it was just crossing a doorway. In the crowded living room, bass matching his heartbeat, he sensed tonight might change his place at Langston Hughes.
The party hit all his senses at once. Music vibrating through the floor, conversations layering over each other, smells of pizza and something sweet and cigarettes someone thought they were hiding. Bodies everywhere, caught in that particular teenage weekend freedom when Monday felt like another lifetime.
"Come on," Nia said, leaning close to be heard. "Want you to meet my friends."
Her hand stayed on his arm, guiding him through the crowd with easy confidence. Azeil stayed aware of the looks and double-takes, his presence registering in ways he couldn't control.
Nia led him toward the kitchen, slightly calmer with better lighting. A tall guy with dreads was arranging chips on a plate, while a girl with bright purple hair sat on the counter, legs swinging.
"Guys," Nia said, pulling Azeil forward. "This is Azeil."
The introduction carried weight. Highland transfer, championship shooter. Azeil braced for the usual awkward moment while people figured out how to categorize him.
Instead, the tall guy smiled for real. "Marcus," he said, offering his hand for a solid shake. "Glad Nia brought you around."
"Zoe," the purple-haired girl added with a wave, obviously curious. "Oh! You're the photographer, right? Nia said you were into film cameras."
That surprised him; he glanced at Nia, who suddenly found the kitchen floor very interesting.
"Yeah," he said, feeling oddly exposed. "Haven't had much time for it lately though."
"Zoe's our resident artist," Nia said, getting her composure back. "Paintings, mixed media, tattoo designs. Anything with color and creative chaos."
"Not enough chaos in this town," Zoe grinned, hopping off the counter. "That's why we import some from Highland Prep sometimes."
The teasing felt good, loosening something in Azeil's chest.
"You play ball, right?" Marcus asked, going back to his nachos. "Heard Coach talking about you in drama club. Booker helps with set construction sometimes." He sprinkled cheese careful-like. "You thinking about joining the team?"
The question wasn't heavy, just conversation, but it pulled at the uncertainty Azeil had been carrying all week. Monday's practice sat there like both promise and threat. A chance to get his basketball identity back versus all the complications of team dynamics, Zahair's attitude, and the weird new reality of playing without Mom in the stands.
"We'll see," he said, not wanting to get into all that.
"You're among friends here," Marcus said, sliding the nachos toward them. "These are the best nachos in three counties, so your night's already improving."
Friends. The word caught Azeil off guard. He'd had teammates, study partners, people he knew, but real friends were rare at Highland. Relationships were usually about future networking. Marcus just saying it, no strings attached, felt like finding something valuable.
"He's not lying about the nachos," Nia said, grabbing a chip. "Marcus's nacho reputation spans multiple school districts."
As they talked, Zoe about photography, Marcus about classes, Nia connecting everything, Azeil relaxed into this unexpected acceptance. The music faded as he focused on this little circle, where his Highland past mattered less than just being here now.
Maybe this was what Nia meant about giving them a better story, not erasing Highland but adding layers that changed him from symbol to actual person. The thought felt good, like finding a way through territory that used to be blocked.
For the first time in six weeks, Azeil felt something he'd almost forgotten, just being seventeen and alive on a Friday night.
The conversation flowed easy as Marcus and Zoe pulled Azeil into their circle, different from the calculated stuff he was used to at Highland. Their direct questions, honest reactions, shared looks felt refreshing. At Highland, socializing was like chess, strategic moves and careful comments. Here, it was more like basketball, improvised and real.
"So Highland parties, caviar and champagne?" Zoe asked, sitting on a stool with one purple boot propped against it. "Everyone discussing stock portfolios between polo matches?"
Azeil smiled despite the stereotype. "Not really. More like fancy chips in ceramic bowls and parents who pretend not to notice the vodka in the punch." He paused. "It's different there. More about showing off what they've got."
Marcus nodded like Azeil had confirmed something he suspected. "Entitlement versus gratitude. My dad talks about that a lot." He gestured toward the living room with a nacho. "Nobody here takes this for granted. Weekend party? Luxury. Good sound system? Miracle."
"Careful," Nia teased, elbowing Marcus. "Your social justice warrior is showing."
"Always," Marcus said, not bothered. "Besides, Azeil gets it. Right?"
Azeil was caught off-guard, Marcus expecting them to understand each other instead of focusing on differences. Highland kids saw him through the lens of separation, his scholarship, his mom's job, his mixed background. But here was Marcus, assuming connection.
"Yeah," Azeil said, surprised by his own certainty. "I do."
Something shifted between them, a quiet understanding. Before it could go deeper, a voice cut through, confident like it was used to getting attention.
"Hey, you made it!"
Rashaad Williams stood in the doorway, smile bright in the dim light. Unlike at school, where he kept cool distance, Rashaad's energy was turned up here, filling the space. He wore a Langston Hughes basketball shirt, repping the school colors.
"Perfect timing, Rashaad," Nia smiled. "Just introducing Azeil to everyone."
"Glad you came," Rashaad said, giving Marcus a fist bump before turning to Azeil with genuine warmth. "Good to see you here, man. Getting the real Langston experience."
"Nia's friends have been cool," Azeil said.
"Not surprised. Marcus makes everyone feel at home," Rashaad said, snagging a nacho. "Best nachos in three counties."
"Some hosts are better than others," Zoe said, tone challenging but friendly. She turned to Azeil. "You should see my darkroom setup. Old-school film development, the whole thing."
"You develop your own film?" Azeil asked, interested.
"My dad converted our basement bathroom. I could show you sometime," Zoe offered, glancing at Nia with mischief. "Though Nia mentioned taking you to the old factory district for urban shots."
Heat crept up Azeil's neck at the implication of plans with Nia. He glanced at her; she was suddenly very interested in her cup.
"The old shipyard would be perfect for film," she said casually. "All those textures and shadows."
Rashaad shifted focus. "Didn't know you were into photography, Azeil. You coming to practice Monday? Coach has been talking you up."
The mention of practice settled like weight on Azeil's shoulders, reminding him of his complicated status at Langston, transfer and the guy who'd beaten their team.
"Been thinking about it," he said.
"Man, you should come! We need your shooting. Coach has plays that would fit your style perfect." Rashaad's specifics showed he'd been watching Azeil closer than he'd realized.
"It's complicated," Azeil said, aware of Nia listening quietly.
"I get that," Rashaad nodded, showing he understood. "New school, new team dynamics. But basketball's basketball, you know?"
Rashaad's simplification wasn't dismissive, he was trying to find common ground, but it missed Azeil's complications. Grief, feeling displaced, his whole changed relationship with basketball.
"You've seemed distant this week," Azeil said, more observation than accusation. "You were friendly at first, but not lately."
His words hung in the kitchen air, more direct than Azeil usually was. After two weeks at Langston carefully choosing his words, he felt bold, maybe because of Nia being there or the easy conversation over nachos.
Rashaad looked surprised, then thoughtful. "I didn't even realize... Man, I'm with the team 24/7, eating, practicing, studying. It's not just basketball; it's everything for me." His honesty replaced any defensiveness. "Wasn't about avoiding you; the team's my priority."
Azeil nodded, respecting his honesty even if it meant navigating Langston alone. At Highland, he'd prioritized basketball too, understood how it could become the center of everything.
"I get that," Azeil said. "Team comes first."
Relief hit Rashaad's face, then turned into excitement. "Exactly. You'd fit right in. The squad needs your skills, we all know it, even Zahair deep down."
Mentioning Zahair brought tension, but Rashaad's approach felt genuine, about including Azeil, not personal drama.
"I'll think about it," Azeil said, still hesitant but appreciating the straight talk.
"That's all I'm asking," Rashaad nodded and held out his fist. "Know you got a spot if you want it."
Azeil bumped it back, meaning it. Their conversation felt real. acknowledging the complicated stuff while keeping possibilities open. Not pretending they were best friends, but not dismissing potential either. Honest beginning.
"I need some air," Azeil said, feeling the kitchen getting tight with too much conversation and expectation. He looked at Nia, torn between wanting to stay and needing space. "Just for a minute."
"Need someone to chill with?" she asked, concerned.
"Nah, I'm good," he said appreciatively. "Just need a sec."
As he moved through the living room toward the back door, Azeil felt eyes on him, some curious, others not caring, a few openly unfriendly. His status as Highland transfer still stuck to him, carrying expectations he couldn't shake. Reminded him of being stuck in between: not Highland anymore but not fully Langston either.
The back porch was quiet, music and voices muffled by the closed door. Azeil leaned against the railing, sucking in cool night air like he'd been underwater. The yard stretched out dark except for kitchen light spilling over, creating space between party chaos and neighborhood calm.
Monday's practice sat heavy in his thoughts, some kind of line at Langston. Coach Booker's invitation was still there, opportunity and complication rolled together. Playing basketball again meant connecting with his real self but also facing the fact that Mom would never be in the stands or give him her breakdown on the drive home.
Azeil tapped his fingers on the railing, finding the rhythm she'd taught him for calming nerves. One-two-three-pause. Connected him back to who he was before grief broke everything apart.
The door creaked and Azeil turned to see Nia with two red cups. She held one out with quiet understanding.
"Thought you might need a drink," she said, settling next to him.
Azeil took the cup, glad she was there. They stood quiet, watching distant lightning flicker where storm clouds were building, still miles away but coming steady.
"Marcus and Zoe are cool," Azeil said easy.
"The best," Nia agreed, warmth in her voice. "Known Zoe since third grade. Marcus moved here sophomore year, but feels like he's always been part of our group."
"Group," Azeil repeated, liking how it sounded. "Highland didn't really have groups, just strategic social positioning."
Nia laughed, sound cutting through the night, welcome contrast to the muffled bass inside. "That's the most Highland Prep way to describe friendship I've ever heard."
"Wasn't really friendship," Azeil said, feeling like darkness made honesty easier. "More like recognizing social currency. Who could help you get where you wanted to go."
"And where was that?" Nia asked, simple question but heavy.
Azeil realized he'd never really put the goal into words. "Somewhere my mom would be proud of," he finally said, surprised by the truth. "Somewhere that justified her sacrifices."
Nia was quiet for a moment, steady presence. "And now?" she finally asked.
The question carried layers. Now that Mom was gone. Now that Highland was behind him. Everything that defined his future had been rewritten.
"Now I'm just trying to figure out who I am without her roadmap," Azeil admitted, feeling scared and free at the same time.
"Seems to me," Nia started, "you're doing okay. Coming to a Langston party? Holding your own against Zoe's interrogation? That's something."
Her comment pulled a reluctant smile from him. "Was that real interest?"
"Oh, it was real," Nia said. "Zoe doesn't fake anything, but she's collecting data about you for future use."
"What kind of use?"
"To decide if you're good enough for me," Nia said, taking a sip to cover how bold that was.
The implication sent electricity through Azeil, not quite nerves or excitement, but something undefined in between. He glanced at Nia's profile, noticing how the porch light softly lit up her cheek and strong jaw, along with a tiny crinkle by her eye that showed she was amused by her own daring charm.
"And? Am I?" Azeil surprised himself with the directness.
Nia turned to face him, expression calm but intense in the dim light. "Too early to tell," she said, teasing tone with real underneath. "But early results are promising."
Something shifted in the air, recalibrating possibilities. Azeil leaned slightly toward her, drawn not by basketball or school labels but by something he couldn't name. For a moment, he was just a sixteen-year-old guy next to a girl who actually saw him.
"You didn't answer Rashaad's question," Nia said quiet, voice just for him. "About Monday's practice."
Azeil tightened his grip on the cup, the question hitting his core uncertainty. "Didn't think you noticed."
"I notice most things," she said.
No pressure in her words made honesty easier. "Honestly don't know," he admitted, looking at the storm clouds. "Been going back and forth all week."
"What's stopping you?" Nia asked gentle.
Azeil thought about deflecting, mentioning team dynamics and Zahair's attitude. But the darkness felt private; Nia's quiet attention made honesty feel necessary.
"Basketball was our thing," he finally said, words coming hard. "My mom never missed a game since I was six. Even when she was sick, I found out after, she was at the championship. Playing without her feels wrong. Like I'm accepting she's gone before I'm ready."
The admission hung in the night air between them, more vulnerable than anything he'd shared before. He hadn't said this to Jackson or explained why the basketball in his room stayed untouched until that night in the backyard.
Nia stayed quiet for a moment, letting his words sit without judgment. When she spoke, her voice had the weight of someone who really understood.
"I think," she said careful, "your mom wouldn't want basketball taken from you too. Not after you've already lost so much."
The words cut through all the grief and guilt he'd wrapped around that decision. Same thing she'd said at the game about living good with the love someone gave you. Before he could respond, a crash from inside broke the moment, glass breaking, then raised voices and the music cutting out.
Their eyes met quick before both moved toward the door. Azeil got there first, pulling it open to find the party frozen, conversations stopped mid-sentence, everyone tense, all attention on whatever was happening up front.
"What's going on?" Nia asked a girl nearby, who looked back with wide eyes.
"Zahair just showed up," she whispered. "And he's drunk."
The news hit Azeil like a switch flipping, basketball instincts kicking in, reading the room, figuring out how to respond. His eyes swept around, mapping exits if needed. But he fought the urge to run; he had as much right to be here as anyone. Leaving would just prove Zahair's point.
Like he'd been summoned, Zahair's voice cut through the quiet, louder than it needed to be. "Where's Highland? Heard he's slumming it with us tonight."
Nia touched his arm. "We can leave if you want. Nobody would blame you."
The offer meant escape with dignity. But Azeil shook his head, something settling firm in his chest. "I'm not running." The decision felt bigger than just this moment, a line between his careful past and who he might become at Langston. Mom had taught him to pick battles smart, and sometimes you couldn't avoid confrontation.
"Then we handle it together," Nia said, squeezing his hand quick before letting go, not protecting him but standing with him. The difference mattered.
They moved through the crowd, which split like water, toward the front hallway where Zahair stood with two football players Azeil didn't know. Zahair's whole body said he owned the place, shoulders back, chin up, eyes scanning the room.
When Zahair spotted Azeil, his face got darker, like Azeil being there broke some rule. The red cup in his hand crumpled, liquid sloshing.
"Well, well," Zahair said, words slurred. "If it isn't Highland Prep himself. Enjoying the commoners' party?"
The insult painted Azeil as some rich kid slumming it. The irony, his scholarship, his mom's tight budget, where he lived now, might've been funny if the situation wasn't so tense.
"I was invited," Azeil said, keeping his voice even. "Same as you."
"Not the same," Zahair stepped closer. "This is our turf. You're just visiting."
Azeil recognized that edge from Highland, desperate need to keep others out to feel secure. He'd seen it in kids threatened by his skill.
"I live three blocks away now," Azeil said. "This is my neighborhood too."
Something dangerous flickered in Zahair's eyes. Azeil wasn't following the script, neither backing down nor escalating. He was claiming territory Zahair thought was his alone.
"New address don't make you one of us," Zahair sneered, voice dropping lower. "You'll always be Highland Prep to me."
The comment was designed to get a reaction that would prove Zahair's point, a trap with no good way out.
"I was at Highland," Azeil said, not defending or apologizing. "Now I'm here. That's just how it is, Zahair."
Not playing along frustrated Zahair more than a fight would have. He turned toward Nia, who stood close by. Zahair's expression shifted, calculating.
"Didn't take you long to find a tour guide," he said, making her friendship sound like charity. The dig showed his insecurity but hit where it hurt, making Azeil wonder if Nia's interest was real.
"Leave her out of this," Azeil warned, heat creeping into his voice. "Your problem is with me."
"Oh, I got plenty of problems," Zahair said with a smile that wasn't friendly. "Starting with you at my school, trying to get on my team, and now showing up at my boy's party." He stepped closer, and Azeil smelled vodka, saw the tension in his neck, his clenched jaw. "What else you planning to take?"
The question accused Azeil of wanting Zahair's position, status, friends, Nia's attention. Absurd, but the threat felt real.
"I'm not taking anything from you," Azeil said, holding his ground. "There's room for both of us at Langston."
"You're not getting it," Zahair whispered, more threatening than yelling. "You don't belong. There's no room for you, here or on my team."
The words hung between them. The party had gone dead silent, conversations stopped, music off, everyone watching. Even Zahair's football friends looked uncomfortable, exchanging looks that said this had gone too far.
"Come on, Z," one muttered, hand on Zahair's shoulder. "Not worth it, man."
Zahair shrugged him off, eyes still locked on Azeil. "You know what really gets me?" he said, like they were just talking. "It's not that you beat us. It's how you acted like it meant nothing. Like we meant nothing."
That caught Azeil off guard, not anger about losing, which he'd expected, but hurt about his reaction after. In his memory, those moments after the buzzer were joy and relief, teammates mobbing him, his mom's smile from the stands. He hadn't thought about how it looked to Langston's players.
"That wasn't—" Azeil started, but Zahair cut him off.
"Save it. I don't need your apologies or explanations." His eyes narrowed, showing calculation under the alcohol and anger. "Know your place. It's not here."
"That's enough, Zahair," Nia said, stepping forward despite Azeil's earlier warning. "You're drunk and embarrassing yourself. This is Marcus's house, not yours."
Zahair turned on her, looking at her like she'd betrayed him. "Taking his side now? That's how it is?" He let out a harsh laugh with no humor in it. "Guess Highland's got more appeal than loyalty."
The accusation was meant to hurt, making Nia's friendship with Azeil sound like betrayal. Obvious manipulation, but it worked, making the crowd uncomfortable.
"There are no sides," Nia said, voice steady even though anger flushed her cheeks. "Just people handling complicated stuff like adults, not territorial children."
That shut Zahair up for a second. In that pause, Rashaad showed up, confusion turning to alarm as he read the situation.
"Zahair," he called, moving forward. "There you are, man. Been looking for you." His tone was casual but his shoulders were tense as he tried to get between the conflict and the party. "Why don't we step outside for a minute? Need to talk to you about something."
Trying to save Zahair's dignity while ending this, but Zahair wasn't having it, too focused on his beef with Azeil.
"I'm busy," he said, not looking at Rashaad. "Having a chat with Highland about boundaries."
"This isn't a conversation," Azeil said, frustration bleeding through. "This is you marking territory like a dog. I'm not interested."
The blunt dismissal hit Zahair hard, his face twisting with alcohol and wounded pride.
He spoke with conviction, his tone sharp. "I can see it in your eyes, judging me, thinking you're better than me. With your prep school education and all those fancy words, you're just a phony who doesn't fit in anywhere." He took a step closer.
The accusation hit Azeil's insecurity, that fear of not belonging anywhere, something he'd carried from Highland to Langston. Zahair's attack was precise, like he'd been waiting for this moment.
"Back off, Zahair," Nia warned, worry in her voice. "Boundaries. Learn them."
Zahair turned to her, face getting darker. "And you," he slurred, emotion taking over. "You come off better than this, but I guess even the debate captain can't help slumming it with the mutt."
The words hit like a punch, crude and meant to wound. Silence fell over the party, conversations stopping after his slur. Azeil felt Nia's shock beside him, heard her sharp breath.
Something broke inside Azeil. All that careful control his mother had taught him shattered, replaced by raw reaction. Without thinking, his hands shoved Zahair's chest, sending him stumbling.
"Don't ever call me that again," Azeil growled, words coming from somewhere deep and unguarded.
Zahair caught his balance, surprise turning into ugly satisfaction. "There he is," he smirked. "The real Highland Prep. Not so controlled after all."
The goading was deliberate, trying to provoke him. Azeil saw the trap but felt the pull to release weeks of bottled anger and grief.
"Azeil, don't," Nia urged, hand on his arm, anchoring him. "He's not worth it."
"Listen to your girl," Zahair taunted. "Walk away. That's your game, right? Running when things get tough."
His mischaracterization of Azeil's life. Like his mom's death and transfer-were choices that scraped against raw wounds. Azeil felt his muscles tense, reflexes firing.
"You don't know anything about me," he said, each word measured despite his rising anger.
"I know enough," Zahair said cold. "You think you can waltz in and take what's mine, my team spot, my school's respect." His gaze went to Nia. "Maybe even my people."
"I'm not yours," Nia shot back, indignation in her voice. "This school and that team aren't yours. Get over yourself, Zahair."
Zahair's hurt look shifted from antagonism to real pain, hardening into something colder. He looked between them, drunk and bitter.
"I see how it is," he said, tone sharp. "Guess you two deserve each other. The traitor and the half-breed."
Everything happened at once, Nia's outraged cry, Rashaad moving to intervene, the crowd's collective gasp. But Azeil registered none of it, his world narrowing to the slur, the deliberate cruelty, the line crossed.
His fist connected with Zahair's jaw before he could think, the impact reverberating up his arm like a basketball off the rim. Zahair's head snapped back, surprise flashing before his training kicked in, years of competition and street credibility demanding response.
What happened next was chaos, they were hitting each other violently, not like in a sport. Zahair shot Azeil in the ribs, pushing the air out of him. They struggled with each other, crashing against the hallway wall and knocking a photo off its frame, breaking the glass.
Someone screamed. Someone else cheered. The crowd surged and pulled back in waves, creating unpredictable currents around the central storm.
Azeil had never fought before; conflicts at Highland Prep were social exclusion and cutting remarks, not fists. But his body found balance and leverage instinctively.
A blow caught him above the eye, pain flaring. He got Zahair in the stomach, doubling him over. Neither fought with technique, just weeks of pent-up hostility expressed through flesh and bone.
"Stop it!" Nia shouted, but they ignored her, locked in their struggle for dominance.
Hands reached for them. Rashaad pulled Zahair while Marcus tried to separate Azeil from the chaos. The Johnson twins appeared, identical grim faces as they helped break up the fight.
"That's enough!" Khalil shouted, getting between them with the force of someone used to creating space on the court. "Both of you, back off!"
Azeil was held back by Marcus and Raffiel, each gripping an arm as he fought to control his adrenaline and anger. Across the divide, Rashaad and Khalil held Zahair, who glared fiercely at Azeil.
"Let me go," Zahair growled, still fighting against their grip. "This ain't over."
"Yeah, it is," Rashaad said, all his usual charm gone. "You're done. Both of you."
Blood dripped from a cut above Azeil's eye, and he could taste it mixing with his split lip. His knuckles hurt from hitting Zahair, and his ribs ached from that solid punch. But under the pain was satisfaction, not from the violence, but from finally letting out something that had been building.
"Come on," Marcus said, trying to help. "Step outside. Cool off."
It made sense, but Azeil shook his head, adrenaline still coursing his veins. "I'm alright," once again more confident than he felt.
"Damn, you're bleeding," Nia said, looking at him with concern. "It's done. For both of you." She shot Zahair a look. “What a classy move, Z."
Zahair's face changed, shame creeping through the anger and booze. "He started it," he mumbled, sounding like a kid, which made his tough-guy act look weak.
"Pretty sure your racist mouth started it," Nia said ice-cold. "You should be ashamed." Her words hit harder than any punch, making Zahair shrink as he felt everyone judging him. Reputation was everything at Langston, and his just crashed.
"Whatever," he said, not sounding convinced. "Let me go. I'm leaving."
Rashaad and Khalil looked at each other before letting go. Zahair straightened his shirt, wouldn't look at anyone as he headed for the door.
"This ain't over, Highland," he said, but the threat sounded weak now, more for show. "Don't show up at practice." His final shot reminded everyone that if Azeil joined the team, there'd be more drama. The challenge hung there as Zahair left with his football buddies.
Soon as the door closed, the party exploded into chatter. The Highland transfer and Zahair's fight would be talked about for weeks.
"Let me see that cut," Nia said, gently turning Azeil's face toward the light, worried but not judging.
"It's nothing," Azeil said but didn't pull away.
"It's something," she said, grabbing a napkin. "Could've been worse though." She was right, but it missed what really happened tonight. Lines got crossed that couldn't be uncrossed. Whatever happened next, Monday's practice, the rest of the year, his place at Langston, tonight changed things.
"I should go," Azeil said, feeling all the eyes on him, hearing his name in conversations. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving him hollow and uncertain. "This is messed up."
"I'll walk with you," Nia offered.
"No," Azeil said sharp. Seeing her face, he softened. "I need to think. Alone." Not pushing her away, but needing space to figure out what just happened, away from everyone staring. For weeks he'd been so careful with every word, every move, but tonight all that control just broke, showing something raw underneath.
Nia watched him, then nodded. "Okay. Text me when you get home."
Azeil nodded, grateful she got it even though he wanted to be alone. "I will."
He headed for the door, aware of conversations stopping as he passed, eyes tracking him. The Highland transfer. The guy who fought Zahair. The one who messed up Langston's peace. Let them look. Let them talk. For the first time, he wasn't calculating how he looked or managing what people thought. There was something freeing about having clear lines and picking a side.
The cool night air hit him as he stepped onto Marcus's porch, party noise fading behind him. His eye throbbed, knuckles ached, ribs hurt with each breath, reminders of what just went down. But under the pain was clarity.
Zahair's words echoed: "Don't show up at practice."
It was a challenge, a line drawn that couldn't be ignored. Tonight proved things that couldn't be taken back, established positions that had to be defended or given up.
As Azeil walked down the steps, something shifted with each footfall on concrete. Not peace, but movement after weeks of being stuck. The fight with Zahair broke something open that couldn't be closed again, burned away all the careful planning of his first weeks at Langston.
Walking toward his dad's house, Azeil felt his mom's absence different, not as something that paralyzed him, but as foundation for who he was becoming. Even as the ache was there, he felt determination on top of it.
He knew he had to face what was coming next head on.
The gym was never quiet. At 5:30 AM on Monday, the dark Langston Hughes hallways still had their sounds, lights humming, old heating system clicking.
Coach Booker stopped outside the double doors, coffee steaming in one hand, keys in the other. Twenty years of morning practice, showing up an hour early to set up. Today felt different; first practice with Azeil Carter, if the Highland kid actually showed. He unlocked the door, metal scraping. Inside, lights were on and a basketball was bouncing. Someone running drills.
At the far end, a figure was doing suicides, back and forth, back and forth, sweat not slowing him down.
Azeil wore a gray t-shirt dark with sweat, Friday night's fight written on his face, bruise above his right eye, split lip. But he moved without hesitation, just grinding.
Coach stayed by the door, watching. When Azeil finished another rep, Coach spoke: "Most people see suicides as punishment, not warm-up."
Azeil didn't startle; he finished his sprint to the baseline, breathing hard but steady. He wiped sweat, showing raw knuckles that matched his beat-up face.
"It is punishment," he said after a second. "For Friday night and last week in the gym." He met Coach's eyes. "Zahair ran them for putting hands on me. Figured I should too."
Coach raised his eyebrows. "Taking responsibility, don't see that much."
"My mom always said face consequences, don't run from them," Azeil said.
Coach nodded, watching him. "How long you been at it?"
"Since five," Azeil answered. No pride, just fact.
"That's early."
Azeil shrugged. "I threw the first punch."
Honest, no excuses, just owning it.
"Heard there were words that crossed lines," Coach said casual, watching his reaction.
Something flickered across Azeil's face, not regret, just thinking. "Some lines shouldn't be crossed," he said. "But I made my choice."
Coach studied him. "Zahair will run extra suicides today for his part. Team business stays on the team. My players know better."
The words carried weight, Zahair's responsibility, consequences, and most important, including Azeil as one of his players.
"Mind some company?" Coach asked, setting down his coffee and pulling off his jacket. "Been a while since I ran someone through my three-point progression."
Something shifted in Azeil's face, not quite a smile, but softer. "That would be good," he said. As Coach's whistle echoed through the gym, Azeil was exactly where he needed to be.
What happens next? The next chapter posts on Friday, June 20th 2025. You can subscribe below.
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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.