BETWEEN WORLDS - Chapter 9
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An hour later, the gym filled with arriving players, sneakers squeaking on hardwood, gym bags hitting bleachers, voices bouncing off the ceiling. Azeil's shirt had dried during his three-point work with Coach, though his muscles still felt the good ache of real training. He stayed on court, keeping his shooting rhythm, each ball following the same arc.
The Johnson twins came in first, identical height and build but different faces—Raffiel's careful look versus Khalil's sharp edge. They stopped at the entrance, taking in the scene: Coach rebounding for the Highland transfer who'd shown up early for self-punishment.
"Looks like Highland decided to show," Khalil said to his brother, loud enough for Azeil to hear. Not hostile, but testing after Friday night.
"Looks like he's been here a while," Raffiel said back, noting the dried sweat and steady shooting. No judgment, just recognizing effort.
More players came in. Jaxson McBride, built like a linebacker but moving smooth; Devon Williams, lanky with explosive jump; Tyson Ford, quiet focus and huge hands; Marco Alvarez, compact and quick, always watching. Each brought their own reaction to Azeil, curiosity, caution, holding back.
Azeil kept shooting, giving each guy a quick nod while staying focused. This wasn't Highland Prep's perfect court with great sound and air conditioning. This wasn't his mom watching from the bleachers, hand sometimes touching her heart when he made a good play. This was different, earned through performance, not given through privilege.
When Rashaad entered, the gym's energy shifted. Not just from his natural charm, but who followed him in. Zahair, face locked in careful neutral despite the bruising on his jaw. Friday night's evidence matched the marks on Azeil's face, proof of lines crossed.
The ball left Azeil's hands one last time, swishing as Zahair's eyes found him. For a moment, nobody moved, the scene frozen under harsh lights. Then Coach's whistle cut the tension.
"Circle up!" he called, moving to center court with practiced authority. "Last one here runs extra suicides."
Players hurried to form a circle around Coach, creating space between Azeil and Zahair without making it obvious. Self-preservation, nobody wanting to get caught in crossfire if Friday's fight spilled over.
"Before we start," Coach began, his gaze moving around the circle, stopping on both Azeil and Zahair, "let me be clear. Whatever happened Friday stays outside my gym. Here, you're teammates first. Got it?"
Agreement around the group. Zahair stayed silent, eyes fixed past Coach's shoulder, refusing to acknowledge the order or Azeil.
"Good," Coach continued, tone leaving no room for argument. "Because today we're working on mental toughness." He tapped his temple. "Not just how high you jump or how fast you run, but what's up here. Games are won between your ears before they show on the scoreboard."
Azeil heard echoes of his mom's approach in Coach's words. She'd treated basketball like her legal cases, strategic, analytical, each piece feeding a bigger purpose. "Body follows where the mind leads, little lion," she'd told him once, using the childhood nickname that faded as he grew. "Focus on process, not outcome."
"Carter’s been here since five AM running suicides," Coach announced, the statement landing heavy. "Showing the mental discipline I'm talking about."
All eyes shifted to Azeil, reassessing. Not just Highland Prep's championship shooter, not just the transfer who fought Zahair, but someone who'd chosen early arrival, work when nobody was watching, commitment shown through actions.
"Alvarez was here at 5:30 last Thursday," Coach continued, recognizing Marco's quiet dedication. "Johnson twins at 6 AM twice last week." His gaze hardened on Zahair. "When's the last time you beat sunrise to this court, Williams?"
No answer beyond silence, Zahair's jaw tightening under his bruises. Hierarchy getting reshuffled in real time, seniority giving way to demonstrated discipline.
"Today we're running full-court scrimmage," Coach announced. "First team versus second."
First team meant starters, Zahair, Rashaad, the Johnson twins, Jaxson. The championship core that lost to Highland Prep in February, with Azeil's game-winner still burning in memory.
"With one change," Coach added, expression giving nothing away. "Carter, you're running point for second team."
The assignment landed like a rock in water, ripples spreading through the players. Putting Azeil with second string was both challenge and opportunity, less established teammates, but direct opposition to Zahair, who ran first team's offense like a general.
"Marco, Devon, Tyson, Liam, you're with Johnston," Coach continued, naming remaining second-stringers. "First team, blue. Second team, white."
As teams separated for practice jerseys, Marco moved beside Azeil, casual but timed right. "Don't worry about Williams," he said low. "His bark's worse than his bite."
"Seems like his bite left a mark," Azeil replied, touching his healing lip.
Marco grinned, real amusement breaking through his usual careful look. "True. But you gave as good as you got." He pulled his white jersey over his head. "Just so you know, Coach doesn't usually put new guys with second team right away. Most spend weeks running drills before they get scrimmage time."
The info settled into Azeil's mind, another piece of Langston Hughes basketball culture. Not the fake meritocracy Highland Prep pretended to be while running on connections and privilege, but not without its own pecking order either.
"First possession, first team," Coach called, positioning himself at mid-court with whistle and critical eye watching every move. "Shot clock at thirty seconds, full court rules, and remember," he tapped his temple, "mental toughness. Show me what you got."
Jaxson and Tyson met at center circle for the jump ball. Jaxson's height gave him immediate advantage despite Tyson's effort. The ball went straight to Zahair, who caught it easy, settling into point guard like it was his throne.
Azeil moved into defensive stance, positioning himself between Zahair and the basket with careful precision his mom had drilled into him since childhood. For a moment, their eyes met over the rhythmic bounce, Zahair's dark with leftover anger, Azeil's steady despite adrenaline running through him.
"Bet you miss your mommy cheering from the stands," Zahair said low but sharp with deliberate cruelty. "Oh wait, she can't do that anymore, can she?"
The taunt hit with surgical precision, targeting the raw wound of his mom's absence. Anger shot through Azeil, hot and immediate, but he channeled it into defensive focus rather than reaction. Shoulders squared, feet active, hands ready, basketball speaking when words might fail.
Zahair started his drive with explosive quickness, crossover designed to create separation. But Azeil read the move before it fully happened, anticipating rather than reacting, staying with him step for step. When Zahair pulled up for mid-range, Azeil's hand was there, forcing adjustment that sent the ball clanging off rim.
Devon grabbed the rebound and followed up with a quick outlet pass to Azeil, who immediately pushed the pace up court, reading the defensive setup with same analytical approach his mom had applied to legal briefs. First team's defense was coordinated but predictable, each player moving in patterns they'd developed over years together.
Azeil pulled up at three-point line, defense collapsing toward him before he slipped no-look pass to Tyson cutting to basket. The big man finished with an emphatic dunk that momentarily silenced the gym.
"Nice vision, Carter," Coach called from sideline, tone neutral but gaze approving. "Good cut, Ford. Keep moving without the ball."
Something shifted, second-string players exchanging glances of surprised appreciation, first team reassessing Azeil and the challenge. One good play didn't equal victory, but it established possibility where none had seemed to exist.
The scrimmage got more intense, each possession taking on a weight bigger than practice. Zahair responded to the initial setback aggressively, pushing pace and physical contact to the edges of what Coach would allow. Johnson twins executed their twin-telepathy give-and-go with seamless precision. Rashaad created space where none seemed to exist, footwork like poetry.
On second team, Azeil found himself navigating unfamiliar territory, teammates whose habits he hadn't learned, whose strengths and weaknesses remained mostly theoretical. Marco proved surprisingly good at reading defensive rotations, finding open space like water through cracks. Devon's vertical leap transformed him from lanky teenager to aerial artist attacking the rim. Tyson set screens with determined solidity of someone who understood his role.
"Move the ball," Azeil called, directing traffic with calm authority that had once made Highland's coach remark he had "old man's game in young man's body”.
White team's teamwork improved with each possession, movements becoming less individual reaction and more coordinated action. They began making up for what they lacked in established chemistry with communication and effort. When Devon cut backdoor for easy layup off Azeil's perfectly timed bounce pass, something clicked, the first real moment of five-players-as-one coordination.
"There you go," Coach said, approval evident beneath controlled expression. "That's basketball."
The praise only increased Zahair's determination, his defense on Azeil becoming increasingly physical, forearm here, hip check there, each contact carrying a message that territory wouldn't be given up without cost. When Azeil managed to slip past him for floater that dropped despite contact, Zahair's frustration showed in the verbal jab during transition.
"That all you got, mixed-breed? Maybe you should stick to playing with rich white boys."
The slur landed like slap, intended to provoke same reaction that exploded at Friday's party. But this time, Azeil was ready, channeling the impact into next defensive stance and calculated focus that had always been his refuge when emotions threatened to overwhelm.
"Less talking, more playing!" Coach barked from the sideline, sharp eyes missing nothing. "This is basketball, not debate club!"
The scrimmage continued with increasing intensity, physical play escalating on both sides as the score remained close. Azeil found himself settling into rhythm with new teammates, discovering their tendencies through shared experience rather than theoretical assessment. Devon liked to fill right lane on fast breaks. Marco thrived in chaos, creating opportunity from broken plays. Tyson set screens with textbook precision, always knowing exactly where to position himself for maximum effect.
First team still had the advantage of chemistry, their movements showing years of shared court time. But something was building on second team, a connection forged through immediate need of competition, players finding common purpose despite different backgrounds.
Halfway through scrimmage, just as Azeil prepared to inbound after first-team basket, the gym door opened. He glanced over automatically, heart doing unexpected skip when he recognized Nia Robinson slipping quietly into bleachers. She wore a debate team sweatshirt and her book bag over shoulder, expression showing nothing of why she was at early morning basketball practice.
Their eyes connected briefly across distance, her slight nod carrying acknowledgment without fake encouragement. Something inside Azeil settled at her presence, not an audience to impress, but a witness to efforts made with honest purpose.
"Carter! Ball in play!" Coach's voice snapped his attention back to court. "Save social hour for after practice!"
The reminder carried no real heat, just the focus that defined Coach's approach. Azeil inbounded to Marco, immediately moving to receive the return pass as they pushed into offensive territory. Knowledge of Nia's presence registered without disrupting concentration, another element integrated into awareness rather than distracting from it.
With three minutes remaining in scrimmage, score stood tied at 34-all, neither team could establish advantage. Fatigue had begun to show in slower rotations, jump shots falling short, defensive intensity that dropped despite effort to maintain it. The gym had grown warmer, sweat shining on foreheads and soaking through practice jerseys, yet competition remained sharp with consequences beyond immediate moment.
Azeil's body had settled into familiar space where physical discomfort faded beneath mental focus, where each movement flowed from instinct shaped by thousands of repetitions. Bruised ribs complained occasionally, split lip stinging with each breath, yet these registered as information rather than obstacles. Basketball had always provided this sanctuary, a place where complexity reduced to action and reaction, where success or failure showed in immediate, measurable outcomes.
With shot clock winding down, Azeil created separation from Zahair with a step-back move practiced countless times on Highland's courts and now his dad's backyard. The three-pointer left his hand with perfect rotation, its path mathematical certainty, until Khalil Johnson's outstretched fingertips altered the trajectory just enough to send it circling rim and bouncing out.
Zahair secured the rebound, immediately pushing upcourt with the controlled urgency of someone who knew exactly what was at stake. The Johnson twins filled lanes on either side, synchronized movement creating defensive confusion. When Raffiel set a screen that left Liam struggling, Zahair attacked the opening with precise timing, finishing at the rim to put first team ahead 36-34.
"That's how it's done, pretty boy," Zahair taunted as they transitioned back to defense, confidence rising with lead. "This is a man's game. You sure you can handle it?"
Azeil didn't respond, channeling provocation into next action rather than reaction. As Marco brought the ball upcourt, Azeil moved without it, reading defensive positioning, identifying weak points in first team's rotation. When the ball found him curling off Tyson's screen, he attacked immediately, drawing multiple defenders before finding Devon cutting to the baseline.
The pass threaded between defenders with precision, Devon catching it in stride and rising toward rim. Zahair rotated late, his attempt at recovery resulted in contact that sent Devon sprawling to hardwood. No whistle blew, Coach letting them play through physical challenges, but the ball rolled harmlessly out of bounds. First team's possession.
"Told you, mixed-breed," Zahair said, words pitched for Azeil's ears alone as they reset for inbound. "You don't belong here. Never will."
The statement carried weight of repeated use, a calculated attack on Azeil's most vulnerable point, fear of perpetual in-between status, neither fully Highland nor Langston, neither entirely Black nor white, always existing at margins.
"ZAHAIR!" Coach's voice cut through gym, sharp enough that several players flinched. "What the hell was that?"
Sudden intervention highlighted what everyone else had missed, not just physical play but the verbal attack that followed it. Coach's expression had hardened, usual controlled demeanor giving way to genuine anger as he approached court.
"Just playing the game, Coach," Zahair replied, the casual dismissal contradicted by tension in shoulders. "Not my fault if he can't handle it."
Coach's eyes narrowed, decades of experience reading unspoken dynamics between teenage boys informing assessment. "That wasn't basketball," he said, voice carrying quiet authority of someone who rarely needed to shout to be heard. "That was something else entirely."
The gym had fallen completely silent, practice suspended between Coach's anger and Zahair's defiance. Even the constant squeak of sneakers against hardwood had ceased, players frozen in positions like actors waiting for the next line in a tense scene.
"This kid," Coach continued, gesturing toward Azeil without taking his eyes off Zahair, "just took a group of players who've never shared court before and nearly beat the team that went to championships. He's been here since dawn putting in work while you've been—" Coach cut himself off, visibly reining in whatever he'd been about to say. "Hit the showers, Zahair. Now."
The dismissal landed with a weight of public judgment, the consequence more significant than extra suicide drills or conditioning. Zahair's expression cycled through surprise, anger, and finally mask of indifference that fooled no one.
"Whatever," he muttered, deliberately bumping shoulders with Azeil as he passed. "Doesn't matter what Coach says. You'll never be one of us. Never truly belong."
The final comment carried just enough volume to reach nearby players, a parting shot designed to undermine whatever victory Azeil might claim. Then Zahair was walking toward locker room, his departure leaving an awkward void that no one seemed sure how to fill.
Coach's whistle cut through silence. "Practice isn't over," he announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. "First team needs a point guard. Alvarez, you're up. Let's reset."
Directive provided welcome structure, and players quickly repositioned as Marco jogged over to join blue team. But as play resumed, something shifted in gym's dynamics, recalibration of status and expectations that went beyond immediate scrimmage.
Azeil found himself at center of this shift, teammates who had been cautious now were making direct eye contact, their passes finding him with greater confidence. Devon slapped his shoulder after well-executed pick-and-roll, casual contact carrying acceptance rather than obligation. Tyson, typically silent during play, called out "I got you" when setting screen, simple phrase weighted with commitment beyond literal meaning.
Even the Johnson twins regarded him differently during final minutes, Khalil's defense remained intensely competitive but clean, and Raffiel offered quiet "nice move" after Azeil executed a particularly effective crossover. Small acknowledgments that accumulated into something more significant than individual parts.
When Coach's whistle signaled end, second team edging out 40-39 victory in Zahair's absence, Rashaad approached Azeil directly, extending hand without hesitation.
"Hell of a game, man," he said, the compliment carrying genuine respect rather than obligatory sportsmanship. "For real."
Azeil accepted the handshake, a simple gesture bridging divides more complex than athletic competition. "Thanks," he replied, the single word adequate to the moment.
Coach's voice cut through post-scrimmage conversations as players began moving toward water bottles and gym bags. "Wind sprints, everyone," he called, immune to collective groan his announcement generated. "Baseline to baseline, six sets." He paused, then added, "Not you, Carter. You're with me. We need to talk."
Exemption from conditioning immediately raised eyebrows, special treatment for Highland transfer, potential favoritism that could reignite resentments so recently soothed. But Coach immediately countered any such speculation.
"Carter's been running since five AM," he explained, his tone making it clear this was fact rather than justification. "He's earned his break."
As the team lined up for sprints, Azeil became aware of Nia still sitting in shadowed corner of bleachers, expression thoughtful as she watched practice conclude. Their eyes met briefly across gym,vno gesture or expression exchanged, just quiet acknowledgment of presence and witness. Whatever had begun between them at the football game, continued through the party's chaos, and survived Friday night's confrontation remained undefined but undeniably present.
"Carter!" Coach called from doorway leading to his office. "You coming or what?"
Azeil glanced again at Nia, a half-formed thought about wanting to speak with her after practice fading against reality of Coach's summons. She seemed to understand without words, giving him a slight nod that somehow communicated they could speak later.
As Azeil moved toward Coach's office, he felt the weight of everything that had happened since his mom's death, fracturing of his carefully constructed world, displacement to his dad's home, navigation of Langston's unfamiliar territory, confrontation with Zahair, and now this apparent acceptance onto the basketball team. None of it was what he would have chosen, yet each step had brought him to this threshold.
The real game was only beginning.
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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.