A/N
Included is a photo of what I imagine Darnell looks like. (Minus the whole Spider-Man thing.)

*****

Today's weather is in stark contrast to the storm we had on Monday. The sun is out in full, blinding force like she never left. Beating onto our backs as we run laps. My legs burn while we jog back and forth between the hoops. It's one hell of a warm-up. Specifically designed by the basketball overlords themselves to torture athletes.

It's a bracketed sprint between the edge of the court to half court and then again to the net. Then from the net to the end of the court and back in a seemingly endless loop. Affectionately named suicides.

It's the most demanding workout in the book. The quick changes mean I have to scramble to change direction every time Coach Carter blows the stupid whistle around his neck. Which is often.

But I get the reason behind him pushing the team so hard this week. Our game with the North-side high school. The North-side lizards are last season's semi-final winners. Not only are they well-placed favorites but nearly the entire team plays varsity basketball. This puts us, a team with no varsity players at a significant disadvantage. Worse still, we've never played them before and their techniques are completely new to us.

Every game of theirs that I've watched is wildly unique. They never use similar plays twice and it's hard to pick up on any one pattern.

But my vendetta against them is much more personal. And it goes by the name Marco Reyes. Marco is the shooting guard for the Lizards team. A big personality on Twitter known for top-tier trash talk and his inability to use spellcheck, sharing his many opinions and thoughts to the tune of 10 000 followers. I just happen to be one of them.

I like Marco, I do. Not to mention he's really pretty with a diamond stud in his left ear that matched his braces. A boy with class. What I don't like is the fact that he's the reason we didn't make it to the playoffs last year. He's a 6'4 brick wall of teenage boy who can tear through any line of defense without breaking a sweat. And he'll do it with a wide toothy grin on his face, right after telling you that your girlfriend was so much fun the night before.

True story.

Last night Marco may have called our entire team a very offensive word for a cat. But he softened the blow with as many smiley face emojis as the Twitter algorithm would allow. If he had been talking about any other school I would have laughed but it was my school he was referring to. And I didn't take insults aimed at my Irvine lightly.

If we needed any more motivation to win then it had finally presented itself. Saving face and proving Marco wrong was a major motivator.

After a grueling thirty-minute warm-up, Coach lets us sit down for a breather.

I press my hands onto my thighs when I sit down in a bid to relieve the cramp growing there. Around me, everyone assumes the same or similar positions. I told you this exercise was a pain.

Since Monday's drive in the rain. I haven't spoken to Darnell save for the rare greeting in the hall or during practice. But it's an unspoken agreement that on days where we're both headed to the soup kitchen we carpool. His argument must be something selfless like sharing a vehicle is good for the environment. Mine is I don't have to walk or ride my bike. It's a win-win situation.

Inside school, our relationship is largely unchanged. He has his friends. I had mine. Had being the operative word. After my rift with Anika, lunch in the library has become routine for me. It's almost funny how someone I talked to every single day is now someone I don't see anymore. Are all my friendships destined to end the same way? With gradual distancing and apathy.

At that thought, I glance at Darnell who sits a few spaces away from me. He takes a few swigs of water from a bottle as one of the other substitutes, the tall, wiry Sam, gestures wildly as he explains something.

I shake my head. It must be a really low point for me if I find the mere act of a boy hydrating this interesting.

Sam catches my eye, "Hazel, right?"

"Right," I say.

"Settle a bet for me?" He pauses allowing me time to nod. "1000 ant-sized bears versus 1 bear-sized ant? Who'd win?"

"What?" I say, very confused.

"1000 ant-sized bears," he says slower, pinching his thumb and index finger together. "Versus 1 ant the size of a bear."

"The ant," I say immediately. It just makes sense that way.

Darnell frowns as Sam claps him on the back, victorious. "See, what did I tell you?"

He looks at me, "That makes zero sense. Bears are natural predators and even at a fraction of their size they'd take the ants any day of the week."

"Yes. But the ant could just squish the tiny bears. Like a red wedding themed picnic," I reply.

"Exactly. Someone who gets it." Sam grins. "Two against three, Washington."

Darnell shakes his head and mutters clowns before taking another slow sip of his water.

"Now you owe me a date with your sister."

"Sure, if you can get through Joshua first."

At that, we all turn to look up, where Joshua and Xavier stand discussing strategy with coach. They make a formidable duo. The type of guys who'd mess you all the way up for looking at their girlfriends the wrong way. Sam would need to bump up another weight class if he wanted to stand a chance against either one of them.

"1 ant-sized Joshua versus 1000 bear-sized Sams." Darnell muses.

"It wouldn't be a fair fight." I laugh.

He smiles, "We'd have to wheel him out on a stretcher afterwards."

"Very funny guys. But one day I will win the heart of the fair Aaliyah." He faces Darnell with a stern look. "But for now your firstborn child will have to do."

I wrinkle my nose, "Very Rumpelstiltskin of you."

When Coach Carter blows the whistle, the collective groan we all let out doesn't stop us from heading onto court.

"Okay. Our last practice before the game on Friday," He says when we're done dragging ourselves across the floor. "How's everybody feeling?"

"Like shit." Somebody, I can't pinpoint who says from behind me.

I smirk a little as boisterous laughter erupts in approval of the comment.

Coach raises an eyebrow but doesn't respond to it. "Good to know Ethan. It's our first away game, so be prepared to play on unfriendly ground. I want you to ignore whatever's going on in those stands and focus on the court. I know social media is a big distraction right now but the only way you can prove anyone wrong is by playing well."

He must be referring to Marco's tweet. It had blown up that much.

He continues, "You played really well last week even though we were down one man and I expect nothing less this week."

The man he's referring to is Xavier, whose nose is still in its cast and won't be playing officially for another two weeks. But to his credit, he's taking it a lot better than anyone else would.

"Especially you Darnell. Your performance and range have jumped from what it was last year. Keep it up." Then he clears his throat as though the compliment has choked him up. "A team versus B team. Let's go."

He dismisses us with a clap of his hands and I start to walk back to the bleachers as the boys scramble to arrange themselves when Coach calls me back.

"Yup," I say when I'm close enough to hear him.

"We're down a player on the B team. I need you to play center."

My jaw drops before I pick it up off the floor and say, "You actually want me to play."

He nods, looking down at his tablet. "Impressive work last week. Quick thinking."

I swear if it wasn't for the strict teacher-student contact policy, I would have hugged him. "Of course, I'll play. Hell yeah, I'll play."

But he's already walking away. I jog over to the bleachers and grab a substitute jersey. When I tug it over I check the number on my back. No.36

I never get to play unless it's snap training on weekends. This is admittedly a big deal. A chance to show my male colleagues I'm just as good as they are. Scratch that, twice as good. Maybe even three times—

The whistle blows and the game begins.

*****

Forty minutes later and I'm sweating in places I've never sweated before. There's sweat on the strands of hair matted onto my face, there's sweat running down my back and there's sweat clinging to the band of my sports bra.

But I'm having so much fun that it doesn't matter.

There's an energy you get from watching a sports game. No matter how far removed you are from the sport, whether you've played it before or not, whether it's your home team or not. Somehow you find yourself with a personal stake in the match, deeply invested in its outcome. On the edge of your seat after every missed shot, flying off it when either side scores. Now multiply that feeling by ten and you'll understand a fraction of what I feel when I play basketball.

Like I was born to play.

There's a buzz of activity in my peripheral and the ball skips out of bounds and into A team's possession. The game lulls, allowing me to catch my breath and head back into a defensive position to try and regain control for our side.

I readjust the black sweatband in my hair and wait. When one of the players tosses the ball back onto the court I raise my hands before jogging in its line of motion.

As much as I enjoy being asked to play, something about this game bothers me.

I figure that it's because most of the boys aren't used to playing with a girl. It's like they're treating me with kid gloves, exercising a gentleness I know for sure they aren't capable of in real life. Basketball isn't a heavy contact sport by any measure but having some of them leap out of the way to avoid me is a bit much.

It also makes going on defense more complicated. Having a six-foot-tall boy jump across the court from me was funny the first time it happened. But now it's annoying. I can't defend jack if my target keeps darting around like an erratic toddler.

Then there's the issue of passing.

I only ever touch the ball when it's absolutely necessary or when I steal it myself. Our scores are close, both in the fifties but I know I could bring it up if I had more control of the ball. I could create so many opportunities to shoot.

Who knew a pair of boobs would make you a pariah on the basketball court?

Coach Carter blows the whistle for a timeout and calls over the A team. Which makes sense since they'll be the ones playing tomorrow and it gives me the chance to talk some sense into the idiots.

When we reach the water cooler I walk up in front of it and everyone else and say: "What the hell was that?"

"What the hell was what?" Sam asks narrowing his eyes.

"The fact that we've been playing for a whole thirty minutes and not one of you has even tried to pass to me?"

An awkward pause ensues and it's long enough to prove that I'm right. I cross my arms in front of my chest as they turn to stare at me and I do the same to them. Like some kind of oversized Mexican stand-off.

"Well..."

"It's hard to play with someone new," Sam says finally.

"We're used to each other. We have a dynamic as a team." Another pipes in to back up Sam. "And you're kind of messing with that."

"I've been on this team for almost three years," I say. "How are you not used to me."

"I'm used to you in a cat outfit. So this is new."

Fair point. But it's still not a good enough excuse. Plus Panthers aren't just any cat. They're way up there in terms of feline hierarchy.

"I'm not wearing the panther suit now. I'm playing on your team. So pass to me. You can't keep playing like it's just the four of you out there." I wish I had this much authority in my voice when I was giving my social studies report last week Friday. Or when I was fighting with Anika on Friday when I really needed it. "And we might actually win."

"Why do you even care so much?" Sam asks, wiping a line of sweat off his brow. "It's just a drill and you don't even play for the team."

Because I have so much to prove and not enough time to do it. Because Darnell is on the A team and I'd like so badly to have this small victory on him. Because I'm way too confident in my abilities as a basketball player. But I could never say all that out loud so I keep my answer curt: "Because I like to win."

That shuts them up. No one can argue with a statement like that. What was the point if we weren't playing to win? Then the whistle blows again and I can hope they listened to me.

And in a most shocking turn of events they do. Five minutes into the third quarter someone tosses the ball into my path. It's a sarcastic, affirmative action type shot but I can't help but smile as I dribble and pass the ball back when we cross the half-court mark. After a brief back and forth, No. 11 sees an opening and makes a basket. Sending us a whole two points into the lead.

There isn't much time to celebrate as the ball is sent back to A team. Their movements are much more frenzied now that we're ahead. No one likes to be shown up by their substitutes. They jerk the ball between each other but it's intercepted and thrust back across the court.

Even now that they're playing more inclusive with me, there's still a closeness between the players that I like but I'm still not a part of. A camaraderie of sorts. From the way they clap each other on the back to the way, there are no hard feelings when someone steals the ball or blocks a shot. Which is impressive because when someone blocks me I feel like crying. But for the most part, I try to suppress those feelings. Tears would be very damaging to my image.

There's an overall friendliness and good sportsmanship between the two teams.

And that's why I'm surprised by what happens next.

I don't normally attempt to make baskets when I play. Accurate aiming isn't my strong suit and I'm at a complete disadvantage because the people I'm up against are entire feet above me. I like to use my height in my favor instead. And it works because no one's expecting me to be this fast or to cut them off that quickly. To feign to my left and then throw to my right. It also means I can't play in the same sequence. Everything I do has to be unexpected or else the many odds stacked against me come toppling down and most likely crush me.

The ball is returned to the A team and I'm on the defensive again. And the player I just happen to be shadowing is Darnell.

Taller than me, yes. But not nearly as fast.

Quick hands but suck-ish aim. We're evenly matched in that regard.

Smells nice despite having been sweating in the sun for more than an hour. Not completely relevant but I take note of it anyway.

Instead of blocking I resolve to try and sabotage his pass if he gets the ball. The ball flies in his direction and against my brilliant planning, against my own instructions, I jump. I actually jump to stop him from getting the ball.

I don't even have enough time to analyze my actions because next I'm holding the ball and perfectly placed to shoot into the net. And I do.

Except before I can throw the ball, someone tries to cut me off. But they miss and only manage to elbow me straight in the face. The force of the motion knocks me onto my back and I can only watch as the ball skips limply across the shiny hardwood floor.

It's only when I see the ball drop that I look up to see who dealt the throbbing blow to my lip. I'm not entirely shocked that's it Xavier towering over me with the faintest smirk on his mouth. In a blur of activity, he smacked the ball out of my hands and in the process hit me in the face.

Darnell walks over, presumably to help me up but I lift myself off the floor before he can. It doesn't help my reputation to be knocked down and to need help getting back up as well.

When I'm up I start to walk to the other side of the court, ignoring the ringing in my ears.

s

As I move past him Xavier whispers, "I'm sorry. I guess I don't know my own strength."

The bastard. Using my own words against me. If I thought he'd gotten over the punch from that night I was very much mistaken. Xavier remembered me and what I'd done. And more importantly, he didn't have any qualms about getting his hands dirty when it came to girls. I run my tongue over my mouth and taste the salty tang of blood.