This is our court. Get out! She said move! Back off. This is your last chance.

The shove came from Harper Cole’s right hand. Before Imani Brooks could recover, Lily Crane drove a shoulder into her and sent her off the polished court, straight into a padded ball rack. Basketballs thundered against metal. “Wrong court,” Harper said, loud enough for the bleachers. Imani was 17, a Black girl in a faded gray hoodie.

Not the kind of athlete pictured on the tournament posters. Their star, Brielle Voss, watched from the sideline beneath a sponsor banner, smiling. Above the bleachers, Tasha’s phone was recording practice passes. A small red dot kept blinking. Imani braced the rack and stood.

Her palms stung, but she did not lunge. “You have room to walk away,” she told the girls. “Give us ours. We’ll settle the rest when the game starts.” For a heartbeat, Harper’s smile faltered.

Brielle moved closer. “You think you’re going to play against me?” Brielle asked. Imani looked past her at the far hoop. A whistle cut through the laughter.

A tournament official started across the floor with a clipboard, and Tasha lowered her phone. What had he seen? What had her friend captured? The answers could decide whether Imani ever got to play the game that brought her here. The official’s name was Calvin Mercer.

Imani had learned it 15 minutes earlier when she had helped coach Lena Ward find the team entrance. Mercer wore a tournament polo with the collar folded wrong, and he carried his clipboard as though it were a shield. His first concern was not the way Imani had landed or why the ball rack was crooked. It was the growing crowd. “Clear the baseline,” he said.

“Teams only. Let’s keep this professional.” “We were clearing it.” Harper said quickly. She was already standing back beside Lily.

Both hands behind her like a child who had never touched anything. Brielle said nothing. A few Mariner Academy students along the front row laughed into their sleeves. Imani turned her palm upward. A narrow white scrape ran beneath the crease where she had caught off the edge of the rack.

Not much blood. Not enough to frighten her, but enough to make Coach Ward’s mouth tighten when she arrived from the equipment table. “Tell me exactly what happened,” Coach Ward said. “They pushed her.” Zora answered before Imani could speak.