South Dock’s captain stood 6 ft tall and could make a low voice carry across the gym. “Both of them.” “I watched from the lane.” Brielle finally gave an amused little exhale. “Your friend lost her balance.

It’s a crowded warm-up.” “The court was open between us.” Zora replied. Coach Ward held up one hand. Not to silence Zora, but to preserve the facts.

““Imani, are you dizzy?”” “No.” ““Head strike?”” ““No, just my hand.”” “Sit for a minute.

We’ll clean it.” ““Coach, I’m fine.”” ““And I’ll decide when we use that word. Sit.”” Imani obeyed because the woman had earned the right to ask.

Ward was a former teacher so to say science teacher who loved bass basketball because a good possession, like a good experiment, made you pay attention to what really happened instead of what you expected to happen. She never raised her voice in an argument she intended to win. The silence that followed her questions usually did the work. Mercer flipped a page on his clipboard. “I have Mariner for this slot.”

Check the next line, Ward said. He did. His eyes moved once, then a second time. The sheet listed South Dock allocated half court beginning at 9:15, the same time printed on the confirmation Ward had brought. Mercer looked at his watch.

It was 9:23. Mixed court warm-up, he said. My mistake. Both teams are authorized. Ward did not celebrate the admission.

Then my girls stay on their half, and I’d like an incident form. Coach, Mercer said, lowering his voice. We have a lot of games today. Let’s not make the opening ceremony about a misunderstanding. “It stopped being a misunderstanding when my player went into the rack.

The word player settled across him on his shoulders more comfortably than her hoodie. She had heard enough versions of visitor, new girl, backup, and lucky invite to recognize the difference. Ward didn’t say the word as a favor. She said it as a fact. Across the floor, Brielle gave Harper a look that told her to move.

They walked away, laughing more softly now. Lily held her phone up for a second, replaying some narrow slice of what had happened. Imani noticed that the screen showed only a view of her stumbling backward. It did not show the hands that sent her there. The discovery sat cold and heavy in her stomach.

Tasha climbed down from the bleachers. Her small lanyard bounced against a mustard-colored sweater. I was filming passes, she whispered to Imani. I don’t know when I hit record. Don’t send anything around, Imani said.