I haven’t. Not even to Zora. Tasha looked hurt for an instant, then understood. Not even to Zora. I’ll keep the original.

Ward came back with a first aid wipe and a bandage. She checked Imani’s range of motion before returning the basketball to her. Then she asked Tasha to write down the time and the names of anyone who had been near the baseline. It was the first real sign that someone in authority intended to remember the shove after the noise faded. Imani had spent years learning how a gym could sound different depending on who thought they belonged in it.

At South Dock High, the bleachers groaned when anybody climbed them. The scoreboard flickered whenever the heat turned on. And the custodian knew every girl’s birthday. Here in Harbor Ridge’s Civic Field House, a sponsor banner hung over the center court and the maple was polished so carefully that the lights looked like white rivers across it. Nothing in the building told South Dock to leave.

Still, the Mariner girls had looked at Imani’s faded shoes and decided she was occupying someone else’s world. In the east hallway, a promotional poster displayed Brielle shooting over two defenders under the words, “The future of Harbor Ridge Basketball.” Beneath it were the logos of local businesses. One business belonged to Brielle’s father. Imani knew that because the logo also appeared on the water bottles being handed to spectators.

There was nothing wrong with a father supporting a daughter’s sport, but the fact made the room feel smaller. Brielle did not need to introduce herself. The walls did it for her. South Dock’s own roster appeared on a folded photocopy taped beside the schedule. Imani had number 12 beside her name, nothing more.

The ordinary black letters pleased her. They were an invitation made of ink and effort, not a promise someone else’s money had purchased. “Don’t spend your whole day looking at that wall.” Zora told her when she stopped in the hall. “Their picture can’t guard you.”

“Maybe it can block a shot.” Imani said. Zora laughed, relieved to hear her joke. “There she is.” Imani’s mother called while the team waited for its first assignment.

Denise Brooks worked patient transport shifts at a hospital across town and had promised she would come if her supervisor could cover the final hour. The call arrived between an elevator chime and the squeak of wheels. “How’s my girl?” Denise asked. “Already famous in the wrong way.”