The choice wasn’t simple. It was hers. Their first opponent was North Pier, a quick team in blue that pressed early and played honest defense. South Dock opened nervously. One pass floated behind Zora and bounced out of bounds.

Another rolled through a guard’s hands. A Mariner student made a loud, falling sound whenever Imani caught the ball, and she could hear a couple of people snicker. Ward called her over during a whistle. “What do you see?” “Two guards high.”

“Center leaves the middle when I look left.” “Then stop watching people watch you. Put the ball where the defense isn’t.” The instruction gave Imani something measurable. On the next possession, she waited until North Pier center leaned toward Zora, then fired a low bounce pass through the space the girl’s foot had left.

Zora caught it on the move and scored. A second time, Imani used a high screen, but kept her dribble alive instead of rushing into the lane. Three defenders shifted toward her left hand. She passed behind her shoulder to their quietest wing, a junior named Marisol, who sank an open jumper. Brielle watched from the entrance for less than a minute.

Most of the Mariner crowd was drifting toward the snack tables, and perhaps she meant to do the same. Then, Imani split a press with a pass into space before her teammate had even started running. Brielle paused. Her expression held something different from mockery, something analytical and unwelcome. She turned away before Imani could be certain.

South Dock still had work to do. Midway through the second quarter, Imani cut down the right lane and caught the ball with a defender on her left hip. The layup should have been hers. Her right hand struck the glass too high, and the ball spun out. North Pier recovered and ran the floor for two easy points.

Imani heard Ward clap once, sharp as a command to return to the present. “Next play,” Ward called. The scoreboard showed South Dock trailing by three at halftime. It was neither disaster nor destiny. Ward pointed to their turnovers.

Zora argued for stronger screens. And Marisol admitted she had been hiding in the corner because she didn’t want to miss. Imani listened. She had wanted the crowd to see her beat someone. But the game would not shrink to the size of her humiliation.

Five players to understand damned one another before any single player could matter. In the locker room doorway, Tasha stood with her phone tucked deep in her pocket. The clip’s getting passed around, she said. Not mine. Lily posted a little one.