Chapter 9

The next day’s practice is bad.

Not objectively bad. Nobody is missing every shot. Nobody is forgetting plays. Nobody is getting yelled at more than usual.

But the mood is bad.

The season is getting closer. The excitement of summer workouts is fading, replaced by expectations. And expectations have a way of exposing problems.

By the time practice starts, everyone seems a little less patient than normal.

Geno included. “Again.”

The whistle blows. Players rotate. The drill restarts.

And for what feels like the hundredth time, something breaks down.

“Isa, corner.”

The pass comes.

Late.

By the time Isadora catches it, the closeout is already there. The shot misses.

“Reset.”

Nobody says anything. But Isadora sees Geno write something on his clipboard.

Her jaw tightens.

Ten minutes later, it’s Paige’s turn. The offense flows through her. She comes off a screen. Isadora cuts.

Open.

For a second, it looks perfect. Then Paige hesitates. Not long.

Just enough.

The window disappears. Turnover.

The gym falls quiet.

“Come on,” Geno mutters. Not angry, frustrated.

Which somehow feels worse.

Paige immediately jogs back on defense without saying anything. Isadora does the same.

Neither looks at the other.

The team notices. Of course, they notice. They’ve been noticing.

But after the bonfire, it becomes harder to ignore.

Because now everyone knows the awkwardness isn’t just on the court. Now they’ve seen it.

The way Paige and Isadora naturally avoid each other. The way conversations die when both of them get involved. The way neither one seems willing to cross the space between them.

Nobody understands it. But they all see it.

And it’s becoming impossible not to connect it to basketball.

Halfway through practice, Geno pairs them together for a passing drill.

A simple one. The kind elementary school kids can do.

Five minutes. That’s all. Five minutes of moving the ball.

Bounce pass. Chest pass. Lead pass.

Easy.

Except somehow it isn’t.

The ball leaves Isadora’s hands. Paige catches it. Returns it.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Mechanical. No conversation. No jokes. No communication.

Just basketball.

Around them, everybody else is talking. Laughing. Competing.

Meanwhile, they look like strangers standing six feet apart.

Ice notices it first. Or at least she’s the first person to say something.

“Damn.”

Aubrey looks over. “What?”

Ice nods toward them. “Oh.”

That’s all she says.

But she doesn’t need to say more.

Because Aubrey gets it immediately.

By the time scrimmage starts, the frustration is visible. Not just from Isadora. Not just from Paige.

Everybody.

The offense stalls. Geno stops play. Explains it.

They run it again. It stalls again.

The problem isn’t entirely Paige and Isadora.

But they’re the center of it.

Everyone knows they are.

Because if those two aren’t connecting, the whole offense feels different.

Less dangerous. Less fluid. More predictable.

Geno blows the whistle hard. “Stop.”

The gym freezes. Players straighten. Waiting.

Geno looks between Paige and Isadora. Then at the rest of the team. Then back again.

Nobody says anything.

Because everybody knows what he’s looking at.

“What are we doing?”

Silence.

Paige wipes sweat from her forehead. Isadora stares at the floor.

“We’ve got two of the smartest guards I’ve coached standing out there second-guessing everything.”

Still silence.

Geno folds his arms. “Why?”

No answer comes.

Because there isn’t one they can give. Not the real one.

Practice resumes.

But the tension stays.

Every mistake feels bigger. Every missed opportunity feels louder.

Late in scrimmage, Isadora throws a pass that sails out of bounds. Not because it was a bad read.

Because she expected Paige to be somewhere she wasn’t. The second it leaves her hand, she knows. The ball bounces against the wall.

Whistle. Turnover.

“Jesus Christ,” KK mutters before she can stop herself.

The gym goes quiet. Immediately. KK’s eyes widen.

Because she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

At least not that loud.

But everybody was thinking it.

Paige turns away. Isadora’s face burns.

Geno grabs the ball. “Again.”

The next possession is worse. Paige drives. The help defender commits. The pass should go to Isadora.

Everybody sees it. Everybody. Even from the bench.

Paige doesn’t throw it. Instead, she forces a tougher pass elsewhere.

Turnover.

Now even Aubrey looks frustrated. Not angry. Just confused.

Like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“What is happening?” she asks quietly.

Nobody answers.

When Geno finally blows the whistle to end practice, nobody celebrates. Nobody lingers.

The energy is completely different from a week ago.

People head toward the benches. Towels. Water bottles. Bags.

The season suddenly feels very close. Too close.

Isadora sinks onto the bench and stares at the floor.

Across the gym, Paige does the exact same thing.

Separated by half a court. Neither speaking. Neither looking up.

The rest of the team moves around them.

And for the first time, Isadora gets the sense that people are no longer just curious.

They’re worried.

Because chemistry issues are one thing. Bad timing is one thing.

But this?

This feels bigger.

And as the preseason gets closer, everybody can feel it.

Including Paige. Including Isadora.

The problem is that neither of them seems to know how to fix it.

~~~

A few hours later, the facility is almost empty.

The chaos of practice has long since disappeared.

No music. No whistles. No teammates arguing over drills. Just the steady rhythm of a basketball echoing through the gym.

Thunk. Squeak. Swish. Thunk. Squeak. Swish.

Isadora pauses in the hallway outside the practice court.

She’d stayed later than usual. Film. Extra conditioning. Anything to avoid sitting alone with her thoughts.

Now her bag hangs from one shoulder, exhaustion settling heavily into her muscles as she heads toward the exit.

Then she hears it. The ball. The familiar rhythm. And before she can stop herself, she’s looking.

The lights are dimmer now, only half the court illuminated.

Paige is alone at the top of the key. Catch. Shoot. Swish.

The rebound bounces back toward her.

She gathers it. Shoots again. Swish.

Again.

And again.

And suddenly, Isadora is fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.

Sitting in empty gyms after tournaments while Paige insists on getting up another hundred shots.

Watching from the bleachers while Paige loses herself in repetition. Waiting because Paige always says five more minutes and never means it.

The memory hits so hard it steals the air from her lungs.

Because some things never change.

Paige still tucks her shooting sleeve up before free throws.

Still spins the ball the same way before every jumper. Still drifts slightly left when she’s tired.

Isadora hates that she notices. 

Hates it.

Yet she stays. Standing there in the doorway. Watching. Just like she used to.

Another shot. Swish.

Then, “You’re staring.”

Isadora freezes. The ball bounces once. Twice.

Paige doesn’t shoot again. She doesn’t even turn around immediately. Just stands there holding the ball.

Waiting.

Slowly, she looks over her shoulder.

Their eyes meet. Caught. The same way they got caught at the bonfire.

Except now there’s nowhere to hide.

No teammates. No distractions. Just them.

Isadora immediately adjusts the strap of her bag. “I was leaving.”

“Sure.”

The response is dry. Annoyingly dry. Isadora’s jaw tightens.

Paige bounces the ball once before letting it settle against her hip.

Neither of them looks away. The silence stretches.

Then Paige exhales. “We need to talk.”

Immediately. No buildup. No pretending. Isadora laughs once.

Short. Humorless.

“No.”

Paige’s expression hardens. “Dora-“

“Don’t.”

Paige closes her eyes briefly. “Fine.”

The word comes out sharp.

“Isa.”

Better. Technically.

Neither of them misses the fact that it sounds wrong. Paige sets the ball down.

It rolls a few inches before stopping.

“We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do.”

“We really don’t.”

Paige starts walking toward her. Not aggressively. Just determined.

Which somehow irritates Isadora more.

Because Paige has always done that.

Always decided what needed to happen and then acted like everyone else would eventually agree.

“It’s affecting the team.”

There it is. The thing that’s apparently everyone’s concern now.

Isadora lets out a bitter laugh. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“That’s why you want to talk?”

Paige frowns. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s the first thing you said.”

“It’s true.”

“Wow.”

Paige’s jaw tightens. “Can you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Twisting everything I say.”

The irony almost makes Isadora laugh.

Almost.

Instead, she shakes her head. “You wanted to talk about basketball. Great. Here’s the conversation.”

She spreads her hands.

“You screwed up.”

Paige goes still.

“You screwed up,” Isadora repeats. “We stopped being friends. End of story.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Actually, it is.”

The words bounce off the walls.

Louder now. Sharper.

Paige takes another step forward. “Can you stop acting like you know exactly what happened?”

Isadora stares at her.

For a second, she genuinely can’t believe what she’s hearing.

“What happened?”

Her voice rises.

“What happened?”

“That’s not what I-“

“You spent months treating me like I didn’t exist.”

Paige flinches. Actually flinches. And Isadora sees it.

Sees it and keeps going anyway.

“You wouldn’t talk to me.”

“Isa-“

“You wouldn’t look at me.”

“I know.”

“You got a girlfriend and introduced her to me like I was some random teammate.”

The words echo through the empty gym.

Paige looks away.

Just for a second. Just long enough.

“Oh, so now we’re talking about it.”

Paige drags a hand through her hair. Frustration bleeding through finally.

“Because every time I try, you leave.”

“Because there’s nothing to talk about.”

“How can you say that?”

The volume in Paige’s voice jumps. The first real crack. The first sign she’s losing patience, too.

Three years of frustration suddenly sitting between them.

“Because what explanation fixes it?” Isadora fires back immediately. “What explanation makes any of that okay?”

“I never said it was okay.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Silence. Paige opens her mouth. Stops.

Tries again.

And for one brief moment, Isadora sees it. The uncertainty. The guilt.

The thing Paige never lets people see. “I was scared.”

The words come out quiet.

Isadora laughs immediately. Disbelieving.

“Seriously?”

Paige’s face falls. “You think that’s enough?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Because I don’t.”

The gym goes silent.

Both of them breathing hard now. Neither willing to back down.

Paige shakes her head. “I was eighteen.”

“So was I.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

The response is instant. Raw. Years old.

“You don’t know what that felt like.”

Paige looks like she’s been hit. Good. For once.

Good.

“You rejected me.”

Paige closes her eyes.

“And then you punished me for it.”

The words land. Hard. Hard enough that neither of them speaks for several seconds afterward.

The gym suddenly feels too big. Too empty.

Paige finally looks at her again. And somehow that’s worse.

Because there’s no anger there now. Just regret.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

Isadora feels something sharp twist in her chest. She hates those words. Hates them.

Because they don’t change anything. Because they’re three years too late. Because part of her still wants to believe them.

“Well.” Her voice comes out quieter now. Colder.

“You did.”

Paige doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend herself. And somehow that’s worse too.

The silence stretches again.

Then Paige takes a breath. “We can’t keep doing this.”

Isadora looks away first. Toward the exit. Toward freedom. Toward anywhere else.

“Watch me.”

“Isa-“

“No.”

She grabs her bag tighter.

“Figure out how to live with it.”

Paige’s frustration returns immediately. “You think this isn’t hard for me too?”

Isadora stops. Slowly turns back around.

The anger that flashes across her face makes Paige visibly regret the sentence.

“You don’t get to say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you made the choice.”

Her voice breaks slightly on the last word.

Just slightly.

But it’s enough. Enough for both of them to hear it. Enough for Isadora to hate herself for it.

She immediately looks away. Toward the door again. Paige says her name. Once. Twice.

She doesn’t answer.

Instead, she starts walking. Fast. Purposeful.

Like, if she slows down even a little, she’ll stay.

“Isa.”

The final call follows her all the way to the doorway.

She doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t stop.

The gym door slams shut behind her.

And for the first time all night, the court is silent.