Chapter 3 Tryout

~Hailey's POV~

The whistle cut through the gym so sharp it bounced off the rafters, and every head on the court turned toward the double doors, toward me, standing there in shorts and sneakers with my hair pulled back tight. For a second nobody said anything. Then somebody laughed, and it spread through the whole team like a wave, guys doubling over, slapping each other's shoulders, one kid actually wheezing.

"Coach." Tristan jogged over to a stocky man with a whistle around his neck and a clipboard tucked under his arm, that same smirk stretched across his face. "Tell me this is a joke. A girl can't play with us."

Coach Daniels looked past him, straight at me, his expression unreadable. "You're the new sign-up. Carter, right?"

"Hailey Carter." I walked further onto the court, my sneakers squeaking against the polished wood, the smell of rubber and sweat thick in the air. "And I'm serious."

"She's gotta be kidding," one of the guys near the free-throw line muttered, loud enough for me to hear on purpose.

"I'm not kidding." I grabbed a stray ball off the rack and started bouncing it, slow, steady, the sound echoing like a heartbeat through the whole gym. "One-on-one. Whoever takes this ball from my hands before I score gets to decide if I stay or go." I looked around at the varsity boys, all of them grinning like this was the funniest thing that had happened to them all week. "If you can't strip it, you shut up and let me try out."

The laughter got louder. A tall guy with a fade haircut stepped up first, cracking his knuckles. "This is gonna take like ten seconds."

"Get in line, Marcus," another one said, already peeling off his warmup jacket.

Coach Daniels crossed his arms, watching, not stopping any of it. "Three of you. Guards. Let's see what she's got."

Three seniors stepped onto the court, all long arms and cocky grins, spreading out like they were about to do me a favor by ending this quickly. I bounced the ball twice, felt the grip settle into my palm the way it always did, the way Dad taught me back when I was seven and barely tall enough to see over the dashboard of his truck.

"Ready when you are," Marcus said, crouching low, hands out.

I drove left. He bit on it hard, and I crossed the ball back right so fast his sneakers actually slid out from under him, a squeak like a cartoon sound effect, and by the time he recovered I was already gone, laying the ball soft off the glass and through the net.

The gym went quiet. Not fully quiet, just that stunned kind of quiet where you can hear somebody's shoe scuff against the floor from across the room.

"Lucky," Marcus said, scrambling up, red in the face.

Second guy came at me harder, hands slapping at the ball every time I dribbled, and for a second I thought he actually had me. Then I spun baseline, low and tight, and he grabbed nothing but air while I banked another one in off the glass.

"Oh, come on," he groaned, hands on his knees.

By the time the third guy stepped up, the rest of the team had gone dead silent, some of them leaning forward like they couldn't believe what they were watching. I blew past him with a hesitation move Dad drilled into me for an entire summer, in and out, in and out, until his hips turned the wrong way and I was already at the rim.

Swish.

Nobody laughed this time.

I turned around, breathing a little hard, sweat sliding down my temple, and looked straight at the guys still standing near half court, arms crossed, mouths hanging open like they'd just watched a magic trick they couldn't explain.

Then I heard it. Tristan's voice, low and furious. "That's enough."

He was already pulling his warmup shirt over his head, tossing it hard onto the bleachers, muscles tight across his shoulders as he stepped onto the court like he owned the paint beneath his feet. Which, until about ten minutes ago, he probably had.

"My turn, Carter." His eyes were dark, unreadable in a way that made my stomach twist. "Let's see if you cry like you did when we were nine."

"Careful," I said, dribbling the ball once, twice. "Wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself in front of your whole team."

He didn't answer. He just dropped into a stance, low and coiled, and the second I moved he was already there, matching me step for step, his arms wide and quick, cutting off every angle I tried. This wasn't like the other three. He wasn't guessing. He was reading me, actually reading me, the way only someone who used to know exactly how I played could.

I tried the same crossover that worked on Marcus. Tristan didn't bite. I tried driving baseline. He cut me off before I'd even planted my foot. My chest started burning, not from exhaustion, from the sudden realization that he was better than I remembered, way better, and every second I hesitated he was closing in tighter.

"You're thinking too much," he said, voice low, almost bored. "Dad teach you that move? Bet he taught you all of them."

The words hit somewhere they weren't supposed to, a flicker of heat behind my eyes, and in that half second of distraction his hand shot forward and slapped the ball clean out from between my fingers. He was already gone before I even registered losing it, two dribbles, one smooth layup off the backboard, the ball dropping through the net with a soft, mocking swish.

The gym erupted. Guys who'd been silently horrified thirty seconds earlier were suddenly cheering like their captain had just won a championship, slapping hands, whooping, somebody yelling, "That's what I'm talking about!"

Tristan grabbed the ball off the bounce and turned to face me, chest rising and falling, that same infuriating smirk creeping back onto his face. He walked closer and, without warning, chucked the ball straight at my chest. I caught it against my ribs with a soft grunt.

"You're good against them," he said, jerking his chin toward Marcus and the others, who were suddenly very interested in staring at the floor. "But not against me." He crossed his arms, looking down at me like this was already decided, like the whole thing was just a formality he was letting play out. "Now let's reverse it. Try and steal the ball from me. If you can't, you pack your bags and leave my court."

Behind him, somebody muttered, "This is gonna be good," and a couple guys actually pulled out their phones.

I dropped the ball once against the floor, feeling the sting still burning in my palm from where he'd stripped it, feeling every eye in that gym locked on me, waiting to see if I'd fold. I thought about Dad's voice in my head, calm, steady, the way it always sounded right before a big game. Don't play to prove you're better than someone. Play because you love it.

I bounced the ball back to him and dropped into a defensive stance, knees bent, eyes locked on his, every muscle in my body burning with something that wasn't fear.

"Bring it on, Hale."