Chapter 6 Freeze-Out

~Hailey's POV~

"Do you mind?" Tristan called from across the street, shifting the ice pack against his ribs as he stepped halfway into the road. "Some of us are trying to sleep before practice."

"It's eight-thirty," I said, catching the ball on the bounce. "Grandpa."

"Some of us actually take this seriously." He winced, adjusting the ice pack, and even in the bad light I could see him trying to hide it. "Unlike you, apparently, who thinks tryouts are a joke."

"Pretty sure I made varsity, so." I bounced the ball once, hard, just to make a point. "Not really a joke anymore, is it."

"We'll see how long that lasts." He turned toward his door, muttering something under his breath I didn't catch, and disappeared inside.

I stood there another second, ball tucked under my arm, telling myself I should just go in too. Then the yelling started.

It came muffled through the walls, a man's voice, deep and furious, words I couldn't make out but a tone I understood completely, the kind that doesn't need translating. Something about ribs. Something about wasting everything he'd built. Tristan's voice came back once, low, and then nothing, just the man's voice again, louder, angrier.

I stood frozen in my driveway a long time after the shouting stopped, staring at the dark windows across the street, and for the first time since meeting him, I didn't think about Tristan Hale the arrogant jerk who bullied me at nine years old.

I thought about a boy standing in a house that sounded a lot louder, and a lot lonelier, than mine.

The next morning, Coach Daniels called me into his office before first period, a cramped little room that smelled like old sneakers and coffee. He slid a folded jersey across the desk without much ceremony.

"Number twelve," he said. "Get used to seeing it."

I unfolded it, running my thumb over the stitched numbers, and something in my chest lifted for the first time in days. "Thank you, Coach."

"Don't thank me yet." He didn't smile, exactly, but something in his face softened. "Earning the spot was the easy part."

I was still holding the jersey when I stepped into the hallway and nearly walked straight into Aurora Vale.

She was even more striking up close, deep red hair, sharp cheekbones, the kind of face that belonged on a magazine cover instead of a high school hallway. Her smile arrived a half second too late to feel real.

"There she is." Aurora's eyes dropped to the jersey in my hands, lingering there like it personally offended her. "Number twelve. Cute."

"Can I help you?"

"I just wanted to say congratulations." Her voice was sugar-sweet, poisonously so. "Making the team. Very impressive for someone who's been here, what, a week?"

"Five days," I said. "But thanks."

Aurora leaned in slightly, her smile never wavering, her voice dropping just low enough that only I could hear it. "You should know something, since nobody else is going to tell you. The boys already talked. They've made a pact." She let that sit a second, watching my face for a reaction I refused to give her. "They're going to freeze you out. Every practice, every game, until you break and quit on your own." She straightened up, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. "It'll be a lot less painful if you just save everyone the trouble now."

"Thanks for the warning," I said. "I'll be sure to disappoint you."

Her smile finally cracked, just slightly, before she turned and walked off like she hadn't heard me at all.

By the time the whistle blew for practice that afternoon, her warning had already come true.

I got the ball exactly once in the first ten minutes of the scrimmage, and only because it bounced off someone's foot and rolled straight to me. Every other time, guys looked past me like I was a hole in the court instead of a person standing wide open. I stood alone at the three-point line, hands up, completely uncovered, and Marcus dribbled right past me to force up a bad shot instead.

"I'm open!" I shouted, not for the first time.

Nobody even glanced my way.

Fine. If they wouldn't pass to me, I'd take it myself.

I dropped into a defensive crouch on the next possession, watching a senior guard named Derek bring the ball up lazy, like he already knew nobody would challenge him. I didn't give him the chance to relax. I closed the gap fast, poked the ball loose before he even registered I was there, and took off down the court alone.

Derek's teammate scrambled back to cut me off, but I pulled up short instead of driving, a tough contested jumper from mid-range, the kind Dad used to make me shoot a hundred times before he'd let me go inside for dinner.

Swish.

The gym went quiet for half a second, that same stunned quiet from tryouts, before the murmuring started again, low and grudging.

"Lucky shot," somebody muttered.

I didn't answer. I just jogged back on defense, chest burning, heart pounding, refusing to let myself smile even though something in me wanted to.

That's when I saw Marcus's face change.

He wasn't laughing anymore. He was staring at me from across the court with something harder in his eyes, something that made my stomach twist a second before the whistle blew for the next possession.

The ball moved fast, guard to wing, and I cut hard across the key toward the open lane, exactly where I was supposed to be, exactly where a real teammate should have found me open. Instead I felt it before I saw it, a wall of pure force slamming into my blind side, no warning, no chance to brace.

Marcus's shoulder caught me square in the ribs, and the whole world tilted sideways.

The floor came up to meet me hard, the back of my head cracking against the hardwood, the air blasting straight out of my lungs in one violent, silent gasp. For a second I couldn't hear anything except a high ringing in my ears, couldn't see anything except the bright gym lights swimming above me, couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe.

The whistle screamed somewhere far away.

I lay there gasping, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, my whole chest locked up tight and refusing to work. Somewhere above me I heard voices, Coach shouting, sneakers squeaking as people rushed over, but none of it mattered because I still couldn't get a single breath of air into my lungs and the panic of that was worse than the pain.

Through the haze, I saw him.

Tristan stood frozen a few feet away, ball forgotten at his feet, his face drained of all its usual arrogance, replaced by something that looked almost like fear. He didn't move. He didn't say anything. He just stood there, staring down at me struggling on the floor, like some part of him wanted to step forward and couldn't figure out how.

I curled onto my side, coughing, tears stinging the corners of my eyes from the sheer force of it.

The gym stayed dead silent around me.

And Tristan still hadn't moved.