CHAPTER 242: CHAPTER 229: ETHAN CONFLICTING THOUGHTS

I woke up to the faint light bleeding through the curtains, the kind of gray glow that makes you wonder if the sun really wanted to rise at all. My head was heavy, but not from sleep. It was the kind of weight you carry when your mind refuses to stop looping around one place, one thought, Harbor.

At first, I tried to brush it off. Harbor wasn’t exactly the enemy, but they weren’t allies either. They were a reminder. A reminder of where I stood, what kind of player I was, and what kind of team we were shaping up to be.

"Harbor... those guys are solid," I muttered under my breath, dragging myself up from bed. My body still ached from yesterday’s drills, but the ache was familiar, almost comforting. Pain was the only proof that I was pushing myself.

Downstairs, the smell of my mom’s cooking was waiting, but even that couldn’t pull me out of the haze. I sat at the table, pushing eggs around my plate, barely listening to Anna talk about some school project. My mind kept drifting back to the games ahead.

"They’re disciplined, sharp, like a blade. If we don’t stay locked in, we’ll get cut," I thought, chewing slowly, my jaw tight.

It wasn’t just fear. It was something heavier—anticipation. The idea of facing Harbor didn’t scare me, it challenged me.

As I laced up my shoes to head out later, I kept replaying Coach Ron’s voice from practice in my head:

"Don’t hesitate, Ethan. Once you hesitate, you’re already giving them control."

Control. That’s what Harbor was good at. Controlling the pace. Controlling the defense. Even controlling how you thought of yourself when you faced them.

I hated that.

"I won’t let them control me," I said to myself, tightening the last knot in my laces. My reflection in the hallway mirror didn’t look convincing. Tired eyes. Furrowed brow. But under all that, a spark.

On the bus ride to school, I sat by the window, watching the city blur past. Kids laughed, shoved each other in the aisle, lived their easy mornings. For me, it wasn’t easy anymore. Every day felt like a countdown.

I thought about Lucas. His determination. His way of pushing himself beyond what looked possible.

"He’s going to be ready. If I don’t step up, I’ll just fade into the background again. That’s not why I’m here," I reminded myself.

The pressure sat on my shoulders like a second backpack. Heavy, but mine to carry.

By the time the last bell rang, I couldn’t even remember half the lessons. My notebook was filled with doodles of basketball plays, little arrows darting across half-drawn courts. Every time I looked at the page, it wasn’t math or history anymore, it was Harbor, their press, their traps, the way they suffocate ball handlers. Harbor wasn’t just in my head, it was in my hands, in the pencil marks I couldn’t stop sketching.

The classroom emptied out like a faucet drain, chairs scraping, voices echoing down the hall. My body moved, but my brain? Still on the court.

Walking out of school, Brandon caught up with me. His sneakers squeaked against the tile floor, and he slung his bag over one shoulder like he wasn’t carrying the weight of the world the way I was.

"Yo, you good? You’ve been quiet all day."

I forced a smile, tugging at my backpack strap. "Yeah, just thinking."

His eyebrow arched like he already knew. "About Harbor, huh?"

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. He knew. Brandon always knew when basketball hijacked my head.

We pushed through the doors into the late afternoon sun. The heat clung to my skin, sticky and heavy, but it didn’t burn half as much as the thought of that looming game.

Harbor King. Inner Harbor. The team that eats you alive with their traps. The team coached by Mrs. Nakamura, the chessmaster. They don’t just play basketball—they play you. Piece by piece. Move by move.

I clenched my jaw. We can’t be pieces. We have to be the board.

Before I could sink deeper into my thoughts, Lucas’s voice cut through. He and Louie were heading our way, Lucas’s gym bag bouncing against his leg, Louie already sipping from a Gatorade like practice had just ended.

Lucas grinned, but his eyes held the same fire that had been cooking inside me all day. "So what are we going to do now?"

I tilted my head. "Now?"

"You know," Lucas said, "how about what Coach Mason said... about drilling against the press?"

Brandon groaned, though not because he disagreed. "Man, I hate that drill. Makes my lungs feel like they’re on fire."

Lucas smirked. "Better to feel it now than against Harbor. You’ve seen how they swarm."

Louie finally chimed in, pulling the Gatorade from his mouth. "He’s right. One turnover and they’ll smell blood. Remember last year when they forced St. Mary’s into, what, ten turnovers in a quarter?"

"Thirteen," I corrected without thinking. The number had been carved into my brain since I first saw the game film.

They all turned to me.

I shrugged, looking down at the pavement. "I rewatched it last night. Thirteen turnovers in one quarter. That’s not basketball—that’s execution."

The silence sat heavy for a moment. Brandon kicked at a pebble, watching it skitter across the lot.

This is what Harbor does. They don’t just beat teams—they strip them, piece by piece, until all that’s left is panic. They’ll press, trap, rotate faster than your brain can catch up. And if you break it once? Congratulations. They’re already setting up the next wave.

Lucas broke the silence. "Then we drill. Tonight. My gym or yours?"

Brandon groaned again. "Seriously? Tonight? We had practice yesterday. We got one tomorrow."

I finally looked up, meeting Lucas’s eyes. He didn’t need to say more. I felt it too. That urgency. That ticking clock.

"Tonight," I said. My voice didn’t shake, but my stomach did.

Brandon sighed. "Y’all trying to kill me before Harbor does."

Louie laughed, clapping him on the back. "Better us than them."

We started walking, the four of us in a loose pack down the sidewalk. Cars honked in the distance, the smell of food trucks drifting through the air, but all I could hear was the bounce of an invisible ball in my head.

Harbor. Harbor. Harbor. It’s not even game day yet, and I can feel them pressing me in my mind.

"Ethan," Lucas said suddenly, breaking into my thoughts. "What’s their weak spot?"

I blinked. "What?"

"You’ve been studying the film, right? You always do. So what’s their weak spot?"

I hesitated. My instinct was to say "none." But that wasn’t true. Every team had cracks. Even Harbor.

"Middle," I said finally. "Everyone’s so worried about the sideline traps that the middle’s open if you’re fast enough and if the pass is clean. But the margin for error is, like, razor thin. One bad dribble and..."

"Steal. Layup." Lucas finished. His lips curled, not in fear but in hunger.

Brandon shook his head. "So what you’re saying is... we have to play perfect."

"No," I said, my voice firmer this time. "We have to play smart. If we play their game, we’re dead. We need to make them play ours."

Lucas’s grin widened. "Now you’re talking."

Louie tilted his head. "And what exactly is our game?"

I slowed my steps, letting the question hang in the air. What is our game? We’re rookies, scrappy, barely stitched together. We don’t have Harbor’s reputation. We don’t have their polish. But maybe that’s it. Maybe our chaos is the game.

I finally answered, "Fast, but controlled. Everyone touches the ball. Nobody holds it for more than two seconds. If we survive their first trap, we punish them before they reset."

Brandon whistled low. "Two seconds, huh? That’s... brutal."

"It has to be," I said. "We don’t get to play comfortable. Not against them."

The group went quiet again, each of us chewing on the weight of it. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalk.

Lucas broke it with a laugh, light but sharp. "Guess we’re not sleeping much this week."

Louie grinned. "Sleep is overrated."

Brandon muttered, "Tell that to my legs."

I chuckled softly, but inside my chest, the fire burned hotter. We’re not ready. Not yet. But maybe... maybe we can be. If we push harder than we ever have. If we don’t blink. If we keep the ball moving like it’s alive.

As we reached the corner where we’d split off, Lucas stopped, turning to me again. "You in tonight?"

I didn’t hesitate. "Yeah. I’m in."

Because deep down, I knew there was no other choice.

Harbor’s coming. And I refuse to be another one of their numbers.

That’s when the voices came, like echoes in my mind, sharper than memory, not quite dreams.

Evan’s voice was steady, serious, like it always had been when he wanted us to focus:

"Don’t forget about us."

Then Ryan, the self-proclaimed playboy, smirked into the corner of my thoughts, his tone teasing:

"Brandon... you gonna play without me?"

And just like clockwork, Louie join in—loud, brash, never missing his chance to throw jabs.

"Look who’s here... the playboy."

I could almost see Ryan roll his eyes, lips curling into that half-smile that always made the girls in the stands cheer.

"Heh."

Jeremy and Kai’s voices overlapped next, calm but firm, like a steady drumbeat:

"We are also here."

Then Josh Turner, earnest as ever, breaking through the noise with a note of pride:

"Don’t forget about me."

And of course... Coonie. Sarcasm dripping from every syllable, even in the way my memory painted him.

"Forget about me."

I swallowed, staring at the floorboards, because even in the echo of his words I felt something heavier loss.

Coonie’s voice returned, quieter this time, directed at me like a truth only I was meant to carry:

"Aiden is not here... he said to me before he left."

The silence after that was suffocating. I rubbed at my temples, trying to shake off the weight of their voices. It wasn’t just my teammates. It was pieces of myself, pieces of what we’d been together, demanding not to be forgotten.

Harbor Prep wasn’t just another game. It wasn’t just another obstacle. It was the place where the ghosts of my teammates, my brothers, were going to stand with me or against me depending on whether I kept their voices alive.

"Don’t forget about us..." The line kept repeating in my chest, burning itself into something more than memory. A promise.

To be continue