Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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We're fucked.
I knew finding our new equilibrium as a team would take time, but we've been practicing since midsummer, and we're still just as disconnected as we were on day one. The problem is that everyone is still playing with the mindset that we had last year when Tristan and Luke were dropping most of our points. Only Tristan isn't here anymore, and based on the way Luke's been limping down the court at practice, he's not going to be able to keep up his usual playing time.
Half the team is playing catch and pass, getting rid of the ball the second it touches their hands even if they have an open shot because they're too nervous to fucking shoot. And the other half is battling each other in a silent pissing contest to see who can hog the ball the most, trying to prove they can step into T's old shoes and lead the offense since Luke isn't fully back yet. It's fucking annoying, and when Penn passes me the ball as we sprint down court, I slow the pace a bit and pull back, dribbling behind me to keep it away from Jay Vega, the junior guard currently boxing me out.
I look for the open lane and pass back to Penn, whose eyes widen as he immediately passes to West like the ball's on fucking fire. I clench my jaw, about to rip Penn a new one, but I keep it down until the play's over. Nick Thompson, the new freshman recruit, closes off West's shot, forcing him to pass, but West dribbles the ball a few times before he pulls back and shoots. The ball is knocked off its projected path by Nick's block, landing in the middle of the paint, where I sprint past Jay to grab it and throw it up in an easy layup as I run past the basket.
Coach's whistle cuts harshly through the practice gym, and we all stop where we are as he walks toward us, his whistle swinging from his neck as he holds out his hands, motioning for Luke to pass him the ball. Luke does, stopping beside me as he brings his hands up to his head to catch his breath. He's been playing hard as hell all practice, likely trying to prove to Coach that he's ready to play, even if he's not fully healed yet.
"Penn, what the fuck do you have against this goddam ball?" he snaps, rolling it between his hands like he's proving it won't bite. "You're playing ball, not hot fucking potato. You had an open shot. A clear lane to the post, why the fuck would you pass to West?"
Penn's already flushed face turns an even darker shade of red, but he keeps quiet, knowing there's no good answer. "And you know what? It's not just this jackass. Thompson and Chambers, too. You've all been passing up open shots all fucking week. Do we need to sit down and go over the basic fucking objective of this game for you?"
Silence stills the air around us.
"Well? I asked a fucking question."
"No, Coach." We call back in unison. I lift the bottom of my shirt, wiping away the sweat dripping down my face. This scrimmage was supposed to be our cool down after two and half hours of intense conditioning, but by the look on Coach's face as he glares at us all, I have a feeling he might send us out to track for this.
