Stafford High School. Allie Casas is her coach's right hand. But due to his poor health, she must step in despite the challenges ahead.
Osborne High School. With a sharp eye and a natural talent for shooting three-pointers, Robbie Sparks is the star...
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Today's training takes a toll on me, which is unusual. It's only Tuesday, after all. I'm only this drained by Friday.
Coach Whittaker's list of extreme requirements to turn us into the best version of ourselves on the basketball court feels endless. He is incredibly stern and demanding.
Coach Whittaker's voice cuts through the gym like a sharp whistle. "Keep moving, Sparks! No standing still—ever!" His words hit me as hard as the ball thudding into my hands.
I drop into a low dribble, knees bent, feeling the tension coil in my quads and calves as I push off, keeping low to the ground.
We started with warm-ups, basic stuff—stretching out tight hamstrings, rolling our shoulders, loosening up. Now, we're deep into the real work. The sweat clings to the back of my neck, dripping down my spine. My shirt's sticking to my skin, but we're barely halfway through the session. The familiar burn builds in my legs from all the defensive slides, shuffling back and forth across the court. It's a grind, but I know it's necessary.
"Switch it up—ball fake, go right, cross left!" Coach shouts.
I fake hard with my shoulder, feeling the muscles in my core tighten as I plant my foot, shift, and explode to the left. My glutes and hamstrings strain with the effort, but I'm focused. The ball snaps back into my hand on the cross, and I drive toward the basket, feeling every part of my body working in sync—shoulders pulling forward, legs pushing off the floor with power, my fingers gripping the ball just tight enough to stay in control.
I hear the squeak of sneakers around me, and the slap of basketballs hitting hardwood, and my breath comes out heavy but steady. We've been at it for what feels like hours—no breaks, just relentless drills. Layups, crossovers, feints, and more shooting than I can count.
Coach Whittaker walks along the baseline, eyes sharp like he's watching everything. "No shortcuts. Every move counts."
I feel it in my lungs now, the burn of exhaustion creeping in as we move to a full-court scrimmage. We practice spacing, cuts, and screens—it's all about precision. My legs are tired, my arms ache from shooting, but I'm locked in.
Before we split into two teams, I take a sip from my water bottle. Nobody's looking at me, so I fish my phone from my bag and type a quick message for Casas.
Robbie Sparks: Can't wait for next Saturday. 😊
My heartbeat is already accelerated, but it flips with joy at the mere thought of playing basketball with her.
I stare at the screen, waiting like a fool, but she doesn't answer. She must be in basketball practice, just like me.
I quickly hide my phone in my bag, beneath my towel, as I glance left and right. I don't think anybody's seen me. I am not supposed to use my phone during practice.
