Chapter 158: Who Is Keion?

Keion

"Keep your knees bent, Leo! If you stand up straight like a damn flagpole, any guard with a decent crossover is going to blow right past you!" I barked, my voice echoing off the chain-link fence that surrounded the battered asphalt court.

Leo—a skinny twelve-year-old with scuffed sneakers and a shirt two sizes too big—stumbled, frantically trying to adjust his stance while nine-year-old Toby bounced a scuffed, faded rubber basketball between his legs.

"I am bending them, Coach Kei!" Leo huffed, wiping a streak of sweat and street grime off his forehead with his sleeve. "My legs feel like noodles!"

"I don’t want to hear about noodles, kid! Bend ’em or do five laps around the perimeter!"

Godsess, look at these kids, I leaned my back against the rusted fence, watching the chaotic, five-on-five pickup game unfold on the cracked concrete. Half of them are wearing shoes with the soles peeling off, and the net on the iron hoop is long gone, replaced by rusted chains that clink every time a shot actually goes in. But they’re here. Every single afternoon, instead of running the streets or getting dragged into the shit that goes down four blocks over, they’re here.

I blew my whistle, the sharp blast cutting through the squeak of rubber soles and the trash-talking.

"Freeze!" I yelled, stepping out onto the court. I took the ball from Toby, who let out an exaggerated groan and dropped his hands to his knees. "Toby, what did I tell you about looking at the ball when you dribble? You look down, you’re blind. You’re blind, you get picked off. Look up. Trust your hands."

"It’s hard, Kei!" Toby whined, pushing his messy curls out of his eyes. "The ground has bumps! If I don’t look, the ball bounces off a crack and goes into the sewer!"

"Then learn how the ball feels when it hits the crack and adjust!" I snapped, but there was no real venom in it. I handed the ball back to his chest, hard enough to make him catch his breath. "Again. From the top. Pass to Leo on the wing, not the drive!"

I stepped back to the baseline, resting my hands on my hips as my chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.

This neighborhood, this exact grid of broken streetlights, peeling paint, and crumbling brick apartment complexes, was where I grew up. Every inch of this messed up basketball court knew me. I used to be the scrawny kid with holes in his socks, shooting jumpers until the sun went down and the streetlights flickered on, praying that if I hit enough shots, somebody, somewhere, would notice me.

And somebody did and that’s how my life changed.

I didn’t end up in the same elite, prestige-heavy academy as Torin, Oril, and the most lof the Spade Pack because I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth or had a family legacy backing me up. I was poor. Flat-out, dirt-poor. My family didn’t have pack clout, money, or connections. The only reason I ever stepped foot into those pristine, marble-tiled halls was because scouts saw me drop thirty-five points in some tournament on a blown-out ankle.

And gave me full-ride basketball scholarship. That was my golden ticket. That single piece of paper was the only bridge that carried me out of this impoverished neighborhood and threw me into the orbit of a high-tier pack like Spade.

That was why, some of the time whenever the pack started tearing itself apart at home. Whenever the shouting matches broke out in the living room, or someone slammed a door, or the air got so thick with hostility you couldn’t breathe most of the time I just kept my mouth shut. I never picked a side. I couldn’t afford to.

Oril can afford to pack a punch or throw a fit, I reflected, watching Leo make a sharp cut toward the basket. If Oril ever truly got sick of the Spade Pack’s drama, he could swallow his massive pride, pack his bags, and go live with his parents. They’d take him back in a heartbeat. And Walter? Even though he camr from a not so well off family could literally walk away from this all and live as comfortably as the Omega council allows with the money he made as a model.

Me? I don’t have a safety net.

If I walked away from Spade, I didn’t have a grand family estate waiting for me. I didn’t have a safety deposit box or a farm. This neighborhood was what waiting for me. This cracked ground, these rusty fences, this reality.

I sucked in a deep breath, watching Toby execute a clean chest pass to Leo, who actually managed to sink a mid-range jumper. The chain net rattled loudly.

"There you go!" I called out, clapping my hands together hard. "That’s what I’m talking about! Get back on defense, hurry up!"

My eyes followed the kids as they scrambled down the court, but my brain was miles away, drifting into the darker corners of my own past.

I had my shot once. I really did. I went to the tryouts, stood in front of the pro scouts, wore the jersey, and felt the thunderous roar of a real arena. But I never peaked. Every single time I got close to making a pro draft roster, every single time a team actually put my name on a scouting radar, I blew it.

Because for the longest time, I was drowning at the bottom of a bottle.

The drinking problem hadn’t just slowed me down; it had utterly shattered my chances. I used to think I was drinking to take the edge off the pressure, the pressure of being the poor kid trying to fit into a rich pack, the pressure of carrying my entire future on my wrists. But all it did was ruin my reflexes, destroy my stamina, and make every pro scout in the region mark my name with a giant red red flag. Talented, but unreliable. High risk, low discipline.

God, those were dark years, I thought, a shiver running down my spine despite the hot afternoon sun. Showing up to early morning practices smelling like cheap whiskey, sitting on the bench watching guys half as skilled as me get drafted while I ruined my own life.

But that was in the past now. I was clean. I had put the bottle down, dragged myself out of that gutter, and made my peace with the damage I had done. I was in a much better place mentally, but the window for my own playing career had slammed shut. Age, injuries, and a bad reputation had sealed that door tight.

So now what? I asked myself, watching twelve-year-old Leo bark orders at his teammates like a mini-point guard.

At the Spade house right now, nobody knew what the hell was happening. Everything was in total, chaotic disarray. Torin was playing mind games on television, Walter was spiraling over his past mistakes, Lorali was being the literal devil, and Oracle was playing silent bodyguard. Everyone in the pack was just doing whatever the hell they liked from this point on. The old rules were burning down, and everyone was scrambling to build their own floating life raft.

I needed to build mine, too.

If my days as an actual player were dead and buried, maybe... just maybe... my future was right here. On this bench. With a whistle around my neck and a clipboard in my hand. Maybe I couldn’t play in the pros, but I knew the game better than anyone. I knew every drill, every defensive scheme, every mental trap a kid could fall into. I could teach. I could coach.

"Time out!" I blew the whistle again, jogging out to the middle of the court as the ten boys gathered around me, catching their breath and wiping sweat from their eyes.

"Listen up," I said, leaning down so I was eye-to-eye with them. My tone was strict, hard, and uncompromising. "You guys want to win the district tournament next month? You think those prep school kids from the north side are going to go easy on you because you’re from this side of town? They aren’t. They’re going to try and run you off the floor. The only way you beat them is if you work harder, think faster, and discipline yourselves better than they ever could."

Leo looked up at me, his dark eyes wide and full of determination. "We can beat them, Coach Kei. I swear we can."

"Not with that weak defensive transition I just saw," I countered instantly, crossing my arms. "Toby, you were jogging back. Why were you jogging?"

"I was tired..." Toby mumbled, looking down at his worn sneakers.

"Tired doesn’t exist on the court!" I snapped, my voice ringing out clear over the pavement. "When you’re on this floor, you give me everything you’ve got until the final whistle! You rest when you’re dead! Five more minutes of full-court drills, right now! Line up on the baseline!"

The boys groaned loudly, but none of them argued. They scrambled to the baseline, lining up with their toes touching the white paint, their faces set in hard, determined lines.

I brought the whistle to my lips, ready to blow it, feeling a sudden, strange sense of clarity settling over my chest.

I missed my shot, I thought, watching the kids get into their sprinting stances. But I’ll be damned if I let these kids miss theirs. If I’m going to be a coach, I’m going to be the best damn coach this city has ever seen.