Survival Of The Fittest

"Aright, Abert, let's see what you got."

The season being over was no reason not to continue practicing, and today Sam had Quinn to subject to a serious 1v1 session. Switch D was always a skill worth working on and Quinn was a little pain in the ass to guard, fast as hell and with some ridiculous handles. She wasn't 'Zona, but eh, not everyone could be the second best player on the team.

Sam bounced the ball to Quinn, positioned at the top of the key. Quinn launched into action but then immediately pulled a hesi, stepping back for a jumper over Sam's outstretched arm. Sam snapped her head around in time to see the shot clatter against the backboard and clear, and was already in action. She rose up to grab the board and then dribbled back outside the three point line. Quinn was in place to guard her, but Sam drove for the basket anyway. Quinn stayed glued to her, close enough that Sam was pushed wide, forcing a layup attempt which bounced off the rim. Barely phased, Sam snagged her own miss, pulled back, then nailed a fadeaway. Boom, baby.

Quinn caught the ball underneath the net and then tossed it back to Sam, eyeing her. Sam couldn't tell if she was upset, thinking, something in between; girl was a hard read. Made her unpredictable, interesting on the court.

They went back and forth for a while, Sam getting the better of it, though Quinn smoked her on the dribble a couple times. The difference in height and leaping ability left the ball in Sam's hands most of the time, though to her irritation, she turned it over three times to Quinn's quick hands. Lazy and sloppy, needed to tighten up.

Was what she was thinking to herself as Quinn snuck in and stole it from her a fourth time, then raced for the basket. Sam spun, swore, and turned on the jets. As Quinn jumped for a layup, Sam sailed in from behind and swat-blocked the shot into the bleachers. Miss her with that weak-ass shit!

"SIDDOWN!" roared Sam, clenching both fists and posturing for an imaginary crowd. She bounced in place a couple times, riding the hype, and then twisted to give Quinn an apologetic smile. Quinn wore a deep frown, but it eased off after a second or two, and she responded with a tiny pair of claps.

Sam was fired up from there, scoring five in a row without answer before finally missing one. She didn't compete for the board too hard and Quinn muscled in on it with a little more force than Sam had seen from her up to now. Okay, okay, that was some edge, some fire, that was good.

The two of them lined up again and Quinn went for it, Sam moved with her and Quinn skidded to a halt, went up—Sam went up—nope, fake, Sam swung back for the--another fake--Quinn sank the jumper as Sam lunged into no-man's land. Heeeelloooo showtime!

"Oh, we getting cute?" Sam grinned at Quinn, who simply shrugged en route to retrieving the ball. Sam ran a hand across her hair and rolled either shoulder. Drove Coach nuts when Quinn got something under her skin and went all sizzle, but Sam was here for it. Sometimes someone getting all ridiculous was what a team needed, and if that came off the bench, all the better.

"Hey, let's grab a drink," Sam called as Quinn made her way back, getting a nod in return. Sam walked to the sideline and picked up one of the crate of sports drinks there, squirting a jet into her mouth. "That was good shit."

"Thanks," said Quinn, leaning down to grab a towel and mop some sweat from her face.

They both stood there for a few, getting their breath back, rehydrating. When Quinn spoke again, it was enough to catch Sam off guard. Her teammate didn't really do social; Sam had been kind of surprised that she hadn't just vanished completely after graduating, and inviting her along to play had been a bit of a shot in the dark. Quinn was a ghost in the offseason and even when the team was playing only showed up for social stuff if it was directly after a game.

"What's your plan for after?" Quinn wasn't looking in Sam's direction, up and away out of the gym's high windows. "After everything, I mean. School's nearly over."

Sam spread her arms out. "You have to ask? NBA, baby."

Quinn turned to Sam, wearing a blank expression. "You have three years of college before the NBA. There'll be courses to focus on."

Sam sighed. Yeah, don't remind her. "I'll study, but there's college ball to keep me busy. And maybe I'll sneak in early, never know."

"I doubt they'll rewrite the draft rules for your sake."

"Lemme dream, girl."

"If you say so." Quinn stared off into space again, leaving Sam to wonder if she'd missed something. It was rare that Quinn opened up to, well, anyone. Was she overlooking her last chance to connect with Quinn before they both jetted off to—goddam, Sam didn't even know where Quinn would be going to college. Some friend she was.

The sudden crash of guilt hit Sam like a slap to the face. They'd played on the same team for how long? She rubbed the back of her head. "An' you? What's next?"

"Science." Sam laughed, Quinn didn't. She continued staring for several more seconds, then finally glanced back Sam's way. "I'm good at it."

"Cool, cool," there was a silence which Quinn made no effort to fill. Sam glanced back at the court. Did this have to be here and now? Maybe on the trip would work, with a Rhonda or Cheri buffer or something, smooth the conversation along. Wait, did either of them know Quinn any better?

Did any of them know Quinn like at all, really? The question sat uneasily in her stomach, sinking like a rock. Sam tried to swallow her disquiet, returning her eyes to Quinn while stretching her shoulders. "You gonna keep playing in college?"

"Yes," said Quinn.

A few different lines filtered through Sam's head, about seeing her on the court someday, about balancing studying and sport—somehow Sam thought it wasn't Quinn that would have that issue out of the two of them—about, well, nothings. It was all rote, not the kind of thing you spoke to a friend about, cause with a friend you'd discussed all of this already months ago. "Y'all should shoot for the pros, too."

Quinn blinked, something like surprise filtering onto her face for a couple seconds. "I'm not good enough."

"Y'all would start on any other team," said Sam. Wasn't buttering her up neither, most of GH's bench had smoked opposing starters one game or another, hell the bench had blown out other teams a couple times in late season when coach Skinner was saving the starters up for playoffs.

"I suppose. That isn't professional standard, though."

"You never know though, right?" She smiled, but Quinn angled her head away.

"Let's get back to it."

Sam paused. Well, that was still more conversation than she'd got out of Quinn in uh, all year. To be continued. "Aright."

They played for a while more, but it felt like they'd lost their mojo. Quinn was contesting shots only half-heartedly and barely seemed interested in competing for rebounds. Sam could feel her own concentration wandering onto everything and nothing. Definitely wasn't the same competitiveness that they'd both been bringing earlier. Sam drifted in for her third consecutive layup with Quinn nowhere near her—until she was. Already in the air, Quinn collided with her hard, ugly, and late as hell, a hand smacking Sam midway up her forearm. Sam twisted her upper body, trying to correct her balance, and then Quinn's legs clattered against hers, knocking her even further out of whack.

Sam landed, 'landed' being a loose term, as her front foot immediately skidded out ahead of her. She reacted instinctively to plant it, and then the rest of her weight came into play, jarring and then twisting her entire leg. Her knee exploded in agony and she let out a flood of curses as the momentum carried her through to land directly on that selfsame knee before rolling over it, twice. Panic raced through her head, jabbering wildly. No no no no no! Her knee—Aleks had wound up in the hospital like a week ago—it wasn't busted, couldn't be busted, that was month's of recovery she couldn't afford months of recovery what the fuck was that!?

"Sam! Are you okay?"

Sam clenched her teeth, both hands clapped to her knee. No no, no, this wasn't broken or blown out, she was fine, she was fine. She wasn't hurt that bad, couldn't be hurt that bad, it couldn't be that bad—

"Sam."

She snapped her head around and tried not to glare. Quinn was down on one knee, attentive and focused.

"What!?"

"Are you okay?"

"Do I look okay!?" yelled Sam. Fuck, fuck this hurt!

Quinn didn't seem bothered by the outburst. "Sort of."

"Fuck you!" Sort of? She just did her so goddamn dirty and she wasn't even—fuck her!

"Just unbend your knee, make sure you have the right range of movement," said Quinn.

Sam glowered, but complied. She swore again as the motion sent howls of protest through the joint, but it seemed in order. Kinda. Wasn't falling off, anyhow. The realisation came with a flood of relief. She wouldn't be able to do that if she'd torn anything important off, and now that she was calming down, the pain was like, well it was comparable to other times she'd been hurt. It'd be fine, it'd be fine.

Quinn straightened up and smiled. Sam wasn't sure if it was supposed to be reassuring because it didn't do a good job. "Let me get the nurse. We should ice it right away."

"Fine," Sam snapped, feeling queasy with seesawing anxiety and relief. She was going to grill that girl over hot fucking coals for fouling so hard in practice, but Sam was okay. She thought she was okay. No, she was going to be okay.

Quinn nodded and took off at a jog. Sam watched her go, clenching and unclenching her fists.

Well, she sure as fuck wasn't going on the D.C. trip now. Thank you very fucking much, Quinn.