Survival Of The Fittest

Lights are shining down. Roar of the croud permeating. It's Mañana, it's number five, he's coming in hot. Absolute trackstar on the court, unstoppable, implacable. Beat of the ball absolutely squeaky clean, Jordans catching fire with how he's moving. No regard for human life, no regard for decency and no regard for those ankles, he's already halfway through, oh mama, he's moving, and it's- LOOK AT THAT, AND IT''S- AND IT'S- BANG! HE PUTS IT IN! HE PUTS IT IN! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? THAT'S NOT EVEN FAIR!!!

Manuel, decked out in his school fit, transitioned into a sit as him and the ball hit the floor, the only difference being it rolling away.

[Manuel "Mañana" Hernández continued from The Gun Show]

This time of afternoon was kind of perfect. Although the school gym court in all its glory was closed down, the Community Center's was still open and laid empty as the air around him, usually. All the alone time in the world to ride the wind and crease his Js and imagine he was the next Magic. Not that there was someone, or if he'd come with his friends— just meant someone to play against. Sometimes that was better. Nice as it was to imagine, it was always beaten out by a real game.

Manuel stood back up, some latent grin on his face, and jogged after the ball, intending to make for another dunk. Best to stop thinking about it now. Who'd come around if they weren't there to begin with anyway?

[From the pool to the court, enter Heather Klein]

Ever since what could charitably be described as a successful conversation with Meggy, ball had called to Heather. That evening, she'd noticed her old practice jersey from freshman year in her closet, and it'd stuck out in there from then on. It made a certain kind of sense: she wanted to reach out, to be friendly to people, to get her ideas out there with the proverbial honey rather than vinegar. Why not rejoin the team? Sure she was rusty, sure she might not make the starting squad, but she had the height and the athleticism to basically guarantee a backup spot if not and everyone knew sports kids were A) tight with each other, and B) the beneficiaries of social clout by default. So why not? Get back on the team, show off her shoulder tattoo, get asked oh Heather, what does that funky star mean?, have an open invitation to share, to segue into something a bit more radical.

But she really was rusty. And her musty-ass basement bedroom was feeling a little constricting lately.

In the ladies' changing room, Heather scrawled a new entry.

Mr Journal.

I'm writing to inform you that... a dark scribble heralded the end of this particular writing gimmick.

Gonna shoot some hoops. Maybe the basketball girls'll take me back.

x
Het

Heather actually wore a rare smile as she stepped out into the indoor court, basketball tucked under her arm. It didn't last long. That dickhead Hernández was already there, chasing a ball he'd sent rolling off towards the sidelines. Back came the characteristic scowl that she wore oh so well, so much better than the cheap and unloved practice kit she'd donned. Heather strode to the half of the court, turning her back to the boy and loudly bounced her own ball a couple of times by way of heralding her arrival. She took to the free throw line, took a leap, and released... hit the backboard, rebounded off the outside of the hoop, bounced away to the left.

Fuck.

Lot of rust to shake off.

It took Manuel very little time at all to catch up to his trusty runaway ball. It'd been second nature to him ever since he'd started playing around when he was a kid. "C'mon, now..." He mumbled to himself as he picked it back up. Leather in his hands. Leather in his nose. Wonderful feeling about basketballs: everything about them was so familiar. Which is why his head was so quick to swivel at that distinct PING of one that was definitely not his.

He expected a few people turning around, and even got excited— might've been Mason— but he was in for a surprise instead. His eyes widened as he caught sight of that Klein girl, in some raggedy fit with a raggedy ball and raggedy shoes. He knew she'd been on the team once, but no one had informed him of an attempted career reset. Glancing at where she stopped, he sat himself right back down and awaited a show. Game face on: smug, douchey, done a million times before. Could lay off, he thought to himself a moment— nah. She of all people wouldn't let him or the others hear the end of that. Hearing the CLANG of a miss and the following bounce, he chuckled, then let out a whistle.

"Way to start a comeback. Finally get sick of Twitter?"

Words left his mouth so easily. There were people he just knew how to hit.

Raggedy Heather, in her raggedy fit and raggedy shoes, flicked her immaculate braid over her shoulder and went to retrieve her raggedy ball. She exhaled sharply through her nose as he gave his cheap jab, and stooped to pick up the sphere still gently rolling away from her.

The girl turned to face the source of the taunt, one of the handful of peers she didn’t have to look down on to look in the eye. If he was going to act like a little shit, could he not at least gave the decency to be little, not a couple of inches taller? Bounce. Bounce. Her ball rebounded between floor and palm, as she got the feel for it again.

“Something to do before boxing,” she shot back. True? Yes. An unsubtle reminder that she knew how to throw a punch? Also yes. The matte black of the ink on her left shoulder gleamed in the artificial light as Heather shrugged.

She turned her back, resumed position on the line.

Deep breath. No pressure. Not like she cares what he thinks. Right?

THERE it is, that's the tell. Everyone has one that means they've been hit. Good job, Manuel, you've insulted yet another person for no reason. You get: a small amount of withered satisfaction to go with the rot and a threat. Fiveish months until graduation...

There was a method to dealing with someone you insulted but could kick your teeth in with some relative ease: Redirection of energy. People like that always liked having something put in front of them to prove. Thankfully for Manuel, the perfect opportunity for expunging tension lay right in the everything around them! He began by just gesturing towards Heather as she lined up another shot. All he had to do was try to come off as minimally as an asshat as he could.

"Pff, sure. C'mon, let's see you earn that spot back."

...Dios chingada madre.

Heather paused for a moment, studying the hoop in much the same manner as a bird of prey might size up a potential catch. In her mind’s eye, she visualised the process. Legs compress then rapidly extend, arms stretch out, the ball curls off her fingers for just the right angle and spin, then travels in a perfect arc straight through the metal ring, nothing but net.

It’s not what her peers would call manifesting. Heather was a materialist, a physicalist, she had as much respect for believers in the supernatural as she did for anyone who still believed in Santa Claus. But going through the plan in her mind is a form of planning. Understanding the steps before executing them. Unlike the complex process she’d visualised for growing political consciousness among her peers, solving the world one conversation at a time, the steps involved in making a free throw were comparatively simple. But they were still worth going over.

A decent professional could be expected to make at least three of every four, one of two without real points on the line wasn’t a big ask.

So why was she letting that asshole’s smug gaze get to her?

Heather took a breath, and executed the process just as she’d imagined it. The ball left her hand, curved through the air in a satisfyingly smooth trajectory, and… clipped the back of the ring, rolled along the rim back towards her for perhaps half a second… and finally dropped through the net. Not quite how she drew it up, not the statement swish she’d wanted, but acceptable.

The blonde permitted herself a little smirk, and stepped up to collect her ball.

Bounce. Bounce.

And turned back, as if to ask “Well?”

Manuel's eyes seemed to slightly soften as Heather turned her eyes away from him and to the hoop. Maybe that wasn't the right term; they hadn't gotten any gentler but were certainly less standoffish and much more focused. Interested. She had the posture. She had the moves. Most importantly as Manuel recognized, she had the shot. Manuel could never really understand the people who made the sport a science, but damn if he didn't respect them.

Takes the shot, oh the rim, it'scomingupit'scomingupit'scomingupit's- there! Ouss!!!

He made that last noise out loud, clenching a fist in front of him as he'd do watching a real match on TV. Shots that were unsure were always really a more entertaining watch than swishes, in the context of a simple free throw at least. His eyes lingered on the ball, which eventually brought their gaze back up to Heather— oh right, he was supposed to be being a dick right now. That part was a lot easier to be reminded of around his buddies. He reaffirmed his grin and laid some genuine compliment-like groundwork underneath his next snark.

"Clean floater— for a retiree."

On paper, he wasn't exactly off-base. Heather had scarcely touched a ball in about two years; the time-frame might've been short but it did in a way resemble a comeback from retirement. Having said that, she was hardly a phenom on the paint in the first place, just an unusually tall girl who'd agreed to give the sport a try when she'd been approached on account of said height, slightly above the average of WNBA players. Then she'd been to a handful of practices before her inability to play nice with the team lead to a mutual agreement that she should leave.

All of that occurred to Heather's subconscious, running in the background of her mental processing as her surface thoughts were busied thinking of a decent response to Manuel's rejoinder. After maybe a second, she came up blank.

So, her lips pressed together and rose whilst her brows drew together and lowered, in something between a scowl and a mouth-shrug. Hmph. Perhaps there was a good reason she never joined the debate club.

Bounce. Bounce.

For a brief, beautiful moment she imagined launching the ball straight into his face. Then she turned around and prepared for another shot.

Oof, nailed it. No comeback in sight— in hearing range? Whatever. Too clean with it. He couldn't suppress a chuckle at the sight of her face just screwing up at the lack of response. Face pointed downwards in at least an attempt to hide God's snarkiest shit-eating-est grin. Okay, come on, focus. She's making another one.

Getting it out of his system, he raised his head back up to see what would happen next. He looked a bit more invested this time around, somehow, eyes still around and locked onto the ball. Maybe a bit less rude, if that was applicable to the eyes. Probably inapplicable in any way due to how he was currently acting. Fiveeeeiiiish months until graduation. Until then, always had to be something new out of his mouth in that tone he was so good at.

"Best out o' three?"

In the harsh artificial light, the starkness of Heather's side-profile might as well have been etched in stone as she turned her head and shot a withering glare over her shoulder. The distinctive crookedness of the bridge of her nose, the slight wrinkling between her narrowed brows, the jawline that sapphics would claim could cut glass. It wasn't exactly like she was trying to look intimidating, but it was certainly on purpose that she leaned into on the fact that she did.

"Do you wanna shut the fuck up, maybe?"

Bounce. Bounce.

'Kay, theeeere it was. Not good at all. He maintained nonchalance, but it was just that: something he currently had to maintain. Not that it was hard— it in fact usually took him effort to look like he gave a fuck. But, shit... What was he telling himself earlier? Uhh... Redirect energy. Best he could with the setting and what he had. He stood up, his own ball in hand.

Bounce.

Bounce.

"I mean, you're here to prove sum'n-"

This was a bit of a gamble. She had to be, right? Or else his words would just, like, deflect entirely. He slowly approached, ball bouncing around his feet. Direct challenge.

"-so prove it to me. That'll probably do it."

...Maybe it could be a little fun besides the outward antagonism?

“What, exactly,”

Heather turned 180, holding her ball in both hands, in front of her chest in a way that emphasised the size and definition of her arms. The effect was at least a little bit on purpose.

This is where she’d normally be looking down on whatever weasel decided to crack wise to her, but alas once more, the damned boy was tall too. Her characteristic scowl alone would have to suffice.

“Do you think I have to prove to you?”

Bad move. Bad move. Redirect. Analysis mode, discard previous evidence, uhh..... the jersey! Even though it was a basketball jersey, why would she bring the rotten old thing *specifically* to (what Manuel was wholly assuming to be) her first bit at training in a long, long while? He took a deep breath in and out as Heather turned towards him, maintaining the look. Final gamble to not get into a fight or any other situation ending with him looking like a loser.

"Ehh, I dunno. Maybe not me, but— I talk to the girls' team a lot. 'M sure they'd be very interested to know some ex-member still had it."

Great! Now he just looked like he really wanted to play basketball with any justification right now! Honestly the best outcome, as that was just true about him at any particular point of the day.

And just what made him assume she was interested in what the school team thought? She supposed it wasn't an insane bit of conjecture, she was kitted out to play moreso than to practice after all. Plus, well, she did care at least a little. Perhaps there were some girls she had an interest in impressing. Perhaps there we some she'd consider it a huge win to get the ear of. Perhaps.

"Fuck it, why not?"

If there were some kind of catch, some hidden agenda involved, frankly Heather didn't much care. Wasn't her problem what his angle might be. Heather turned most of the way around again, casually tossed her ball in the general direction of the hoop, and back to Manuel without looking to see where it went. Only needed one ball for a one-on-one, and ditching hers was a good excuse for Heather to present her opening argument by way of her strength as a defensive wall. Her height and bulk were certainly a more prominent factor against other girls, but they were far from a non-factor here.

Heather threw her ball away, and Manuel exhaled a breath he'd been holding in. She took it. While he got his air back, he got a smirk on. This wasn't some smug smirk or douchey smirk. This was a game smirk. He bent his knees, leaned forward, and began to bounce. Time to play.

Preliminary analysis! He was up against a defensive wall of muscle and implacable will!

Shit.

Okay, focus. This wasn't a problem. This was his game, and as far as he was concerned, his alone. He had experience. He had moves and height and no one could aim like he could. But these were just physical aspects of the matchup. What was important was that he'd issued a challenge, and no way in hell was Mañana gonna back down.

He dashed forward, now aggressively dribbling. Open with ol' reliable. See her shake off some of that rust. Eyes on the goal, Js on the ground, juking ri— left! Ankle check, baby. Call this match the interview.