Treyvon Knox lay on his bed, tossing his basketball in the air, catching it, then tossing it again. His phone screen glowed on the nightstand beside him.
6:42 a.m.
He should have been getting up, but his mind was somewhere else.
West Newark Middle versus Carter Academy. His last game before high school.
The gym had been packed, bleachers shaking from kids stomping their feet, screaming every time someone got crossed or hit a deep three.
They had a chance. He had a chance.
He had twenty-two points, and they were still down two. The clock was winding down. He caught the inbound near half-court, felt the defender reaching, hit him with a hesi, and then exploded to the rim.
He could still see it. The open lane, the moment before the shot, the crowd on their feet.
Trey made contact with the center pressed his shoulder to attempt to draw the foul, then the whistle.
A charge.
Game over.
Trey had not even stayed to shake hands. He walked straight out, ripping the tape off his fingers and stuffing his jersey into his bag.
That was months ago.
Now, it was a new season. A new team. West Newark High.
He took a deep breath, sat up, and grabbed his phone. No messages, no notifications, just the lock screen photo of him and his mom at dinner last summer, her arm around his shoulders, smiling.
He threw on a hoodie and grabbed his backpack from the chair near his desk. The smell of bacon and eggs filled the kitchen. His mom was already dressed, keys in one hand, coffee in the other.
"You're up early," she said, raising an eyebrow.
Trey shrugged as he grabbed a plate. "Didn't sleep much."
She did not press him on it. She never did. She just watched him for a second, then sipped her coffee.
"Tryouts are tomorrow, right?"
He nodded, taking a bite.
"Good. Stay locked in."
That was all she had to say about it. She never stressed him about basketball. Never forced it on him. She just supported him and let him do his thing.
It was one of the reasons he wanted to make it so bad. For her.
She checked her watch and grabbed her purse. "I'm heading out. See you after school."
Trey finished eating, grabbed his phone, and walked out the door.
West Newark High was just a school.
Not run-down, not brand new, just norma.l The hallways were packed, but nobody really noticed him. There were no whispered conversations about a new basketball prodigy walking through the halls. No one cared.
And why would they West Newark basketball had been terrible for years. No banners, no playoff runs, and no history, the best player they ever produced was a mid major talent. This was not one of those programs where the basketball team ran the school. Nobody cared.
Trey slipped into his first-period class, English. He sat near the back, pulled out his Chromebook, and immediately got distracted. He checked Instagram and saw a highlight from some five-star recruit in Florida. The kid was different, throwing down windmill dunks in transition.
Trey had handles, a deadly midrange, and a quick first step. But he was not that. Not yet.
The day dragged on. Geometry was useless. History was better since the teacher mostly played documentaries. Lunch came, and he sat alone at a corner table, scrolling through his phone with AirPods in. No one paid him any mind, and that was fine with him.
He was not here to make friends.
He was here to change the story.
After school, Trey went straight to the gym, waiting for his mom. The main doors were locked, but he knew from middle school that the side entrance near the locker rooms was usually cracked open.
He slipped inside.
The gym was empty. The polished hardwood floor had afternoon light coming in through the high windows. The school's logo, a red hawk clutching a basketball, was painted at center court.
Trey walked to the three-point line, spinning the ball in his hands.
This was it. High school basketball.
Nobody in this school expected anything from the team. No expectations, no pressure.
That meant if he wanted to be something, he had to make them see it.
He took a deep breath, squared up, and let the shot fly.
The ball swished through the net, crisp and clean.
Tomorrow, the real work will start.
After about 20 minutes, Trey grabbed his ball and backpack, heading out of the gym as the sun fell lower in the sky. His mom's car was already waiting near the front of the school. She was on the phone, speaking Spanish She was Puerto Rican and Trey knew enough of the language to catch most of what she was saying, something about work, maybe a relative, but he didn't ask.
He slid into the passenger seat and set his backpack on the floor.
She held up a finger, finishing up her conversation. "Si, esta bien," she said before hanging up. She glanced at him. "You get some extra shots up?"
Trey nodded. "Yeah, the gym was open."
She smiled, shifting the car into drive. "Good. You're gonna need it."
Trey leaned his head against the window as they pulled onto the road. He wasn't tired, but his mind was already on tomorrow. Tryouts.