Lee slouched on the splintered bench, the squeak of sneakers on the polished gym floor grating against his nerves. The scoreboard glared down at him: 68-72, with only four minutes left in the fourth quarter.
His team, the Westview Wildcats, was choking, again. He tugged at the hem of his oversized jersey, the number 23 plastered on the back, a cruel irony since he'd never even touched the court in a real game.
He told people he was on the school team but In reality, he was just the guy warming the bench, a glorified waterboy who knew the game better than half the starters out there flopping around like fish out of water.
He wasn't delusional. Lee knew he wasn't LeBron or anything, but he could hoop. His handles were crisp, his jumper was wet when he got in rhythm, and he'd spent hours studying film, breaking down plays like some wannabe coach.
He could see the gaps in their offense, the lazy rotations on D. Right now, their point guard, Jaden, was bricking shots like he was allergic to the rim, and the defense was softer than a marshmallow.
Lee's fingers twitched, itching to get in the game, to show what he could do. He could turn this around, he was sure of it. But Coach Grayson? Nah, that man didn't care about skill. It was all about clout, influence, who your daddy was or how much they donated to the school's shiny new gym.
That's how their world worked. Influence was the golden ticket, the cheat code to everything, playing time, popularity, girls, you name it. If you didn't have it, you were just another nobody scraping by, begging for scraps.
Lee's family wasn't broke, but they weren't rolling in it either. His mom worked double shifts at the hospital, and his dad was a mechanic who came home smelling like motor oil. They were regular, which in this town might as well mean invisible.
Meanwhile, kids like Jaden, whose dad owned half the car dealerships in the county, got to start every game, even when they played like they'd never seen a basketball before.
Lee's eyes darted to the court. Jaden fumbled a pass, and the other team capitalized, sinking a quick layup. The crowd groaned, and Lee's stomach twisted. He couldn't take it anymore. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and shot a glance at Coach Grayson.
The man was a walking stereotype of a high school coach, bald as a cue ball, with a thick gray beard that looked like it belonged on a lumberjack. He was pacing the sidelines, barking orders, but his eyes kept flicking to the stands, where the boosters sat, wallets practically glowing.
"Coach," Lee said, his voice cutting through the chaos of the game. "Lemme play. I can change this. I know I can."
Coach didn't even look at him, just nodded absentmindedly, like Lee was some annoying fly buzzing around his head.
"Yeah, yeah, kid," he muttered, his attention already shifting to the bench where Ethan Caldwell sat, sipping Gatorade like he was posing for a commercial. Ethan, the golden boy, son of the school's biggest donor.
Never mind that he couldn't dribble to save his life—his family's money was basically a fast pass to the starting lineup.
Lee's jaw tightened. He wasn't stupid. He knew Coach was just brushing him off, but the hope still flickered in his chest, stubborn as hell. He leaned forward, hands clasped, praying for a miracle. The clock ticked down, two minutes left now.
The Wildcats were still down, and Jaden just airballed a three. Lee's leg bounced, his sneakers tapping the floor. He could do better than that. He knew he could.
"Lee," Coach barked suddenly, and Lee's head snapped up, heart racing. Was this it? Was he finally getting his shot? "Go grab some water from the café for the team. Hustle, alright? Get back quick, and I'll think about subbing you in."
Lee's face lit up like he'd just won the lottery. "For real? Bet, Coach!" He was already on his feet, practically tripping over himself to get to the door. Water? Easy. He'd sprint to the café, grab the bottles, and be back before the final buzzer.
This was his chance, his moment to prove he wasn't just some benchwarmer. He could already see it: Coach subbing him in, Lee hitting a clutch jumper, the crowd losing it.
Maybe even Ino, his crush, would be watching from the stands, her green hair catching the light as she cheered for him.
He bolted out of the gym, the cool evening air hitting his face as he jogged across campus to the café. His sneakers slapped the pavement, his breath puffing in the chilly dusk. The café was a trek, tucked in the student center, but Lee didn't care. He was on a mission. He pushed through the glass doors, the barista barely glancing up as he ordered a dozen water bottles.
His hands were shaky as he paid, his mind racing with scenarios, him stealing the ball, driving to the hoop, sinking a game-winner. He could do this. He had to.
But by the time he got back, arms loaded with water bottles, the gym was eerily quiet. His stomach dropped. The scoreboard was dark, the crowd already trickling out. Final score: 70-78. They'd lost.
Lee stood there, frozen, the plastic bottles slipping in his sweaty grip. Coach Grayson was by the bench, packing up his clipboard, looking like he didn't have a care in the world.
"Coach?" Lee's voice came out small, like a kid asking for a second helping of dessert. "You said you'd sub me in."
Coach glanced over, shrugging like it was no big deal. "Ran outta time, kid. Good hustle, though." He turned away, already chatting with Ethan, clapping him on the shoulder like he'd just dropped 30 points instead of sitting on the bench the whole game.
Lee's chest burned, a mix of anger and embarrassment. Hustle? Hustle? He'd been played, sent on a pointless errand just to shut him up. He dropped the water bottles on the bench, not caring that a few rolled onto the floor. What was the point? No matter how hard he worked, how many hours he put in at the park, it didn't matter. He didn't have the juice, the connections, the influence. He was just Lee, the nobody.
Later that evening, Lee trudged home, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his mood darker than the gray clouds rolling in overhead. The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that made you feel like the world was ignoring you.
His sneakers dragged against the sidewalk, each step heavy with the weight of another L, not just the game, but his whole damn life. He kept replaying the game in his head, the missed shots, the lazy passes, the way Coach didn't even give him a chance. It wasn't fair. None of it was.
Then he saw her. Ino. His heart did that stupid flip it always did when she was around. She was walking ahead, her green hair bouncing with every step, catching the streetlights like some kind of neon halo. Her skirt swished, showing off those long, perfect thighs that Lee definitely wasn't staring at, okay, maybe a little.
She was laughing, her voice light and teasing, the kind of sound that made you want to be the reason for it. Lee's hand twitched, ready to wave, to call out to her, to maybe, just maybe, have a moment where she saw him as more than the quiet kid from chem class.
But then, like a punch to the gut, he showed up. Trevor. Ino's boyfriend, strutting out of nowhere like he owned the damn street. Trevor wasn't even that impressive, kinda scrawny, with a face that was more "meh" than movie star.
But his family? Loaded. His dad was some big-shot lawyer, and Trevor had that cocky swagger that came with knowing you could get away with anything. He slid his arm around Ino's waist, pulling her close, and, Lee's stomach churned, gave her a quick spank, right there in the open.
Ino giggled, swatting at him playfully, and they kept walking, lost in their little bubble of love and privilege.
Lee's hand dropped. Of course. Trevor had influence, the magic word. That's why he was dating Ino, the girl every guy in school had a crush on. Hell, this was Trevor's third girlfriend in a row, each one prettier than the last.
Meanwhile, Lee couldn't even get Ino to notice him outside of group projects. He watched them disappear around the corner, Ino's laughter fading into the night, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
It always came back to the same thing. Influence. You either had it, or you didn't. And Lee? He was starting to think he never would.