By the middle of August, the summer holidays had come to an end, and Fergus found himself walking through the familiar halls of school once again.
The beginning of his second year felt different from the first, although that had considerably more to do with basketball than anything happening inside his classrooms.
This was going to be the year he made the team.
Fergus had repeated that belief to himself often enough during the summer that it had become almost unquestionable in his mind.
Last year he had arrived at tryouts nervous, underprepared and considerably less skilled than many of the other boys competing for places.
He had spent the following months trying to improve on his own, and the arrival of the Basketball Development System had accelerated that process considerably during the final weeks of summer.
There was still an enormous distance between Fergus and the NBA dream that had occupied his imagination for years, but making his school team represented the first proper step.
He couldn’t spend his life practising alone on a public court and expect professional teams to eventually discover him.
Fergus needed organised basketball, coaches, teammates and genuine competition.
Tryouts were scheduled for the beginning of September, while the school season itself wouldn’t begin until approximately a month later.
That gave Fergus another two weeks to prepare, although basketball wasn’t the only responsibility occupying his attention anymore.
His agreement with his father remained firmly in effect.
School came first.
Fergus couldn’t pretend to be particularly enthusiastic about that condition.
Sitting through lessons while knowing there was a basketball court outside was considerably less enjoyable than training, and there were subjects he found painfully boring regardless of how much attention he attempted to give them.
Nevertheless, Hamish and Diane were making sacrifices so he could play basketball if he made the team, and Fergus understood that he had to honour his side of the agreement.
If his father wanted stellar grades in exchange for basketball, Fergus would do everything he could to provide them.
The first days back were relatively relaxed anyway.
Students wearing the school’s grey uniform crowded corridors and classrooms while conversations inevitably revolved around what everyone had done during the holidays.
Some talked excitedly about trips overseas, while others complained that they had barely done anything interesting before being dragged back to school.
There were discussions about football, video games, upcoming classes and all the usual subjects that occupied teenagers when teachers weren’t listening.
Basketball wasn’t the most common topic, but Fergus’s ears immediately picked it out whenever he heard it.
The 2016 NBA Finals remained particularly popular.
It was difficult for anyone interested in basketball to avoid talking about what had happened only a couple of months earlier.
The Cleveland Cavaliers had fallen behind three games to one against a Golden State Warriors team that had won seventy-three regular-season games, breaking the record previously held by Michael Jordan’s Chicago Bulls.
Golden State had looked almost unbeatable for much of the year, yet Cleveland had somehow won three consecutive games to claim the championship.
Fergus was walking through the corridor between classes when he overheard two boys discussing it.
“I’m telling you, Golden State should’ve finished them in Game Five,” one of them said.
“Once Cleveland won that, the whole series changed.” Fergus slowed without consciously deciding to.
The taller of the two boys shook his head.
“You’re acting like Cleveland only won because Golden State messed it up.
LeBron was ridiculous in those last three games.
They couldn’t stop him.” Fergus had no intention of walking past a basketball argument without joining it.
“It was still a massive choke job by Golden State,” he said as he stepped closer.
“You can’t win seventy-three games, go three-one up in the Finals and then lose three straight.
LeBron was incredible, but Golden State absolutely threw that series away.” Both boys turned towards him.
The taller one looked to be around Fergus’s age, although his height made him appear older at first glance.
He was approximately five-foot-seven, which put him several inches above Fergus and made him unusually tall for someone who couldn’t have been much older than thirteen.
His blond hair had been cut into a short buzz, and brown eyes studied Fergus with immediate interest rather than annoyance at the interruption.
“I’ll give you that they should’ve won once they went three-one up, but calling it a choke makes it sound like Cleveland had nothing to do with it.
LeBron and Kyrie were unstoppable when it mattered.” Before Fergus could respond, the shorter boy standing beside him raised both hands.
“Can we at least agree that it was one of the greatest Finals ever?
Seven games, three-one comeback, seventy-three-win team losing in the final minute.
If you’re still arguing after that, neither of you is ever going to be satisfied.” Fergus considered the point and nodded.
“All right, I’ll agree with that.
Game Seven was ridiculous.” The taller boy smiled.
“See, Arthur?
Finally someone sensible enough to admit I was right.” “That wasn’t remotely what he said.” “It was close enough.” Fergus laughed before realising he had interrupted two complete strangers without introducing himself.
“I’m Fergus, by the way.
Fergus Robertson.
I probably should’ve started with that instead of immediately telling you your basketball opinion was wrong.” The taller boy extended a hand.
“William Campbell.
And this miserable little bloke beside me is Arthur Reid.” Arthur, who barely reached five feet, pushed a mass of curly brown hair away from his green eyes and looked offended.
“You’ve known Fergus for about thirty seconds, and you’re already trying to turn him against me.” “I’m just giving him fair warning.” Arthur ignored him and offered Fergus his own hand.
“We’re both new here.
We went to Killigan High before it closed, so we’ve been dumped here together.” Fergus recognised the school name.
Its recent closure had resulted in students being redistributed around several nearby schools, although he hadn’t paid much attention to which students were arriving at his.
“I take it you two play basketball, then?
You seemed pretty invested in the Finals for people who just watch occasionally.” Arthur immediately brightened.
“We were both on Killigan’s under-thirteen team last year.
I’m hoping we can make this school’s team without the coach deciding I’m too short to be useful.” William glanced down at him.
“You are incredibly short.” “I’m going to punch you in the stomach.” “You’ll need a ladder.” Fergus couldn’t help laughing as Arthur glared at his friend.
The interaction made it obvious that the insults were nothing unusual between them.
“I’m trying out as well,” Fergus said once Arthur abandoned his threat.
“I didn’t make the team last year, but I’ve been practising all summer.
I’m definitely giving it another go.” Arthur’s expression became more welcoming.
“Then you should come shoot around with us during lunch.
It’s nice finding somebody else here who actually cares about basketball.
William gets unbearable when he’s the only person around who thinks his opinions are intelligent.” “They usually are intelligent.
You just don’t like hearing them.” “You predicted Cleveland would come back from three-one and you’ve been living off it ever since.” “Because I was right.” Arthur looked towards Fergus.
“This is what I’ve had to deal with all summer.” The warning bell interrupted them before Fergus could answer.
William adjusted the bag hanging from one shoulder.
“We should probably move unless we want to spend our first week explaining why we’re late.
We’ll be at the outdoor court during lunch.” “I’ll come down,” Fergus promised.
“Just don’t start another Finals argument before I get there.” “No promises,” Arthur replied before following William through the corridor.
Fergus continued towards his own classroom with a smile.
Making two friends before the first week had properly finished wasn’t something he had expected, particularly two who shared his obsession with basketball.
Failing to make the team during his first year had left him on the outside of the small group of students who regularly played together.
He knew some of them, but there was a difference between occasionally talking about basketball and actually belonging to the group.
William and Arthur didn’t care that he hadn’t made the team last year.
They had never seen him play.
That was refreshing.
Over the following days, meeting them at the basketball court during lunch became part of Fergus’s school routine.
They rarely had enough time for anything organised, but simply having other people around made training considerably more enjoyable.
William’s height made him the most physically imposing of the three, while Arthur was quick, aggressive and considerably more skilled than Fergus had expected from someone so small.
Fergus avoided making any grand claims about how much he had improved over the summer.
Instead, he concentrated on the things he had been practising.
The improvement around the basket was the easiest to notice.
His simple layups were more reliable than they had been before the holidays, and while his left hand remained noticeably weaker, Fergus no longer avoided using it entirely.
He wasn’t under any illusion that he had mastered finishing with either hand; players their age weren’t supposed to possess complete mastery of every movement.
What mattered was that his weaker side had become usable rather than something he desperately tried to hide.
Tear Dropper required considerably more work.
Fergus had begun practising the floater after recovering from his Suicide Sprinter challenge, but knowing how the shot was supposed to work didn’t make executing it easy.
His first attempts were inconsistent, with some flying too hard against the backboard while others fell embarrassingly short of the rim.
Gradually, however, A Star’s Work Ethic helped him understand the touch required, and Fergus started finding a comfortable release point.
Practising against William made the shot even more useful.
At five-foot-seven, William was considerably taller than Fergus and could challenge shots that would have been easy against someone his own height.
Whenever they played casually during lunch, Fergus found himself experimenting with releasing the floater before William could get close enough to block it.
Most attempts still missed.
A few didn’t.
Those were enough to keep Fergus practising.
Their lunchtime routine continued throughout the first week until, one day, Fergus noticed three boys approaching the court.
His mood changed immediately.
He recognised all of them.
They had played on the school’s under-thirteen team the previous year, and the boy walking in front was somebody Fergus would have happily gone another year without speaking to.
Jaime Douglas noticed him at almost exactly the same moment.
A snarky grin spread across his face.
“Well, look who it is.
Flimsy Fergus has come back for another year.” Fergus stopped dribbling and caught the basketball with both hands.
Arthur looked between them.
“Flimsy Fergus?” “Don’t ask.” Jaime and the other two boys stopped near the edge of the court.
“I thought you’d have given basketball up after last year.
Who are your new friends?
Did you finally find some other people who flop and flail as badly as you do?” Fergus felt the familiar irritation Jaime had always been particularly good at creating.
“What do you want, Jaime?
We’re just trying to play.” “I can see that.
I thought I’d come over and see whether you’d actually improved, but judging by what I’ve been watching, I’m not convinced.” Arthur stepped forward before Fergus could answer.
“Aren’t you a lovely fellow?
Do you normally introduce yourself like this, or did you wake up particularly desperate for attention today?” One of the boys behind Jaime laughed mockingly as he looked Arthur up and down.
“Careful, Jaime.
Mickey Mouse sounds angry.” Arthur’s expression hardened immediately.
“Say that again, and I’ll show you how angry I am.” William reached across and caught Arthur by the shoulder before he could move any closer.
“Easy.
You’ve known these lads for about thirty seconds, and you’re already threatening them.” “He called me Mickey Mouse.” “To be fair, you did start it.” Arthur turned towards him in disbelief.
“Whose side are you on?” “Yours, unfortunately.” William looked back towards Jaime and the other boys, his expression remaining calm.
“They don’t seem like the friendliest bunch, but if they’ve come over here looking for a game, we might as well give them one.
They look like a fairly easy win.” Jaime’s grin disappeared slightly.
His eyes travelled up William’s unusually tall frame.
“You’ve got a lot to say for somebody I’ve never seen play before.” William shrugged.
“Then I suppose there’s an easy way to fix that.” Jaime glanced towards Fergus before looking at Arthur and finally returning his attention to William.
“Fine.
Three-on-three, half court.
Ones and twos, first team to twenty-one.
Losing team buys lunch for the winners tomorrow.” Arthur immediately looked towards William.
“We’re doing it.” “You aren’t even going to ask us?” “No.” William sighed before glancing towards Fergus.
“Apparently our smallest player has appointed himself captain.
What do you think?” Fergus looked across at Jaime.
Last year, he would have desperately searched for an excuse to avoid this game.
Jaime had been one of the better players on the under-thirteen team, and he had never been shy about reminding Fergus that he hadn’t made it.
Playing against him would mean risking exactly the kind of embarrassment Fergus had spent most of the summer trying to escape.
Yet the nervousness Fergus expected never properly arrived.
Instead, he found himself thinking about Perimeter Pest.
He thought about the hundreds of Mikan repetitions he had completed, the floaters he had been practising, and all the hours spent working since the System first appeared.
Fergus had wondered how much those skills would actually matter once he was placed against real opponents.
Apparently, he wouldn’t have to wait until tryouts to find out.
Fergus bounced the basketball once before passing it towards William.
“Let’s play.” Jaime’s smile returned as he backed towards his teammates.
“Try not to fall over this time, Flimsy.” Fergus ignored him and moved towards Arthur and William.
It had been barely a week since school resumed, and somehow he was already standing opposite several of the same players who had made his first year miserable.
This time, however, Fergus wasn’t walking onto the court alone, nor was he the same player Jaime remembered.
Tryouts were still two weeks away.
His first real test had arrived early.