Blue Lights | The Tre Hardaway Story

[The JZA]

Chapter I: Good Mourning

The atmosphere in Belmont, Massachusetts, presented a stark juxtaposition to the urban milieu of Chicago. With its pristine air, tranquil streets, and colonial-style homes surrounded by expansive yards, Belmont was a world removed from the perilous environment Tre and Cedric had left behind. Despite the geographic distance, the traumatic events of their past lingered in their consciousness like residual echoes of an unresolved tragedy.

Months had passed since the Chicago Police Department subjected Tre to an exhaustive interrogation concerning his mother’s untimely demise. Their scrutiny did not end there. Fueled by the pervasive crime endemic to the city, the detectives sought to implicate Tre in a cascade of incidents, including the infamous New Year’s melee at Navy Pier. Yet, Tre’s resolve remained unbroken. He confined his statements to facts relevant to his mother’s case, resolutely maintaining his innocence.

In the end, exoneration arrived not through verbal defense but via an unassuming surveillance device: a camera doorbell situated across the street. This silent witness captured incontrovertible evidence that not only cleared Tre but also put the trail onto the true perpetrator, Andre. However, vindication offered little solace. The confiscated funds Marcus was trying to deliver were gone. Worse still, Marcus, Gizmo, and others who had traversed their perilous lives were now casualties of senseless violence. These losses rendered their efforts futile, leaving Tre and Cedric to face the grim reality of burying their mother far too soon.

Amid this turbulence, Gerald Hardaway—their estranged father—emerged unexpectedly. His initial intentions had been to reconcile and reconnect, a venture long overdue. However, upon learning of their mother’s death and the adversities his sons endured, Gerald made a decisive choice. By a fortuitous twist of fate, he had been in their neighborhood during the crisis, allowing him to act swiftly. Assuming responsibility, he relocated Tre and Cedric to Belmont, a haven of relative calm and stability.

Their new residence, though modest, exuded a warmth that was unfamiliar yet comforting. The two-story house, adorned with white siding and blue shutters, stood as a tangible manifestation of a fresh start. Inside, the walls bore testament to Gerald’s life prior to reuniting with his sons: framed photographs of job certificates and the grand opening of his carpeting business, fishing excursions, and familial gatherings that neither Tre nor Cedric had been part of. These fragments of Gerald’s past underscored the chasm that time and distance had created, yet the house’s atmosphere carried an unspoken promise of belonging.

Tre, ever vigilant, kept a watchful eye on Cedric as they navigated this unfamiliar terrain. Though younger, Cedric bore an understated resilience, yet Tre discerned the toll their shared experiences had exacted. The move to Belmont represented an opportunity to heal, but emotional scars are not so easily erased. Tre often found his brother sitting by the window, his gaze fixed on some indeterminate point beyond the horizon.

“What’s on your mind, Ced?” Tre inquired one afternoon, leaning against the doorway of Cedric’s room. Cedric, engrossed in twisting a Rubik’s Cube, looked up briefly before resuming his silent contemplation.

“It’s just… weird here... And I miss Mom. It’s too quiet,” Cedric admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Tre stepped into the room and sat beside him, their shared silence speaking volumes. “Yeah, I miss her too... But things are going to be different. And maybe that’s what we need. After everything we’ve been through, quiet doesn’t seem so bad.”

A faint smile touched Cedric’s lips. “You think we’ll ever feel normal again?”

Tre rested a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder. “No, we won’t. Everything we’ve lost and the little that we’ve gained, time has changed us, Ced. But we’ve got a chance now, to make what we feel comfortable with normal... That’s something.”

In the ensuing weeks, Cedric’s tentative exploration of his new surroundings revealed hidden pockets of joy. Gerald encouraged his budding interest in art, supplying him with sketchpads and charcoals. Cedric would spend hours creating detailed drawings, capturing both the quiet beauty of Belmont and his inner turmoil. His artistic expressions became a way for him to process the weight of his experiences, and Gerald’s encouragement was unwavering. Tre, observing from the sidelines, felt a pang of gratitude for their father’s efforts.

Gerald, cognizant of the years of absence and the emotional gulf between them, approached his role as a father with deliberate care. He facilitated their enrollment in school, secured better healthcare for Cedric than he had back in Chicago and would soon show signs of improvement, being more delightful, more active. Gerald even took the time to teach Tre how to drive. These gestures, while initially met with guarded skepticism, began to cultivate a sense of trust.

Now a senior, Tre’s reintegration into high school life brought its own set of challenges. Belmont High was a stark contrast to the schools he had attended in Chicago. The students were polite but distant, their worldviews seemingly unscarred by the harsh realities Tre had endured. Basketball, however, became a unifying thread. His skill on the court during lunch would not go unnoticed by coaches and earned him a spot on the team's summer camp, and with it, a tentative camaraderie with his teammates. The discipline and focus required for the game provided Tre with a sense of purpose and stability that he had sorely missed.

One evening, as they gathered around the dinner table, Gerald addressed his sons with earnest candor. “I know this is still a lot to adjust to with all the time has passed,” he began, his voice steady but edged with vulnerability. “I’m not trying to replace what you lost. I just want to give you a life where you don’t have to look over your shoulder all the time. I know how Chicago is. And there's not a apology I can give you two for what you've endured.”

Tre and Cedric exchanged a glance, the weight of his words sinking in. For once, there was no sarcasm or deflection. Tre broke the silence, his voice steady yet tinged with emotion. “We appreciate it. Really. It’s just… it’s gonna take some time.”

Gerald nodded, a small but genuine smile breaking through. “Take all the time you need. You two aren't alone anymore. We’re in this together. Just do me one thing. Never forget the teachings your mother gave you two. She was damn good woman and I should've been there... But now... Carry her legacy, her strength...”

In the quiet moments of the night, Tre often reflected on the path that had brought them to Belmont. The memories of Chicago were still vivid—the cacophony of sirens, the shadow of constant danger, the aching loss of their mother. Yet, in Belmont, there was space to breathe. The days began to take on a rhythm: school, basketball practice, family dinners, and Cedric’s animated discussions about his latest sketches and anime topics.

As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, the jagged edges of their past began to soften. Though the specter of their history remained, its grip lessened with each passing day. Tre found himself laughing more, his shoulders less tense. Cedric’s artwork evolved, reflecting not only his struggles but also glimpses of hope. Gerald, steadfast and patient, continued to bridge the gap, his quiet efforts building a foundation of trust and love.

In Belmont, Tre and Cedric discovered a semblance of peace—imperfect and fragile, but theirs to build upon. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, they could look to the future with cautious hope. Together, they began to forge a new narrative, one where loss and pain coexisted with resilience and renewal.

[The JZA]

New character bio in the supporting cast

[six7]

Need some cap action

[The JZA]

We're winding up to it my G'. Waiting to work out a few things in game. But we're a couple of chaps away

[The JZA]

Chapter II: Where I Belong

Tre’s first day as a senior at Belmont Hill High School began with a mixture of reluctant apprehension and subdued defiance. The imposing brick facade of the building, its polished windows reflecting the early morning sun, stood as a testament to the socioeconomic disparities that had defined his life until now. This was not Chicago. The manicured lawns, pristine hallways, and subdued hum of activity spoke to a world unfamiliar to him, one that felt as alien as it was unyielding. Walking through the corridors, Tre felt the weight of unfamiliarity pressing down on him. The atmosphere was stifling, a blend of curiosity and thinly veiled judgment from his peers. Some students extended polite, if perfunctory, greetings, their smiles teetering on the edge of condescension. Others, their eyes glinting with a mix of indifference and superiority, barely acknowledged his presence. The dichotomy of niceties and pretension left Tre walking a tightrope of guarded neutrality, his resolve firm but uncomfortably tested.

The bell’s shrill echo signaled the start of the day. Tre slipped into a seat near the back of homeroom, his intention to remain as inconspicuous as possible. However, his attempt to blend in was thwarted almost immediately.

“Class,” Mr. Anderson began, his voice cutting through the low murmur of chatter, “before we get started, I’d like to introduce a new student joining us today.” His gaze shifted toward Tre. “Tre, would you mind coming up front?”

Tre hesitated, his muscles tightening as the collective attention of the class turned toward him. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he stood and made his way to the front of the room, each step feeling heavier than the last. Facing his audience, Tre adopted an air of detachment, his voice steady but devoid of warmth. “I’m Tre. I’m seventeen, originally from Chicago. I like basketball.” He paused briefly, his eyes scanning the room before adding, “That’s about it.”

The succinctness of his introduction left little room for engagement, and he wasted no time returning to his seat. The murmured conversations that resumed shortly thereafter felt like an indictment, even if no one said anything outright. The morning passed with excruciating slowness. Tre forced himself to focus on his coursework, scribbling notes in an almost mechanical fashion. Yet, his mind betrayed him, wandering through memories of Chicago, the chaos and loss that had shaped him. His thoughts drifted like clouds, shapeless and impossible to contain, leaving him disoriented in a sea of academic expectations.

By lunchtime, Tre was grateful for the reprieve. He navigated the bustling cafeteria, his plate laden with food he barely tasted, and found a quiet corner where he could sit unnoticed. Around him, clusters of students laughed, debated, and shared inside jokes—an intricate social web he had no inclination to join. The noise faded into a dull hum as he finished his meal and left in search of solitude. The distant squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood caught his attention as he wandered the halls. Drawn by the familiar sound, he followed it to the gym. Peeking inside, Tre saw a group of students engaged in a pickup game of 7. The players moved with varying degrees of skill and intensity, their youthful exuberance palpable but unrefined. One player launched a shot that clanged off the rim, sending the ball skittering across the court toward Tre. Instinctively, he bent down, picked it up, and began dribbling. His movements were fluid, almost meditative, as he executed a series of deft crossovers, spin moves, and behind-the-back dribbles. Finally, he pulled up from beyond the arc and drained a three-pointer with practiced ease.

“Yo, you play?” one of the players called out, his tone a mixture of curiosity and challenge.

Tre caught the ball as it bounced back to him, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, I play.”

“Wanna run a game?”

“Sure,” Tre replied, stepping onto the court.

The game was a race to 15, pitting Tre against two players. One was tall and wiry with a natural shooting touch, contrasted sharply with the other, a stocky player whose physicality dominated the paint. Despite their contrasting styles and best efforts, neither could match Tre’s precision and poise. Tre’s dominance was apparent from the outset. His footwork was impeccable, his ball-handling smooth, and his jump shot nearly automatic. Yet, the game wasn’t a complete rout. Arthur’s sharpshooting and Shawn’s relentless determination forced Tre to dig deep, but by the time he sank the final shot—a contested jumper from the wing—the outcome had been all but certain.

“Man, you’re serious,” the tall player said, extending a hand as they walked off the court.

“Real serious,” the other added, still catching his breath.

Tre shook their hands, his demeanor calm but appreciative. “Thanks.”

“I’m Arthur,” the taller player said.

“And I’m Shawn,” the other added.

“Tre,” he replied simply.

Arthur grinned, his competitive edge softened by admiration. “If you’re gonna ball like that, you’ll fit right in.”

For the first time that day, Tre felt a flicker of connection, faint but undeniable. The gym, with its familiar sounds and rhythms, offered him a sanctuary from the dissonance of his new environment. It wasn’t much, but it was a start—a fragile foundation upon which he could begin to rebuild.

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The days at Belmont Hill High School began to take on a rhythm for Tre. Mornings still felt like an uphill battle, with lectures and assignments pulling his focus in a dozen directions. But lunch breaks were different. Each day, Tre found himself gravitating toward the gym, where Arthur and Shawn were always waiting, basketballs in hand.

The trio bonded over pick-up games, their camaraderie growing stronger with every shared laugh, friendly jab, and hard-fought scrimmage. Arthur’s precision shooting, Shawn’s tenacious physicality, and Tre’s effortless command of the game meshed into a natural chemistry. It was in these moments, on the court, that Tre felt a flicker of the self he thought he’d left behind in Chicago.

“Man, you’ve got some serious talent,” Arthur said one afternoon, bouncing the ball between his legs before passing it to Tre.

“Seriously,” Shawn added, wiping sweat from his forehead. “It’s like watching a highlight reel out here. You could be on ESPN with those moves.”

Tre chuckled lightly, catching the ball and setting up for a shot. “I’m just playing,” he replied, the words modest but not dismissive. The ball arced high and fell cleanly through the net with a satisfying swish.

As the trio continued their game, the door to the P.E. office swung open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man with a clipboard in hand. Coach Milton, Belmont Hill’s varsity basketball coach, stepped into the gym, his sharp gaze fixed on the players. He stood silently for a moment, observing the game unfold with the practiced eye of someone who had seen countless players try to prove their worth on the court.

“Alright, alright, time out,” Coach Milton called out, clapping his hands. His voice carried authority but was devoid of harshness.

The trio stopped mid-game, their attention turning to the coach. Tre held the ball, his posture relaxed but his mind racing.

“You're Tre Hardaway?” Milton asked, his eyes singling out Tre in the group.

Tre hesitated before raising a hand. “Yeah, that’s me,” he said, his voice steady but cautious.

Milton nodded, stepping closer. “The Tre Hardaway? One of the top-ranked players that had scout eyes on him? Never would've imagined you’d wind up at our school.”

“Damn, Tre, no wonder why you're so good. I didn’t know you were must-see talent,” Arthur said with admiration in his tone.

“I’ve been watching you boys play for a while now. You’ve got some impressive skills. Where’d you learn to move like that?” Coach Milton asked.

Tre shrugged, his gaze briefly dropping to the floor. “Played varsity back in Chicago. Had to leave the team last year, though. Due to ‘circumstances.’”

The coach’s expression softened slightly, recognizing the weight behind the word. “Well, those circumstances didn’t do much to dull your game. You’ve got talent, kid, real talent.”

Tre shifted his weight, unsure how to respond. He wasn’t used to praise from authority figures, especially when it came to basketball—a sport that had once been his escape but had also become tangled in the chaos of his old life.

Milton turned his attention to all three players, his tone shifting to one of encouragement. “You boys should know, basketball tryouts are next week. If what I just saw is any indication, I’d love to see the three of you sign up. We’ve got spots open, and I think you’d all bring something valuable to the team.”

Arthur and Shawn exchanged excited glances, but Tre remained thoughtful, the weight of the offer pressing against the other responsibilities that occupied his mind.

“Thanks, Coach,” Tre said after a beat. “I’ll think about it. Need to talk it over with my dad first.”

“Fair enough,” Milton replied, tipping his clipboard toward him. “Just don’t let the opportunity slip by. You’ve got something special, Tre. It’d be a shame to see it go to waste.”

As the coach walked off, Arthur grinned, nudging Tre with his elbow. “Man, you gotta try out. We could tear it up out there with you running the floor.”

“Yeah,” Shawn added. “Think about it. You’ve got the skills, and we’ve got your back.”

Tre smiled faintly, their enthusiasm infectious. “We’ll see,” he said, but his mind was already turning over the idea.

The rest of the school day dragged on, with Tre struggling to focus on anything other than basketball. Milton’s words played on repeat in his head, reigniting a passion he thought he had buried. The idea of playing organized basketball again, of feeling the rush of competition and the satisfaction of working as part of a team, began to take root.

By the time Tre left his final class, his mind was racing with possibilities. After so much time spent keeping his head down and focusing solely on survival, the idea of being a part of something again, of rebuilding a sense of identity through the sport he loved, felt almost surreal.

Walking through the crowded hallways, Tre considered the weight of his obligations. Cedric’s face flashed in his mind, a reminder of the responsibility he carried. His younger brother’s needs came first, and that wasn’t negotiable. Yet, the thought of stepping onto the court, hearing the echo of sneakers against polished wood, and feeling the electricity of a game pulsing through his veins was almost intoxicating.

As Tre exited the school building, Arthur and Shawn caught up with him. Shawn dribbled a basketball as they walked, the sound rhythmic and grounding. “You’re seriously thinking about it, right?” Shawn asked, tossing the ball toward Tre.

Tre caught it easily, spinning it on his fingertip. “Yeah, I’m thinking about it,” he admitted. “But I’ve got other stuff to handle too. My little brother… he needs me.”

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. “That’s real, man. But maybe this is something you need too. You’re not just playing for yourself, you know. You’re showing him what’s possible when you push through.”

The words struck a chord in Tre. He knew Arthur was right. Basketball wasn’t just a game for him—it was a part of who he was, a way to channel his energy, his anger, and his hope. If he could balance everything, maybe this was a chance to give Cedric something to look up to.

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Tre arrived home from Belmont Hill High School to find his father, Gerald, sitting on the living room couch, an unusual sight this early in the evening. Typically, Gerald’s workday stretched long into the evening hours, but today was different. His presence at home immediately signaled an opportunity for Tre to bring up something that had been on his mind since lunch: Coach Milton’s encouragement to join the basketball tryouts.

“Hey, Dad,” Tre started, dropping his backpack by the door and easing into the armchair opposite Gerald. “You’re home early.”

“Yeah, figured I’d wrap things up early today,” Gerald replied, setting down the stack of mail. “What’s up? You’ve got that look like something’s on your mind.”

Tre hesitated for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck before speaking. “So, Coach Milton—he’s the varsity basketball coach at school—he saw me and some of the guys playing in the gym during lunch. He’s pushing for me to try out for the team.”

Gerald’s face lit up, his interest piqued. “Basketball, huh? I heard stories about you were good back in Chicago. You thinking about trying out?”

“I want to,” Tre admitted, his voice steady but thoughtful. “But, you know, Cedric comes first. I’m not trying to get into something if it’s going to mess with our schedules.”

Gerald leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tre, I know how much you’ve been looking out for Cedric, and I respect that. But it’s okay for you to have something for yourself, too. If basketball is what you want, I’ll support it. Just talk it over with your brother first. Make sure he’s good with it.”

Tre nodded, feeling reassured. “Yeah, I’ll do that. Thanks, Dad.”

Heading upstairs, Tre found Cedric in his room, hunched over his desk with a pencil in hand. A stack of completed drawings lay neatly to the side, showcasing an array of detailed sketches. Tre’s eyes widened as he picked up the top drawing, a stunning depiction of a city skyline at sunset.

“Wow, Ced. These are incredible,” Tre said, holding up the drawing. “I knew you could draw, but nothing like this. Where’d you learn to draw like this?”

Cedric glanced up, a shy smile spreading across his face. “Mom taught me, back when I was little. She used to draw with me whenever she had time.”

"What you mean when you was little? You're still little now", Tre joked, but fell flat with no reaction. Tre’s chest tightened thinking of their mother. “I didn’t know Mom could draw,” he said, his voice softer now. “Guess she kept a lot of things under wraps.”

“She said it was just a hobby,” Cedric replied. “But she was really good. I think she wanted me to have something to keep me busy, you know?”

Tre smiled, setting the drawing back on the desk. “Well, you’ve definitely got her talent. These are crazy good.”

Cedric’s grin widened, and he leaned back in his chair. “Oh, and guess what? My teacher said they’re putting me in gifted and talented classes for arts and crafts. They told me today.”

“No way!” Tre exclaimed, raising his hand for a high-five. “That’s huge, Ced! Congrats, man.”

Their hands smacked together, and Cedric beamed with pride. “Think one day my art will be in a museum?”

“Definitely,” Tre said without hesitation. “You keep this up, and people are gonna line up to see your work.”

Cedric’s eyes sparkled at the thought, and Tre couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. Sitting down next to his brother, he shifted the conversation.

“So, how’s school been? Making any new friends?”

Cedric shrugged. “A few. Mostly kids in my art class. They’re pretty cool.”

“That’s good,” Tre said. “You’ve got your talent to connect with people. It’ll only get easier from here.”

After a pause, Tre decided to bring up basketball. “Hey, Ced, how would you feel about me trying out for the team? Coach Milton’s been on me about it, and Dad’s cool with it. What about you?”

Cedric’s expression brightened. “I think you should do it. I miss watching you play. Basketball was always your thing.”

Tre’s heart sank slightly as Cedric continued, “It was the one thing I always wanted to do but couldn’t because of my health. Watching you has always been the next best thing.”

Reaching out, Tre put a hand on Cedric’s shoulder. “Hey, don’t say that like it’s a bad thing. You’ve got your own gift now, something I could never do. And who knows? Maybe one day, I’ll hang up a piece of your art in my house. Deal?”

Cedric’s smile returned, and he nodded. “Deal.”

“Alright, then,” Tre said, ruffling his brother’s hair. “And I promise you this: one day, I’m gonna give you the greatest art piece yet. Something just for you.”

Cedric’s laughter filled the room, lightening Tre’s heart. Whatever challenges lay ahead, Tre knew that moments like these—shared between two brothers navigating their new life—were what truly mattered. He would play basketball, not just for himself but to honor the bond he shared with Cedric and the dreams they both carried forward.

[The JZA]

Just finished up with bios (stole MVPs panel He's not using it), will post them after the next chapter.

Had to change a few teams, finding more glitches

After bios (& maybe schedule), we hop into game one

[Soapy]

oh we got action, not sure how i missed this but we tapped in now

[The JZA]

oh we got action, not sure how i missed this but we tapped in now

Soapy, Took a bit of time off from the other chise to grind this one out some

[The JZA]

Chapter III: Time 4 Sum Aksion

The release of the basketball team’s depth chart at Belmont Hill High School carried an air of anticipation, particularly for those vying for critical starting positions. Among the names prominently listed was Tre Hardaway, securing the starting small forward role. For a newcomer, such recognition was a remarkable accomplishment, sparking intrigue among teammates and coaches alike.

Tre’s ascent to this position began with his decision to try out for the Belmont Hill Sextant team. From the outset, his approach was marked by an almost singular focus. Each practice became a proving ground, and Tre treated every drill, scrimmage, and sprint as if the stakes were monumental. His commitment quickly drew the attention of Coach Milton, a seasoned figure who valued discipline and effort as much as raw talent.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Coach Milton announced during one of the initial practices, clipboard in hand and eyes scanning the group. “Effort, discipline, and teamwork. That’s the standard. Anything less, and you’re wasting your time.”

Tre needed no reminder of these principles. While some players took moments to ease into the rhythm of drills, Tre executed each task with precision and intensity. Suicide sprints, defensive rotations, three-man weaves—Tre approached them all with an unyielding drive. His consistency became a quiet but undeniable statement to the rest of the team. He was often the first to finish, the last to leave, and the most prepared for whatever came next.

“Hardaway, you’ve got a motor,” Coach Milton remarked after a particularly grueling practice, where Tre’s performance seemed unrelenting even as others faltered. Tre, sweat dripping from his brow, gave a simple nod, already visualizing the next drill.

Tre’s prowess extended beyond physical abilities. During scrimmages, his strategic acumen became apparent. He read plays before they unfolded, calling out defensive adjustments and setting up his teammates with unselfish, precise passes. Tre wasn’t merely participating; he was commanding the flow of the game. This elevated him in the eyes of his peers and further solidified his place on the team.

“Man, he’s not just good,” Arthur whispered to Shawn as they watched Tre dominate a scrimmage. “He’s something else.”

Coach Milton silently agreed. As the weeks progressed, Tre’s seamless integration into the team’s dynamics and mastery of the playbook became impossible to overlook. His versatility—from driving to the basket and executing crisp mid-range jumpers to defending across multiple positions—marked him as an indispensable asset.

Tre’s ability to inspire his teammates also became a defining feature of his presence on the court. He celebrated their successes as fervently as his own, often pulling aside younger or less experienced players to offer encouragement or pointers. “You’ve got the talent,” he told one freshman during a particularly rough practice. “Just keep working on the fundamentals, and you’ll get there.”

When the depth chart was finally unveiled, Tre’s position as the starting small forward came as no surprise to those who had been paying attention. The decision was not merely a reflection of his abilities but a recognition of the example he set through his work ethic and leadership.

The announcement marked a pivotal moment for the team as well. Tre’s elevation to a leadership role infused a renewed sense of determination among his peers. Arthur and Shawn, his closest allies on and off the court, took particular pride in his accomplishment.

“We’ve got ourselves a game-changer,” Shawn declared, clapping Tre on the back after practice.

Tre responded with a modest smile. “It’s just the beginning,” he said. “We’ve got a long road ahead.”

As the team began preparing for their first game, Tre’s leadership extended beyond the court. He initiated impromptu team meetings to review plays and organized informal practices on weekends to build chemistry. “If we’re going to win,” he told his teammates one Saturday morning, “we need to trust each other completely. That starts here.”

At the next practice, Coach Milton addressed the team with a tone of measured seriousness. “Listen up,” he began, standing at center court. “We’ve got talent, no doubt. But talent doesn’t win championships—discipline and unity do. Hardaway here has set the bar. Follow it.”

Tre felt the weight of the coach’s words but did not let them disrupt his focus. For him, the recognition was merely another step forward. Basketball, after all, was not just a sport but a means of redefining himself and proving that his past did not dictate his future.

Practice resumed, and Tre’s commitment intensified. Each shot, pass, and defensive rotation carried purpose. His energy was infectious, pushing his teammates to match his pace. Even Coach Milton, who had seen countless players come and go, could not help but express admiration.

“Hardaway,” Milton called out as practice concluded and players began packing up. Tre turned, a basketball casually tucked under his arm. “You’re the kind of player that reminds a coach why they do this job.”

Tre’s response was understated but genuine. “Thanks, Coach.”

As Tre left the gym that evening, the cool night air greeted him with a sense of clarity and purpose. Securing the starting small forward position was more than an achievement; it was a reclamation of identity. For Tre, basketball had always been more than a game. It was a sanctuary, a challenge, and now, a cornerstone in the new life he was building at Belmont Hill. With a team behind him and a season ahead, he was ready to embrace the possibilities that awaited.

As he walked home, Tre reflected on how far he had come since arriving at Belmont Hill. The gym had become more than just a space for competition; it was where he rediscovered his passion and proved to himself that he could rise above his past. The roar of the crowd and the weight of the game still lay ahead, but for now, Tre allowed himself a moment of pride. He was ready to lead, to excel, and to redefine what it meant to be Tre Hardaway.

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The gym buzzed with energy as the Belmont Hill Sextants wrapped up another intense practice. Players gathered around to hydrate and discuss the looming season opener. Arthur, Shawn, and Tre lingered on the sidelines, their camaraderie growing stronger with every passing day. Basketballs bounced rhythmically in the background as the trio launched into conversation.

“Man, I’m telling you, we’re about to put Belmont Hill back on the map,” Arthur said, spinning a ball on his index finger. “Coach Milton’s been hyping us up all week. You ready for this, Tre?”

Tre wiped sweat from his brow, leaning against the bleachers. “Ready? Always. It’s been a minute since I played in front of a crowd, though. You know how it is—new school, new expectations.”

Shawn grinned, leaning back with his arms crossed. “Expectations? Bro, after the way you’ve been killing it in practice, the only expectation is for you to drop at least 20 points on those guys.”

Tre chuckled. “Appreciate the vote of confidence, Shawn. But basketball’s a team sport, right? We’ve all got to step up. I can’t do it alone.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Humble,” Arthur teased, tossing the ball at Tre. “But don’t think we didn’t notice you sinking, like, four threes in that scrimmage yesterday. You’re a walking highlight reel, my guy. Why don't you shoot more threes?”

Tre caught the ball effortlessly and shot it toward the nearest hoop. It swished through the net with a satisfying sound. “Just not a part of my game,” he said with a shrug.

Shawn leaned forward, his expression turning serious. “For real, though, what’s your mindset going into this game? I mean, this is our first shot to show everyone what we’re made of. How are you feeling about the team?”

Tre took a moment to consider his words. “Honestly? I think we’ve got something to make it work, but still needs work. We’ve got chemistry, and we’ve been putting in the work. But it’s about execution now. Talent’s one thing, but if we’re not locked in, it doesn’t matter how good we are.”

Arthur nodded. “Facts. And you know those guys over from Norland aren’t going to take it easy on us. They’ve got that senior guard… what’s his name? Taylor something? Don't let his statistics fool you, dude’s a beast.”

“Taylor Hood,” Shawn supplied. “He’s quick, but I’ve been watching his tapes. He gets cocky when he's streaking, but it's not saying much since he had elite players around him. But if we push him out of his comfort zone, and he’ll start making mistakes.”

Tre smirked. “Good intel. That’s exactly what we’ve got to do—capitalize on their weaknesses. But it’s not just Taylor. If their whole squad’s solid, we’ve got to stay sharp.”

Arthur grinned, clapping Tre on the shoulder. “Man, you sound like Coach Milton already. Next thing you know, you’ll be drawing up plays in the huddle.”

“In the huddle? I draw plays per possession, my boy,” Tre replied. “Speaking of which, we’ve got to be on point with our defensive rotations. Norland’s bigs are going to try and dominate the paint. We can’t let them.”

Shawn stretched his arms overhead, nodding. “True. But we’ve got some firepower of our own. Between your scoring, Arthur’s height, and my defense, we’re a triple threat. They won’t know what hit them.”

Arthur looks towards the other guys shooting around. “Our bench got work to do, I see what you mean, Tre. They're not bad at all, but none of them sure as hell ain't on your level. Tracy and Clarence can step in and hold it down.”

Tre’s expression softened as he looked at his friends. “I like this energy, y’all. Let’s keep it up. First game’s just the start. If we stay focused and play for each other, there’s no limit to what we can do.”

The trio exchanged a fist bump, their shared determination palpable.

“Alright, enough talk,” Arthur said, picking up a ball. “Let’s run it back. First to ten, losers buy Gatorades.”

Shawn laughed. “Hope you’ve got some cash on you, Arthur. You’re about to owe me big time.”

Tre grinned, stepping onto the court. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

As they launched into a spirited pickup game, their conversation evolved into playful banter.

“You’re too slow, Shawn!” Arthur taunted after sinking a fadeaway jumper over him.

“Slow? Nah, you just got lucky,” Shawn shot back, stealing the ball on the next possession and breaking for a layup.

Tre laughed as he gets a rebound and clearing for a step-back two-pointer. “Y’all better tighten up. This is too easy.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Alright, show-off. Let’s see how you handle a double team.”

The intensity of their game drew a small crowd of teammates, who cheered and shouted as the score climbed higher. For Tre, Arthur, and Shawn, the game wasn’t just preparation for the season; it was a reminder of why they loved basketball.

When the final point was scored—courtesy of a well placed finger roll by Tre—they collapsed onto the court, laughing and catching their breath.

“Alright, fine,” Arthur said, sitting up. “I’ll buy the Gatorades. But don’t get used to it.”

Shawn smirked. “Just make sure you’ve got your wallet ready after the real game. We’re going to make Norland pay.”

Tre stood, helping his friends to their feet. “We’ve got this, y’all. Let’s keep grinding and make it happen.”

As the trio left the gym that evening, their bond felt stronger than ever. The first game of the season was just days away, but they were ready to face it together.

[The JZA]

Cap Updates — Senior Year



RoyalTy


Taurus


Bailey4mvp


chosenone58 (changed school due to glitch)


James Xixak



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