Groovin' in the Grove

Blake let the chord ring out, the last note hanging in the dusty air like a held breath.

They all paused.

Then Ethan said, “Okay, that… wasn’t terrible.”

Nick nodded, twirling a drumstick between his fingers. “Not terrible at all.”

Blake rested his guitar against his hip and grinned. “Do we actually remember what we just played?”

Ethan pointed dramatically at the whiteboard leaning against the back wall — mostly covered in doodles, chord fragments, and a crude drawing of a flaming saxophone. “To the record-keeping wall!”

“You mean the chaos board?” Nick said, wiping a mostly clean space with his hoodie sleeve.

Blake crouched next to him and began scribbling in black marker:

Sunday Groove – A minor – funky riff, clean tone, syncopated rhythm.

Bass = bounce (Ethan: figure out actual notes)

Drums = tight pocket — maybe double chorus?

Ethan leaned over. “Write: ‘Bass line so good, NASA called.’”

Blake made a fake writing motion and said, “And then deleted it immediately.”

Nick pulled out his phone and snapped a photo of the board. “We’ll forget half this by Tuesday.”

Ethan flopped onto the beat-up couch, fishing a bag of pretzels from beneath a tangle of cables. “Emergency musician food. You want in?”

“I’m good,” Blake said, leaning back against an amp. “Still riding that bacon high.”

Nick stretched his arms. “We doing this again next weekend?”

“Same time?” Ethan asked.

Blake hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Should be fine. No games this weekend.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Thought basketball guys had, like, constant training or whatever.”

“Not on Sundays. That’s football day. Max and his crew get the gym for morning film or something.”

“Max…” Nick said, frowning. “Quarterback Max?”

“Unfortunately,” Blake muttered, adjusting a tuning peg.

Ethan smirked. “What’s the beef again?”

“No beef,” Blake said quickly, then added, “He just thinks the sun shines out of his own helmet.”

Nick laughed. “That guy is intense.”

“He walks around like he’s already signed to Ohio State,” Blake said. “Whole quarterback swagger thing. Like the rest of us are background noise.”

“Sounds like someone bruised his ego,” Ethan teased.

Blake rolled his eyes. “Nah. Just tired of the whole football-is-life thing. He acts like the school exists so he can throw perfect spirals in peace.”

Nick leaned back on his hands. “Well, you _did _cross him up pretty hard at last spring’s pep rally.”

“Didn’t mean to,” Blake said with a shrug. “He stepped in during our three-on-three demo. Tried to body me up. Not my fault he’s slow laterally.”

Ethan laughed so hard he nearly dropped the pretzels.

Blake smirked but let the topic drop. Max always rubbed him the wrong way — all performance, no rhythm. The kind of guy who strutted down hallways like he owned them, loud and unbothered. Blake, on the other hand, moved through life quieter. Focused. He didn’t need to be the center of attention — unless he was on the court.

Or lately, in this garage.

There was something about the space — messy, half-lit, humming with potential. A place where expectations didn’t hang over him like they did during drills or practices. Here, it wasn’t about winning. It was about building something.

And whatever they’d played this morning… it had teeth.

“Okay,” Ethan said after a beat. “Real talk.”

Blake glanced up.

“If we — not saying we will, but if — we actually made something out of this jam, like finished it... would that be dumb?”

Nick perked up. “Like, finish a song?”

Ethan nodded. “Not a band or anything. Just… record it. Put something together for real.”

Blake sat with the question. The memory of the riff still buzzed in his fingers. It wasn’t polished, but it worked. Like they’d tripped into something worth holding onto. Not just noise — something real.

He looked at his guitar. “I mean… wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

Ethan grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Nick started packing up his sticks. “I’d be down. Would be cool to have something that’s ours. No coaches, no playbooks.”

Blake nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

He wasn’t thinking about a band. Not yet. But maybe a reason to show up again next Sunday.

They packed up without much more talk — just a few lazy see-yas and elbow bumps. The kind of goodbye that didn’t need words because everyone already knew they’d be back.

Blake slung his guitar over his back, the strap snug across his chest as he rolled his bike out of the driveway. The sunlight was warmer now, glinting off the pavement in long, stretching beams.

He pedaled slowly at first, the rhythm of the groove still echoing in his mind.

At the corner near the school, he passed the fieldhouse. The football team’s weight room was on the far side. Sure enough, Max was there — standing outside in his white team hoodie, talking to a couple of younger players. His laugh carried across the street like it was waiting to be heard.

Max glanced up and locked eyes with Blake for half a second. No wave. Just a nod — tight and unreadable.

Blake didn’t stop. Just kept pedaling.

He wasn’t mad, exactly. It was more like… distance. They’d been on the same rec teams when they were little, but somewhere along the way, their paths split. Max took the spotlight. Blake chose the rhythm.

Now, music was starting to offer something basketball never quite did — space to breathe.

Blake turned onto his street and picked up speed, the air rushing against his face. His fingers tapped lightly on the handlebars, replaying the groove, the riff, the beat. It was still raw. Still waiting.

But it was theirs.

He’d write it down when he got home.

Just in case