The Practice Wall

Everyone said Mondays were the worst, but at Resin Grove High, Mondays after a loss hit different — like the whole building was whispering about your poor performance or in this case, about how you almost on, but didn’t,

Blake leaned against his locker, one earbud in, trying to zone out the chaos of the hallway. His phone played some barely-there instrumental — just rhythm and reverb to keep the edge off. His gym felt heavy.

Levi showed up with a bagel and a grin, as always.

“Still alive?” Levi asked, tossing his gym bag against the lockers with a dull thud.

“Technically,” Blake muttered.

“You do Coach Erwin’s stat sheet?”

“I skimmed it.”

“Cool. I copied yours.”

Levi bit into his bagel and started talking about something — probably the new sneaker drop or how Jordan managed to trip during warmups last week — but Blake's attention wandered. The crowd parted up ahead like it always did, just enough to let Max Lui pass through like he owned the place.

Blake felt it before he saw him — the subtle hush, the ripple of tension. Max, quarterback and golden boy, grinning like a wolf. His football gear slung over one shoulder, flanked by teammates in letterman jackets, his walk a practiced kind of swagger.

They brushed shoulders as Max passed. Not by accident.

Blake didn’t react. Max didn’t look back.

Levi watched the exchange. “That guy ever stop trying to piss you off?”

“Only when he’s asleep.”

“Even then, I bet he talks smack in his dreams.”

They turned down the east wing, heading towards the gym, when Blake’s steps slowed for just a second. By the vending machines near the library, Vivi Ashbourne stood with two cheerleaders — tall, sharp-angled, hair in a high ponytail that looked like it hadn’t moved since sunrise.

Her laugh wasn’t soft. It was clipped. Cold.

She glanced up, caught Blake looking.

Her expression didn’t shift — no smile, no raised brow. Just one sharp, fleeting look that held something colder than indifference.

It wasn’t disgust. Not quite.

But there was a flicker in her eyes, like seeing him had just made her day worse.

Blake looked away quickly, face tightening.

“Are you ready for today’s practice?” Blake asked as they rounded the stairwell toward the locker rooms.

“Probably not,” Levi said, sighing dramatically. “Coach Erwin always makes us train double after a loss.”

Blake gave a small grunt in agreement, pulling the strap of his gym bag higher on his shoulder. The hallway buzzed around them — freshmen trying not to be late, someone blasting music from their phone, a cluster of cheerleaders laughing too loudly near the trophy case. None of it reached Blake. Not really.

They didn’t talk much on the way to the gym. There wasn’t much to say.

The smell of sweat and polish hit them as soon as they pushed through the double doors. The gym lights hummed overhead as the team filed in, their sneakers squeaking against the hardwood. Levi gave Blake a look — the kind that said brace yourself. Darren wasn’t even pretending to smile. Mateo had his earbuds in until the last second, his hood still up.

Blake rolled his shoulders. Time to switch on.

Coach didn’t waste time.

“Line up,” he barked.

No clipboard. No warm-up. Just a whistle and a scowl.

The next hour was a blur of punishment: suicides, full-court press drills, passing circuits that reset every time someone fumbled — which was often.

“Again!”

“Again!”

“Again!”

By the fourth time Darren’s pass smacked Jordan in the chest and bounced out of bounds, someone finally snapped.

“Watch it, man!” Jordan shouted, wiping sweat from his eyes. “You trying to break my ribs?”

Darren tossed his arms up. “If you’d move your damn feet—”

“That’s enough,” Blake cut in. “Run it again.”

Mateo let out a sharp breath. “We’ve been running it.”

Blake stared at him. “Then let’s get it right.”

Mateo didn’t respond, just dribbled once, hard, and reset his stance.

They ran the drill again.

And again.

By the time Coach finally blew his whistle to end practice, half the team was bent over their knees. Sweat poured off Darren’s arms. Levi collapsed dramatically on the floor and muttered, “Tell my mom I died trying.”

Only a few weak laughs. The air in the gym was thick, unspoken.

Coach’s voice cut through it. “Tomorrow, same time. And Hartley—” Blake looked up. “Fix this.”

Blake gave a tight nod. Didn’t argue. Didn’t speak.

One by one, the team left — towels over their shoulders, gym bags dragging behind them. Darren and Mateo walked out side by side but didn’t speak. Jordan muttered something about switching to track.

Levi lingered, tossing a ball between his hands.

“You okay?” he asked.

Blake nodded but didn’t answer.

“Cool,” Levi said. “See you tomorrow.”

The gym emptied. Just Blake and the echoes.

He picked up a ball and walked to the free-throw line.

Bounce. Bounce. Shoot.

Clang.

He got his own rebound, reset. Shot again. Rimmed out.

He sighed, adjusting his stance, sweat cooling on his neck.

He didn’t think about music. Didn’t think about school. Just the sound of the ball leaving his hands and the silence that followed.

Sometimes it was the only place he felt in control — the arc, the rhythm, the repetition. But even that felt off tonight.

The ball bounced wide. Again.

He didn’t chase it this time. Just stood there, hands on hips, staring at the empty bleachers.

For a moment, he imagined what it’d feel like if they were full again. The sound of sneakers on wood. The cheerleaders, the students, the noise. All of it.

But those seats had been half-empty last game.

And Max’s team? They drew a crowd every time.

He sat down slowly on the court, back pressed to the base of the bleachers, eyes on the rafters. The lights buzzed overhead. His phone buzzed, too — once.

A text from Claire.

"Surviving the Monday **** march?"

He stared at it, then typed back:

"Barely.”

He put the phone down beside him and leaned his head back.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. But it was… quiet. And right now, that was enough.