War Colors
If Brookshire was quiet ambition, Westfield was loud dominance.
And that week, the hallways made sure I remembered exactly where I came from.
The first rivalry announcement hit Monday morning.
Bright red posters plastered over lockers:
BROOKSHIRE VS. WESTFIELD — FRIDAY NIGHT.
Underneath, someone had scribbled in black marker:
WELCOME BACK, CARTER.
I didn't know whether to laugh or rip it down.
Ava noticed it before I did.
She stopped walking.
Read it.
Then looked at me.
"Subtle," she said.
"It's just a game."
Her eyebrow lifted slightly.
"You don't believe that."
She wasn't wrong.
Westfield didn't treat games like games.
They treated them like reputation trials.
And my reputation there was… complicated.
By lunchtime, the whispers weren't subtle anymore.
"You think he'll throw it?"
"No way. He wants redemption."
"Or revenge."
I shoved my tray onto the table harder than I meant to.
Ava leaned back in her chair, studying me.
"Do they know why you transferred?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters to you."
I hated how easily she saw through me.
Westfield had lost the state semi-finals last year.
Final possession.
My shot.
Missed.
The video had circulated for months.
Memes.
Commentary.
'Carter Chokes Again.'
Transferring wasn't running.
But it looked like it.
And now I was wearing Brookshire blue.
Facing them.
On their court.
Practice that afternoon felt heavier than usual.
Coach kept reminding us this wasn't just about skill.
"It's about pride."
Pride.
That word again.
After drills, as I grabbed my duffel bag, someone near the gym entrance clapped slowly.
Slow. Mocking.
I didn't have to look.
I knew that rhythm.
Brielle Donovan leaned against the doorway like she owned it.
And honestly?
At Westfield, she kind of did.
Head cheer captain.
Honor roll.
Untouchable confidence.
Her ponytail was higher than regulation allowed, and her smirk hadn't changed in a year.
"Miss me, Carter?"
The gym quieted.
Brookshire players stiffened.
She walked in like the rivalry didn't apply to her.
Like she was immune.
"I don't play for you anymore," I said evenly.
"Mm," she tilted her head. "Clearly."
Her eyes flicked to the Brookshire logo on my jersey.
Then back to my face.
"You look weird in blue."
"Thanks."
"Still can't believe you bailed."
"I transferred."
"Same difference."
She stepped closer.
Too close.
Close enough that I could smell her perfume — sharp, expensive.
Close enough that the team was watching.
And close enough that I felt something I didn't want to admit:
History.
Brielle had been there the night I missed that shot.
She had hugged me afterward while cameras filmed.
Had whispered, "You'll get it next time."
She knew what Westfield pressure felt like.
And she knew exactly how to press it.
"You ready for Friday?" she asked quietly.
"I always am."
She smiled.
Not warm.
Challenging.
"Don't miss."
And just like that, she walked out.
Leaving tension like smoke behind her.
Ava was waiting outside the gym.
She had probably seen Brielle enter.
Probably seen her leave.
"You know her," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yeah."
"How?"
"Westfield."
She studied me.
Not jealous.
Not accusing.
But curious.
"She seems… confident."
"That's one word for it."
We walked in silence for a few steps.
Then she added casually:
"She looked at you like you still belong there."
That stopped me.
"I don't."
Her gaze shifted to me.
"Then make sure they know that."
There it was again.
That steady belief.
She wasn't threatened by Brielle.
Not yet.
And I hated that part of me noticed the difference between them.
Brielle was fire.
Immediate. Flashy. Intense.
Ava was gravity.
Quiet. Grounded. Pulling without trying.
I didn't realize then how dangerous it was to stand between fire and gravity.
Friday night arrived louder than expected.
Westfield's gym was packed.
Red everywhere.
Chants echoing.
When Brookshire stepped onto the court, the boos were instant.
When I stepped forward, they got worse.
"TRAITOR!"
"CHOKE AGAIN!"
And then I saw her.
Brielle.
Front row.
Leading the chants.
Eyes locked on mine.
Smiling like this was entertainment.
I forced myself not to react.
But when I glanced toward the visitor section—
I saw blue.
And in the middle of it—
Ava.
She wasn't yelling.
Wasn't chanting.
She was just watching me.
And somehow that steadied my breathing more than any pep talk.
The game was brutal.
Westfield played aggressively.
Too aggressively.
Every time I touched the ball, someone shoved harder.
Someone fouled sharper.
With two minutes left, we were down by three.
Coach called timeout.
"You want redemption?" he asked me quietly. "Earn it."
The irony wasn't lost on me.
Redemption.
From the same court.
Against the same school.
Different colors.
When play resumed, the ball found me at the arc.
Crowd roaring.
Brielle on her feet.
Ava standing now too.
Time slowed.
Last year's miss flashed in my head.
The memes.
The transfer.
The whispers.
This time—
I didn't hesitate.
Release.
Silence.
Swish.
Tie game.
The gym erupted into chaos.
Brookshire's section screamed.
Westfield's went stunned.
And for half a second—
I looked at Ava.
She wasn't screaming.
She wasn't dramatic.
She was smiling.
Proud.
And that felt bigger than the shot.
But when I turned—
Brielle was clapping slowly again.
Not impressed.
Just… interested.
The look on her face said it clearly:
Game on.
And I didn't realize yet—
She wasn't just talking about basketball.