After school, Chris and I practically sprinted into tryouts, buzzing with excitement. Flynn dragged behind us, pale and wide-eyed like he was walking into a haunted house.
Coach noticed immediately. He raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. Just clapped his hands and called out, "Alright, let's kick things off with some ball handling drills!"
He turned to me. "Griffin, show 'em how it's done."
I caught the ball mid-air and got to work. Crossovers, spin moves, behind-the-back—the works. Clean and controlled.
Then came Flynn.
He stepped up like a deer in headlights—and it went downhill fast. Fumbled dribbles, wild stumbles, the ball slipping away like it had a mind of its own.
Coach sighed, rubbing his temple like he already had a headache. "Looks like we've got our work cut out for us," he muttered.
Things didn't get much better over the next few drills. Flynn was a walking blooper reel—missed passes, trips, awkward pivots.
Then came the shooting drill.
Coach tossed me the ball. I launched it toward Chris, like we'd practiced a hundred times. But then—Coach barked a sharp signal mid-play.
"Flynn!"
My gut twisted. I hesitated—but then pivoted, sending the pass his way.
Flynn's eyes locked on the ball as if something inside him switched on. He snatched it mid-air, did a quick step back, calculated his angle—and shot.
The ball kissed the rim.
Swish.
Silence.
We all turned, jaws slack. Flynn stood there grinning like he couldn't believe it either.
Coach clapped, loud and proud. "That's it, Keep it up."
Flynn's smile widened. And for a split second, I forgot about the missed dribbles and wild passes.
Maybe… just maybe… Coach saw something the rest of us hadn't—yet.
"As tryouts went on, Flynn was on fire—draining shot after shot with effortless precision, while the rest of us looked like we were just learning the game."
Eventually, tryouts wrapped up. The gym fell quiet as Coach stepped forward, clipboard in hand, ready to reveal the final roster—the moment we'd all been sweating for.
"Griffin, and Chris—" he began.
We didn't wait for him to finish. We were already high fiving, grinning like idiots. We knew we were in.
Then came the twist.
"Flynn."
Every head turned. Even mine.
We stared in stunned silence. Flynn just shrugged, a smug grin spreading from ear to ear—like he'd known it was coming all along.
As we grabbed our gear and headed out, I couldn't stop the thought swirling in my mind: Where had Flynn learned to shoot like that? It was like watching a machine with perfect aim.
Later that night, over dinner, Flynn dropped the news like it was no big deal. "I made the basketball team."
Dad nearly choked on his broccoli, coughing mid-cheer, eyes wide with a mix of shock and pride—as if he couldn't decide whether to celebrate or breathe first.
Mom looked just as stunned, her eyebrows practically launching into her hairline. But she recovered quick, flashing a tight smile. "We never doubted you for a second," she said smoothly, masking her surprise like a pro.
I cleared my throat.
"I made the team too," I muttered, barely louder than the clink of silverware. The words hung in the air for a moment, unnoticed. Forgotten.
Their excitement kept orbiting around Flynn, and all I could feel was the quiet sting of being invisible.