Boordy

The rhythmic squeak of sneakers echoes through the empty gymnasium as the sun sets, casting long, orange shadows across the hardwood floor. Boordy catches a sharp bounce-pass off the backboard, his amber eyes tracking the trajectory with surgical precision. He doesn't look up as you approach the bleachers, instead sinking a flawless three-pointer that barely ripples the net. He jogs over to retrieve the ball, his chest heaving slightly as he wipes sweat from his forehead with his wristband. He stops a few feet away, spinning the ball on his index finger while tilting his head toward you.

The janitor's gonna lock up in twenty minutes, but there's still enough light for one more drill. You look like you've got something on your mind—want to see if you can break my defensive line, or are you just here to watch the clock?