Bracket

The bracket appeared on my screen at exactly 4:17 PM.

I'd been watching the countdown for twenty minutes, pretending to review film while David hovered in the doorway like a nervous parent at a recital. The selection committee had been deliberating all day. Everyone knew we were in, our record guaranteed that much, but the seeding mattered. The matchup mattered.

Everything mattered now.

"Coach?" David's voice cracked slightly. "It's up."

I clicked.

There we were. The Falcons. Fourth seed, which was better than anyone expected. We'd been rebuilding for three years. Making the playoffs at all was supposed to be the victory.

I scanned the bracket. First round opponent: manageable. Second round: tougher, but we'd beaten them twice this season.

And then I saw it.

Top of the bracket. First seed. The Titans.

His team.

Nikos Stavros.

The name hit me like a check to the boards. Ten years, and the reaction was still the same, that sharp twist behind my ribs, that tightness in my throat.

"Holy shit." David appeared at my shoulder, staring at the screen. "If we make the finals..."

"We have to win two rounds first."

"Yeah, but Coach, the Titans. That's..."

"I know what it is."

The rivalry of the decade, the media called it. What they didn't know was why. What they didn't know was that Nikos Stavros and I had history that went far beyond basketball.

History I'd spent ten years trying to forget.

I stayed in my office until the building emptied.

The team had celebrated the bracket announcement with appropriate enthusiasm, we were underdogs, after all, and making the playoffs felt like a championship in itself. They were young enough to see possibility instead of danger.

I wasn't.

The knock on my door was soft. David, still lingering.

"You should go home," I said without looking up. "Early practice tomorrow."

"So should you." He stepped inside anyway, closing the door behind him. "Grant. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You've been staring at that bracket for two hours."

"I'm analyzing our path."

"You're staring at the Titans logo like it personally wronged you."

I finally looked at him. David Chen had been my assistant coach for three years, the only person on staff who knew the full story. Or most of it, anyway. Some things I'd never told anyone.

"If we make the finals," I said carefully, "I'll be standing across from Nikos Stavros for a five-game series. That's a lot of press conferences. A lot of forced proximity."

"You haven't spoken to him in ten years."

"Exactly."

"Maybe that's the problem."

I turned back to my computer, closing the bracket window. "Go home, David."

"Grant..."

"That's an order."

He hesitated, then nodded. "Early practice. I'll have film ready."

The door clicked shut behind him.

The apartment was dark when I got home.

I didn't bother with the lights. Just dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my shoes, and stood at the window watching the city below.

Nikos Stavros.

The name I'd spent a decade avoiding. The face I'd trained myself not to search for in every crowd. The voice I still heard sometimes in the space between sleeping and waking.

We'd been rivals first. Point guards on competing college teams, matched up in every game that mattered. The media loved the narrative, two rising stars, destined to clash. They built the rivalry into something epic.

What they never saw was what happened off the court.

The trash talk that turned to teasing. The competitive fire that became something else entirely. The night after we won the championship, his team and mine playing for the title, when everything changed.

I closed my eyes, and the memory was there. Sharp as glass.

His hotel room. Both of us running on adrenaline and something stronger. The way he'd looked at me when I pushed him against the wall. The way he'd kissed me back like he'd been waiting for it.

And then the morning.

"This was a mistake."

Four words. That's all it took to destroy everything.

I'd transferred schools a week later. Changed my number. Buried myself in basketball until there was no room left for anything else.

Ten years. Two different leagues. Careful avoidance whenever our paths might have crossed.

And now the bracket was forcing us together.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number, a 310 area code I didn't recognize.

I almost didn't answer. Then some masochistic instinct made me swipe accept.

"Grant." His voice. After ten years, still instantly recognizable. "Elena gave me your number. Don't be angry with her. I know you saw the bracket."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.

"We should talk," Nikos said. "Before the press conference tomorrow."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"There's everything to talk about."

Neither of us spoke. I could hear him breathing on the other end of the line, could picture him in some sleek office with championship banners on the walls.

"I have nothing to say to you," I managed.

"Then just listen." A pause. "I know how this is going to go. The media, the rivalry narrative, they're going to dig into our history. Someone's going to find something."

"Let them."

"Grant..."

"Goodnight, Nikos."

I hung up before he could say anything else. Threw the phone on the couch like it had burned me.

My fingers wouldn't stay still.

Ten years, and he could still do this to me. One phone call, two minutes of his voice, and every defense I'd constructed cracked at the foundation.

I went to the window again. Stared at the lights of the city until my breathing steadied.

The finals weren't guaranteed. We had to win two rounds first. Maybe we'd lose in the semis. Maybe I'd never have to face him at all.

But I knew better. I'd known since I saw the bracket.

This was always going to happen.

The question was whether I could survive it.

The next morning, I arrived at the arena three hours before practice.

The court was empty. Silent. Just the squeak of my shoes on the hardwood as I walked to center court and stood there, looking up at the empty seats.

I'd built something here. A team that wasn't supposed to compete, a program that everyone had written off. Three years of grinding, of losses that taught us more than wins ever could.

We'd earned our place in this bracket.

I wouldn't let an old wound take that away.

My phone buzzed again. This time, I checked the number before answering.

Elena Stavros. She'd tracked me down through coaching networks two years ago, sent a careful email. We'd exchanged numbers. I'd never expected her to use hers.

"Grant." Her voice was warm but careful. "He told me he called you."

"He shouldn't have."

"I know. I told him the same thing." A sigh. "But he's not going to stop trying. You know how he is."

"I know exactly how he is."

"Then you know that ignoring him just makes him more determined." She paused. "He's different now, Grant. Ten years is a long time."

"Not long enough."

"Maybe." Another pause. "But you're both going to be in the same city for the next few weeks, minimum. Maybe longer if your teams keep winning. You can either deal with this now, or let it fester until it explodes in front of the cameras."

I didn't answer.

"Think about it," Elena said. "And Grant? For what it's worth, he never stopped regretting what he said that night."

She hung up.

I stood alone on the court, her words echoing in the empty arena.

He never stopped carrying it.

It should have made me feel better. Instead, it just made the old wound ache harder.

Regret didn't erase what he'd done. Didn't erase the years of silence, the pain I'd worked so hard to bury.

But it complicated things. Made the anger harder to hold onto.

I checked my watch. Two hours until practice. Time to review film, prepare game plans, focus on the things I could control.

The things I couldn't, Nikos, the past, the feelings I'd never fully killed, those would have to wait.

We had a championship to chase.

The press conference was scheduled for noon.

Both head coaches, seated at the same table, answering questions about the upcoming series. The league wanted to build the narrative, and the media was hungry for it.

I dressed carefully. Navy suit, conservative tie. Armor for a battle I hadn't asked to fight.

David met me at the door.

"You ready for this?"

"No."

"That's the spirit." He fell into step beside me. "Remember: keep it professional. Whatever he says, don't react. The cameras are going to be looking for any crack in your composure."

"I've done press conferences before."

"Not with him."

He was right. The last time Nikos and I had been in the same room, we'd both been twenty-two years old and I'd been walking away from everything I thought I wanted.

The hallway to the press room felt endless. I could hear the murmur of reporters, the click of cameras being readied.

And then I saw him.

Standing just inside the door, talking to a league official. Taller than I remembered. Broader in the shoulders, more polished in the way he carried himself. The wavy dark hair was the same, the olive skin, the way he gestured when he spoke.

He looked up.

Our gazes collided.

Ten years dissolved.

"Grant." He stepped toward me. "Good to see you."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't move.

Somewhere behind me, David made a sound of warning. Around us, reporters started to notice the tension.

Nikos extended his hand.

I took it. Professional. Controlled.

His grip was warm. Familiar. Something jolted through me at the contact, and I refused to acknowledge it.

"Let the best coach win," I said.

His smile was thin. Careful. "Let the best man win."

And then the doors opened, and we were walking into the lights together.

The show was about to begin.