Finally, the three groups took a seat, and groups four through six were finally called. With a quick wave to his dad, who gave him two thumbs up, Derek joined the other kids gathered around Coach Nelson.

As they got ready for their first set of sprints, Derek snuck a quick glance across at Sam—but Sam was busy concentrating and didn’t notice. If he was feeling the heat from Derek’s being there, he sure wasn’t showing it.

Derek knew that Sam was the only kid he’d ever played ball with who was faster than he was. And sure enough, while Derek ran plenty fast enough to impress Coach Nelson, Sam edged him out every single time.

“Okay, boys, good job,” said Coach Nelson when they were bent double and breathing hard and deep. “Head on over there to Coach O’Neill.”

Derek had been practicing layups all week long. Just sink the first one, he told himself as he waited in line for his turn. Don’t try anything fancy. Not yet.

He took off toward the basket, took the pass in stride, and laid it in as if he could have done it in his sleep.

“Attaboy!” said Coach O’Neal. “Next!”

Derek nailed his first three, then used his next three tries to show something extra. He drove left-handed and laid it in. Then he did a reverse layup from the right side. And on his final drive, he did a quick spin before laying it in with his left hand!

Derek was proud of himself. On this element at least, he’d posted a high bar for his competition to beat. And though Sam had nailed all his righty layups, he’d struggled from the left side, missing both times.

It wasn’t that Derek was happy about it—Sam was his friend, after all, and Derek really did like him. But this was a competition. And he knew there might not be room on the team for both of them.

“Okay, men,” said Coach O’Neill. “Go and check in with Coach Bernstein.”

Derek had always been a pretty good shooter. But after Sam swished three incredible shots, Derek’s confidence began to falter.

Between all that excess energy and the pressure Sam was putting on him, Derek found himself clunking shots he usually made. His aim was as true as ever, but every shot had either too much or too little behind it.

By contrast, Sam’s shooting stroke showed no sign of wavering. He sank all seven shots he took, whispering “Yessss!” after each one and pumping his fist. Derek’s shoulders slumped as he realized Sam was totally in his own happy zone. Not only was he not worried about Derek or anyone else as competition—he didn’t even know anyone else existed!