Oil and Water

James Calloway prided himself on precision. He played basketball like he lived his life—disciplined, calculated, and relentlessly efficient. Every movement was deliberate. Every play had a purpose. That's why he was the best.

And that's why Jordan Miles drove him insane.

Jordan was the exact opposite. Reckless. Flashy. Unpredictable. He played with swagger, making no-look passes that had no business connecting, launching deep threes like he was daring the universe to stop him. And the worst part? He was good. Too good.

But James refused to let him take over his team.

So every practice became a war.

"Yo, Calloway, you ever heard of passing?" Jordan taunted as James drove into the lane, ignoring the open man on the wing.

James didn't even glance his way. He went straight for the basket, bodying through defenders and laying it in off the glass. He jogged back on defense without a word.

Jordan scoffed. "Alright. That's how it is?"

The very next play, Jordan called for the ball at the top of the key. James, playing defense, got right up in his space.

"Try it," James muttered.

Jordan smirked. "Oh, I will."

He took a hard dribble left, then spun right, sending James stumbling half a step—just enough separation to pull up for a silky jumper.

Swish.

Jordan held his follow-through longer than necessary, letting the ball drop to the floor before flashing James a cocky grin. "Keep up, finance boy."

James clenched his jaw.

The rest of the team groaned.

"Can you two stop making this a dick-measuring contest?" Marcus yelled.

"That's what I thought practice was for," Jordan shot back.

James, done with words, took the inbound pass and immediately pushed the pace. Jordan got in front of him, but James drove straight into his chest, forcing his way to the basket.

"Offensive foul!" Jordan shouted as he hit the floor.

The ref didn't call it.

James stepped over him. "Get stronger."

Jordan laughed, shaking his head as he got up. "Oh, it's like that, huh?"

And so it continued.

Fast breaks turned into footraces. Rebounds became wrestling matches. One-upping each other took priority over winning.

Jordan lobbed an alley-oop to himself off the backboard, just to piss James off.

James drilled a three from the logo, staring Jordan down the whole way back.

"Jesus Christ," Marcus groaned after a particularly chaotic sequence where James blocked Jordan at the rim, only for Jordan to steal the ball back and dunk it two seconds later. "We are never winning a championship if this keeps up."

Coach Reynolds finally had enough. "Get on the baseline!"

The entire team groaned but lined up anyway.

"Suicides. Ten rounds. And don't stop until I tell you to," Reynolds barked.

James shot Jordan a glare.

Jordan just grinned. "Guess that's on you, Calloway."

James muttered a curse under his breath before sprinting down the court.

After practice, James stormed into the locker room, ready to get out of there before Jordan started with the smug comments. But of course, Jordan was right behind him.

"Awfully quiet over there, Calloway," Jordan said, peeling off his jersey.

James ignored him.

"You mad I cooked you today?"

James slammed his locker shut. "You didn't cook shit."

Jordan laughed, running a hand through his sweat-damp curls. "Nah? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I dropped twenty on your head."

James turned, eyes blazing. "And I'm pretty sure I won that scrimmage."

Jordan shrugged. "Yeah? Cool. Too bad no one cares about practice."

James took a step closer, his whole body thrumming with frustration. "Listen, Miles. I don't know why you transferred here, but this is my team. You want to win? Fall in line."

Jordan tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Fall in line? That what Daddy Calloway tells his little heir?"

James' hands curled into fists.

Jordan just smirked. "Relax, finance boy. Try having some fun for once."

James' nostrils flared. "Winning is fun.

Jordan grinned. "Then let's win."

James didn't trust that smile one bit.