I have been trying to find a good way to grow Kevin's character as a guy who actually lives in the normal world now. His hiding in the shadows act as a spy made it hard to get to know him. I drew a funny harvest hoop out of a basketball goal and wondered how a successful football coach might lead a basketball team. Of course, add Kevin and you have some unusual scenes afoot. Here’s a sketched first scene with Kevin and Liam, in that cozy-thriller tone i'm building. It’s got some humor, a little grit, and a good set-up for their reluctant alliance:
Scene: The Gym
The Maplewood High gymnasium smelled of waxed floors and old sneakers. The basketballs echoed in sharp, uneven rhythms, like a dozen different drummers trying out for the same band. Kids darted around the court in half-organized chaos—some practicing layups, others tossing wild three-pointers that clanged off the rim with stubborn determination.
From the bleachers, Kevin Fairchild leaned on the rail, arms crossed. The spy in him couldn’t help but analyze the angles: one boy’s left foot kept slipping when he pivoted; another kid dropped his shoulder too soon before driving the lane. Patterns, flaws, openings. It was second nature.
At center court, Coach Liam “Bulldog” Walsh barked instructions, his voice carrying over the din. “Defense! Defense is what wins games, not your hotshot circus shots!” But the Bulldog’s famous growl didn’t translate well here. Football boys listened to intimidation; these kids just giggled and went back to shooting.
Kevin smirked. He descended the bleachers and strolled onto the court, dodging a stray ball that nearly clipped him. He scooped it up one-handed, dribbled twice with surprising smoothness, then set it spinning back to the shooter with a clean bounce pass.
“You look like a man trying to herd squirrels,” Kevin said, stopping beside Liam.
Liam shot him a glare, sweat darkening his collar. “It’s called coaching.”
“Ah,” Kevin said mildly. “Because when I see chaos on this scale, we usually called it… compromised intelligence.” He let the words hang, just enough spy flavor to make Liam roll his eyes.
“What do you want, Fairchild?” Liam snapped.
Kevin studied the court, lips twitching in a half-smile. “What I want is a cup of coffee and a quiet life. But what I’m offering is help. You’ve got good kids, but no system. You need plays. Angles. Strategy. And that’s… well, sort of my thing.”
“You?” Liam barked a laugh. “What do you know about basketball?”
“Not much,” Kevin admitted. “But I know people. I know patterns. And I know how to win when the odds are a mess. Which is… what I see here.” He gestured at a kid attempting—and failing—a half-court shot for the third time.
Liam blew his whistle, frustration etched into his jawline. “The day I take advice from a newspaper man is the day—”
“—your team might start winning?” Kevin interrupted smoothly. His grin was sharp, but there was sincerity under it. “Come on, Bulldog. You’re trying to train them like linemen. But this? This is chess. I’m good at chess.”
Liam’s scowl lingered, but Kevin caught the flicker of doubt. The coach knew he was out of his element, whether he admitted it or not.
Finally, Liam muttered, “One practice. That’s all. You show me what you’ve got. If it works, maybe we’ll talk. If not—”
“Then you can throw me out with the squirrels,” Kevin finished, grinning.
***
Here’s how the practice montage could roll out, keeping Kevin’s spy instincts at the heart of the humor and growth, and Liam slowly thawing into respect:
Practice Montage
The whistle shrieked again. Kids shuffled into a ragged line while Liam barked, “Free-throw drills, let’s go!”
Kevin leaned against the scorer’s table, watching. The first boy dribbled twice, then launched the ball in a stiff arc that smacked off the backboard and ricocheted wide. Groans followed.
Kevin stepped forward. “Alright, time out.”
Liam raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you get a whistle?”
“I don’t need one,” Kevin replied. He motioned for the boy to shoot again, eyes narrowing like he was observing a suspect. After the second miss, Kevin nodded. “Tell me—when you’re under pressure, do you chew the inside of your cheek?”
The boy blinked. “Uh… yeah?”
“Stop it. It makes your release hitch. Keep your face calm. Breathe. Try again.”
The boy adjusted, exhaled, and swished it clean. The kids whooped. Liam’s jaw tightened, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Next drill: defense. Liam lined two players chest-to-chest. Kevin intervened again. “Don’t just watch his chest. Look at his eyes. A man always telegraphs where he’s going before his body follows.”
The defender frowned, skeptical, but when the ball handler faked left, his eyes darted right. The defender read it, slid over, and stripped the ball clean.
Kevin spread his hands. “See? Intelligence gathering. You don’t just react—you anticipate.”
Even Liam had to admit, that was solid. He crossed his arms, muttering, “Beginner’s luck.”
Later, Kevin crouched by a nervous freshman who couldn’t stop double-dribbling. “You ever play cards?” Kevin asked.
“Sometimes with my grandma.”
“Perfect. Think of dribbling like a poker tell. You’re giving yourself away before you make your move. Relax the grip. Keep your intentions close.”
The boy dribbled clean for the first time all night.
Liam blew the whistle, calling a scrimmage. Kevin stood back this time, watching the kids apply his advice: faces calm at the line, defenders reading eyes instead of bodies, passes sharp and unexpected. They weren’t polished, but they looked like a team in the making.
As the final shot swished through the net, Liam clapped his hands once. Loud. Firm. “Alright, that’s enough. Hit the showers.”
The kids shuffled off, buzzing about the plays. Liam turned to Kevin, eyes narrowed. “You’re cocky, Fairchild.”
Kevin shrugged. “Old habit.”
“But… you’ve got an eye,” Liam admitted, low and grudging. “You read the court like I read the gridiron.”
Kevin’s grin flashed, but softer this time. “Then maybe between us, these kids might stand a chance.”
Liam blew out a breath, shaking his head. “One practice. That’s all I said. But… we’ll see.”
Kevin leaned back, satisfied. “That’s all I need.”
***
Let’s weave Aimee and Tori Rae right into this basketball chaos, letting the Gazette thread bump into the gym storyline. Here’s a sketched-out continuation:
Scene: The Gazette Meets the Gym
The next afternoon, the squeak of sneakers echoed again through the Maplewood High gym. Kevin was leaning against the bleachers, observing drills with his hands shoved in his pockets, while Liam barked instructions across the court.
The double doors creaked open. In tumbled Aimee Little, clutching a steno pad that looked much too crisp and untouched. She wore a scarf knotted like she was ready for an art show, not a ball game. Her pen hovered uncertainly as she squinted at the players.
“Uh… excuse me?” she called toward Liam. “Do you… um, say things worth quoting? Or is it more, like, grunting and whistles?”
Liam stopped mid-shout, turned, and glared. Kevin, meanwhile, smothered a grin. “She’s with me,” he called back.
“I’m not with you,” Aimee shot back. “I’m with the Gazette. Which technically means I’m with you, but professionally. I think. Anyway, I’m here to write a sports column. My first one.” She glanced around nervously. “Do I… stand here, or…?”
Liam groaned. “If one of these kids trips because you’re blocking the baseline, I’m sending you home.”
Before Aimee could reply, another voice chimed in from the doorway. “This where all the noise is coming from?”
Tori Rae Davis poked her head in, balancing a paper bag of snacks. She wore her trademark warm grin, the kind that disarmed even Liam for a second. “I was on my way past, figured you all could use something besides vending machine crackers.” She waved the bag. “Banana bread. Fresh.”
Immediately, a few players perked up. “Banana bread?!”
“Focus!” Liam barked. But the edge was gone from his tone.
Tori wandered in, handing off slices, and before she knew it, she’d been coaxed into sitting courtside. Kevin leaned down and whispered, “Congratulations. You’ve just been drafted as morale officer.”
“Morale officer?” she laughed. “What does that pay?”
“Gratitude. And possibly more banana bread.”
By the time practice ended, the roles had shifted almost naturally:
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Liam, still bulldogging the drills.
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Kevin, quietly pointing out strategies.
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Aimee, furiously scribbling notes, her cheeks pink with embarrassment every time she mistook a layup for a rebound.
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And Tori Rae, clapping encouragement so warmly that even the shyest kid smiled when she shouted, “Yes! That’s it!”
Liam rubbed his temples as the kids filtered out. “I don’t need a press box, a snack table, or a cheerleader in my gym,” he muttered.
Kevin leaned in, voice low. “No, but you’ve got them now. Might as well use them.”
Aimee glanced up from her notes. “Actually, Coach Walsh, this is going to make a fantastic human interest piece. ‘Maplewood Kids Find Hope in Unlikely Team of Mentors.’” She looked at Liam brightly. “Don’t you love it?”
Liam groaned. “God help me.”
Kevin smirked. “He already did, Bulldog. He sent you us.”
✨ This sets up the dynamic beautifully:
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Aimee stumbles in, awkward but earnest, turning her inexperience into humor and warmth.
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Tori Rae steps into her “helper” role effortlessly, the kids instantly gravitating to her.
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Liam finds himself saddled with not just a team, but a community effort—which drives him nuts but also deepens the heart of the story.
