How To Play And Win
by Grace (purplemud)
Summary: The way to deal with this Lucas thing is through the only way I understand: basketball.
Rating: 4 for language
Pairing: Naley and teensy bit of Brucas/Peyton
Disclaimers: Standard disclaimers apply. Me don't own.
Author's Note: Okay, I admit, I suck at completing stories. While I'm trying to get my groove back on for 23, I came up with this. Cause, I need more fics for my Collection of Unfinished OTH Fics. ::grimace:: Sorry. Hope you guys would like this fic. It's on a lighter side and without the angst of 23.

How To Play And Win:
A Strategic Plan on Bringing Down Shit-Faced Bed Stain Bastard Son Lucas Scott
by Nathan Scott

Chapter One: Basketball Is The Name of The Game

Seven AM. Tree Hill High Gym. Ball handling warm up.

The smell of aftershave, soap, rubber, stinky gym socks and sweat is strong. Familiar. It's been like this everyday for the past three years my life, ever since I joined the varsity team. But today is nothing like the rest of those days and nothing will ever be the same after today. Everything is about to go haywire with my life. I can feel it. And it has everything to do with my bastard brother, Lucas Scott.

The sound of squeaking shoes is extra louder and it makes me wince. I should not have drunk the vodka Tim had brought over at the house last night. Not only did he manage to kick my ass at NBA Live - only Tim would stoop so low just to win at NBA live - my head now feels likes it's swimming in mud.

I take a deep breath and try to shake off the stiffness from my muscles. I just gotta get through this day. After this, I can just ditch Algebra 2. I'm pretty sure my teacher would let me sleep through class. He's a big basketball fan and he knows that coach practically massacres us for early morning pre-game drills. He'll understand. He has definitely let me sleep at my desk a couple of times before. I just need to remember his name when he asks for my score from the last game.

I scored 38 points, Mr. Jefferson. I'm still pretty beat.

No, wait. Mr. Jefferson is my Senior English teacher.

Crap. Mr. Horovitz? Horowitz? Hopskin?

I wonder if Tim knows his name. Tim must know his name, he's flunking Algebra 2 big time. There's no reason for him not to remember the teacher who's been giving him nothing but F ever since this term began.

"Nathan, pay attention!" Coach barks at me and I snap my head and eyes back to coach's bald shiny head.

Ugh. Shit. Wrong move. Now I feel nauseous.

"Is there something wrong, Nathan?"

Wrong? Well, let's see. I have a killer hang over. Lucas Scott is part of the team. My father is still a pain in ass. Peyton acts like I have ceased to exist and I could not care less. Also, I think I have a quiz on history, which, by the way, I am going to completely flunk. So I don't know sir, you tell me. Is there something wrong?

I bite my tongue hard and shook my head. "No, sir, nothing wrong at all." I drawl out after a few seconds.

Coach Whitey looks at me and rolls his eyes up. It's the: 'Why Did I Ever Let The Spawn of Dan Scott Play for the Ravens Roll Of The Eye' and I'm just about to do the same thing - which I knows irritates the hell out of him - when I remember that I have sworn not to do anything stupid today. At least nothing that coach would think of as stupid.

Which is pretty much everything that I would do, on any given, normal day.

Damn.

Coach is yelling at us and normally, around this time I'll be answering back, smarting off - not 'cause I'm trying to be a pain in the ass, but because I can. It's common knowledge around here that while the other guys can barely even breathe whenever the coach is on his endless rant modes where he calls us all 'Ladies', I can get away with pretty much anything. Coach can't bench me this season. We're still on a winning streak and even he does not want to break that. Coach is still seething over last season's record which also should not be uttered whenever he's within hearing shot and that translates to never. Coach has got fucking bionic ears, so he hears practically everything. Well, whatever. The only reason I talk back, from time to time, is to show the rest of the guys, in case they forget, who really owns this team.

But not today. Today, I am keeping my mouth shut and doing everything exactly as the coach says. In fact, I'm hell bent on being as cooperative as I can. Because amazingly enough, even after everything that I had done for this team, all the sweat and blood and time spent and wasted doing God knows how many stupid, lame assed drills, I am still teetering on the edge of being suspended. I guess stealing the high school bus - Tim's fucking bright idea by the way - had been the last straw.

I am never going to listen to Tim ever again.

And to make matters worst, stain in the bed sheet bastard half brother is also trying to steal my position. Asshead.

Well, I'm not about to fuck it all up. I'd never hear the end of it from my dad if that happened.

And it won't happen. I won't let it.

"Line up boys, y'all going to dance today." Coach Whitey announces cheerily, plastering the kind of sadistic smile that only he could wear at this kind of hour.

Tim snickers loud enough for the sound to float across the gym as though fleetingly, teasingly running after the booming, echoing voice of coach Whitey. I clench my jaws and send Tim a glare before exasperatedly rolling my eyes. I have to stop myself from reaching out and smacking Tim at the back of his head. If Tim gets me into any sort of trouble today, I am so kicking his ass.

Coach Whitey, undeterred, continued to walk in front of us, hands calmly clasped in front of him, a sure sign that we are not going to like the words that will come out of his mouth next.

"The focus of today's warm up is as follows: change of direction and change of speed all while doing crossover and spins." The old man stops in front of me and Tim. He leans over and smiles even wider, "I hope you find that funny Smith." He mutters loud enough for everyone to hear. "And now, Twinkle Toes, let's see you start." Coach tosses a ball towards Tim who catches it with a small 'ooomph' of surprise.

"But Coach, I'm not..." Tim starts and I'm quick to lean a little over to him and order: "Man, just do it!" My voice is hard almost angry and with a pained expression on his face, Tim starts to run across the court, dribbling the ball doing quarter spins.

"Now through the legs, Smith and spin and crossover and spin..." Coach is yelling this in a sing-song voice as though trying to teach Tim how to waltz. I have to snicker. To not snicker is inhumanly impossible. Tim looks pretty fucking funny as he gets the ball between his legs, hitting him in the groin. A couple of the guys are snickering as well.

"Oh, I'm glad you're all enjoying this." Coach barks, sounding pleased with himself. "How 'bout you go next, Nathan."

I must not roll my eyes. I must not. I easily catch the ball and start off from my right, crossing over to the left side of the gym. I'm barely concentrating on this particularly lame assed warm up. I don't know why I still have to do this since I could pretty much do all of Whitey's cute little drills in my sleep, no problem. My dad had me do this when I was in grade school. Besides, I'm too busy trying to piece together the perfect plan to get rid of Pukeassface. If my father had been successful in doing that seventeen years ago, then hell, I could do the same as well.

From the corner of my eyes, I spot Lucas who is staring off into space, eyes squinting.

Motherfucker, what is wrong with his eyes? Must explain why he can't get a ball into the basket. Bastard asshat.

I feel my eyebrow rising as Lucas suddenly turns his head towards me. I wonder slightly panicked if I had actually said the words out loud but no one else is looking at me like I had just started World War Three. I meet Lucas' glare and add a sneer of my own. I can't help it. I mouth the word 'Bastard' while grinning at him.

Lucas does not take the bait. He shakes his head in that totally annoying, 'I'm better than every body else, most especially you, so I'll just ignore you' way of his.

I'm gritting my teeth so hard, my jaws starts to hurt a little.

"Did I tell you to stop and take a little breather, Nathan?" Coach asks me as I stand with hands on my hips, not even slightly out of breath, while beside me Tim is panting like a dog.

"No, sir." I answer as politely as I could through my tightly clenched jaws. I guess it came out the wrong way as coach throws the ball at me. I slam my palm hard against it, the sound echoing all around the gym.

"Again Nathan and this time, try to do it right." Coach says, smiling benevolently at me.

I'm going to have to do more than some lame-assed serious freshmen style hazing on little bastard son to get him off my team and I just have the plan for it. Or at least a beginning of a plan.

I have decided last night that the way to deal with this Lucas thing is through the only way I understand: basketball.

I am going to make Lucas sorry he ever listened to coach Whitey and joined the Ravens.