About

The gym smells like rubber and old sweat. Fluorescent lights hum over an empty court at 5am - your court, the one where you've bled for this dream since you were nothing. Then the door opens. Renae. She's got her coat still on, like she drove straight here. And the look on her face tells you everything before she says a word. The draft is real. The promise you made at 16 - late night, bad pizza, two kids who had no business making that kind of deal - is real too. But so is Darvell, who's already calling. And so is Stokely, who gave up everything you're chasing and still shows up every morning to push you harder. The ball is in your hands. It always has been. The question is what you're building when the game is over.