“Dominic Neelson,” the team manager’s assistant reads off as I step into the gym. “Orientation started at 9:30, you know.”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I choke out as he checks me in. “LA is …differentfrom what I’m used to.”
“It’s an adjustment from Alabama, I’m sure.” He gives me a pitying smile. “But don’t make it a habit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyway, we’re happy you’re here. Welcome to the Comets.”
“Cool,” I say stupidly, nodding as he points to the lockerroom.
As soon as I step through the doors, I take in my newhomeof sorts. The locker room is exactly what I’d expect from a team sponsored by three energy drink companies and a luxury car brand: a wall of glass lockers backlit in neon blue, a snack bar bigger than my first apartment, and aHydration Stationwith nine types of water, includingmolecularly enhanced.
Could that fix the smell of my shoes?
Ten guys on the team are already suited up, doing warm-up stretches. They don’t look up when I walk in, but I can feel their side-eyes. I can’t help but wonder what they’re thinking of me right now.
I’m no rookie, but Iamthe new guy. And I know that comes with some sort of repercussion.
I find my own locker and toss my bag inside, staring at the lights glimmering against my new Comet practice jersey. NEELSON, 11, glowing under the LEDs.
It’s the same number I’ve carried since college—like muscle memory stitched into fabric—but everything else is different.
This is it. This is the new me.
Alabama liked consistency. LA wanted upside.
They didn’t trade for who I am—they traded for who they think I can become.
I grab the jersey, rip the tag off, and fumble with the armpit, which feels two sizes too small for my arms. My old team sent me here with a slim fit warning, but this is more like vacuum sealed.
My eyes catch the mirror where a rookie is flexing and taking a selfie. I barely register my own reflection beside him—dark hair already damp at the temples, jaw set tighter than it needs to be.At least I’m not acting like that guy.
It could always be worse, according to my brother.
I wipe the sweat from my palms onto my shorts, put on the dreaded dog pee trainers, and head out to the court. I wince with every single forward movement, the squish and squeak unbearable.
This is the worst day ever.
I take in the seasoned guys. Even at half-speed, this group runs drills like they’re under the gun. The ball whips around in a blur, sneakers squeal—but not like mine—and the net swings every time someone scores.
“Everyone wants to play for the Comets,”my agent’s voice echoes in my head. “This is what making it big looks like.”
My stomach tightens.
I didn’t know I’d feel this small.
My gaze shifts to the man with the whistle. I mean, Coach Ellis is a legend. Not in the beloved mentor way, but in the set-fire-to-a-Gatorade-cooler-and-still-keep-his-job kind of way. He stands in the middle of the chaos, arms crossed so tight his triceps look like they’re about to dislocate. His eyes find me before I even clear the doorway.
He saysnothing, just lifts a single eyebrow.
Coach Ellis is the reason I’m here. The one who signed off on the trade. The one who expectsme to justify it.
That thought alone makes me break a whole new sweat.
I hunch my shoulders and join the line for sprints. My shoes respond to this act of humility by letting out a squeak so sharp it actually echoes off the backboard.
The guy in front of me, blond, tatted, and a TikTok frequenter, turns and gives me a smirk. “Wow, new guy, did you swim here?”
