I’m an LA Monarch now. I’m still a husband. I’m still the same guy who sat on Rafe’s bed with a guitar in his lap and let himself be a little freer than he’d ever been at home.
Everything’s about to change. Schedules. Pressure. Money. Media. Expectations.
But the two things that have kept me going—basketball and the man on the other side of that camera lens—are still here.
I rest my hands flat on my knees, cap brim low, lights hot on the back of my neck, and breathe.
I can’t fucking wait.
2
The arena isn’t full—notlike it will be when the real season starts—but it’s loud in that specific Summer League way. A little chaotic. A little hungry. People here aren’t paying to be impressed; they’re paying tolookfor something.
A breakout.
A headline.
A reason to sayI saw him before anyone else did.
For the last week, I’ve sat behind the same thin line of sideline tape with a towel on my shoulders, a clipboard in my lap, and my name on the back of a warm-up top that feels like a costume I’m still learning how to wear.
Rookie.
Maybe.
Bubble.
Probably.
Coach hasn’t said it out loud, but the message has been clear: I’m not owed anything.
I’ve been a lot of things on a basketball court—captain, anchor, the guy they ran sets through when everything got messy—but right now, I’m just another body in a jersey, fighting for the right to be a body in that jersey again come October.
The scoreboard glows over the court. I bounce once on the balls of my feet near the bench and force my breathing down into something steady. The Monarchs logo on the hardwood looks too clean, too official, like it doesn’t belong to me yet.
Across the court, the other team’s big is already talking. He’s the kind of guy who plays like he’s trying to win an argument, with lots of elbows and lots of “my bad” that never sounds sorry.
I’m not on him. Not yet.
Coach paces in front of us like a man who’s allergic to sitting still. He’s got that hard, sunbaked expression old-school coaches perfect—like smiling costs money. He looks down the line of our bench, eyes cutting from player to player like he’s measuring who can handle being watched.
When his gaze lands on me, it doesn’t soften. It doesn’t harden either. It just… holds. Then he turns away.
The game starts fast. Summer games always do. Everyone wants to be the highlight clip.
We trade buckets early. Our starting center picks up a foul in the first two minutes—stupid reach in the paint. Coach’s jaw tightens. He says something sharp without even looking away from the floor. The second foul comes quick, too, because the other team knows he’s eager and starts baiting him into contact.
I watch the ref’s fist rise. Hear the whistle slice the air. Two fouls, yet it’s still first quarter. My stomach clenches.
Coach glances down the bench again. His assistant leans in, murmurs something. Coach doesn’t answer right away. He’s watching the court like the hardwood might confess what it wants. Then he barks, “Marshall. Shirt.”
My body moves before my brain finishes processing the words. I’m up. Warm-up top over my head. Jersey exposed. The sound of my shoes squeaking on the floor feels suddenly too loud.
“Keep it simple,” Coach says as I step toward him. He doesn’t lower his voice. There’s no privacy here. “Rim protection. Boards. Don’t try to be a hero.”
I nod like I’m calm, even though I am so far from at ease that it would be laughable if I wasn’t so tense. I’m lit up inside, electric and terrified and grateful all at once. Once I step onto the floor, the air changes. It always does. The world narrows to sneaker squeak and breath and the glossy shine of the paint.
The opposing guard tries to take advantage immediately, driving hard and high, expecting the rookie big to be slow. I slide—one step, two, my hands up. He tries to float it over me. I time it without thinking, and my palm meets the ball with a clean, brutal smack that reverberates through my arm. The ball ricochets off the backboard and drops into the paint like it’s been punched out of the sky.
