The arena makes a sound—small but real—while our wing scoops it and pushes transition. I don’t celebrate. I don’t even look at the bench. I just run.
Next possession, they come at me again, because that’s what teams do in Summer League. They smell uncertainty and they poke at it until it bleeds. Their big seals me under the rim and calls for the ball. I fight for position without fouling—hips low, forearm firm, feet anchored. He catches and tries to turn baseline.
I don’t bite on the first fake. He pump-fakes again, desperate, but I still don’t bite. He finally goes up with it, and I go up with him—not wild, not swinging, just vertical. Straight up and clean. The ball hits my fingertips and changes course. It misses, and I come down, the rebound finding my hands like it belongs there.
I yank it down hard, elbows out, and the moment I land, I feel the weight of bodies around me. Hands reaching, guys clawing for the ball like it’s oxygen and they’re drowning. Determined,I keep it, outlet to Marco, and I hold my breath before I loudly exhale when we score.
Coach doesn’t clap. He doesn’t nod. But when I glance toward the sideline between plays—just for a fraction of a second—I catch his assistant leaning forward, eyes sharp with interest. That’s something.
The game settles into a rhythm after that. I set screens. I box out. I talk on defense, loud enough that my voice carries even when my lungs burn.
“You’re left! Left!”
“Switch it—switch it!”
“I got rim!”
I don’t try anything fancy. I don’t need to. It’s not that kind of audition, but the court still offers moments like gifts if you’re ready to catch them.
Mid–second quarter, we run a simple high-low action. Our guard drives, draws two, kicks to the corner. The corner shot goes up?—
Clang.
It’s a long rebound. I crash in from the weak side, outmuscling their big by half a step. The ball drops right into my hands. I go back up before anyone can wrap me. An elbow smacks into me. The whistle shrieks, the ref points, and the arena pops a little louder this time.
As I step to the line, sweat drips off my chin and the lights feel hotter than they did five minutes ago. I bounce the ball once, twice. My hands are steady. The free throw drops through the net clean.
I don’t smile, but something inside me loosens. Because this—this is what I needed. Not praise or even reassurance, but proof.
We go into halftime up by six. I jog to the bench and grab my towel, breathing hard. Coach doesn’t speak to me right away.He talks to the starters, to the guards, to the guys who’ve been getting regular minutes.
Then his gaze snaps to me again. “Keep doing that,” he says.
I nod. “Yes, Coach.”
The third quarter gets uglier. The other team starts throwing bodies. They bump on every cut. They hit on every screen. The refs let it go because it’s Summer League and everyone’s trying to “set a tone.”
Their big tries to get under my skin. He keeps talking. “College boy,” he mutters after a box-out. “You gonna cry when they cut you?”
I don’t react. I’ve heard worse from boosters with perfect teeth.
Next possession, he hooks my arm on the rebound. The ref doesn’t see it, and I almost lose the ball. Almost. But my grip is stronger than his bullshit. I rip it down anyway and feel his frustration flare in the shove he gives me as we separate. My jaw tightens, but I refuse to react. I’m not giving him anything.
During the late fourth, we’re up by three. The game is tight now—real enough that it matters. Coach calls a time-out. The huddle closes in, sweat and breath and tension. He draws a play. It’s not for me. It’s for our guard. But then he looks at me. “If you get it on the miss,” he says, voice flat, “go up strong. Don’t bring it down.”
I nod again.
The play runs. The shot goes up. It misses, and the rebound is a war.
Bodies collide in the paint. Someone’s forearm clips my ribs. Another guy steps on my foot. The ball pops loose for a second. Then it’s in my hands. I don’t bring it down. I go up. Two hands. Straight through contact. The ball kisses the glass and drops.
We’re up five when their coach calls a time-out.
As I jog back, I finally let myself glance toward the stands. I’m not looking for cameras. Somewhere up there, there are faces that remember me before the Monarchs jersey.
What I don’t see ishim. Rafe’s doing something for the band tonight—something that matters, something he couldn’t skip, and we’d both pretended that didn’t sting. We’d texted before tip-off. He’d told me to eat, to breathe, to “hurt them politely.”
But I do see two guys near the tunnel—standing, leaning forward, yelling my name. For a second, my chest aches in a different way. Because college doesn’t feel that long ago, and it’s strange how quickly your life becomes something people watch from a distance.
