Points:
There are 4 more available chapters on Patreon. (SF)
Discord has 1 extra chapter available.
As always, the links are available on my profile.
This is a short story.
<>
The Chicago skyline loomed through the grimy bus window as Markus adjusted his headphones, Kendrick's voice drowning out the chatter of his temporary teammates. Five guys from Detroit's east side, thrown together for a tournament none of them had any business attending. The Midwest Elite Showcase was primarily for D1 college prospects and streetball legends – not high school kids from neighborhoods where basketball was an escape, not a career.
Marcus steered the ancient van they'd borrowed, cigarette dangling from his lips despite Hiroshi's disapproving glance from the passenger seat. The rest of the "team" sprawled across torn bench seats – Dre from Markus' school, brothers Jamal and Jason Wilson from Northern, and Ty, who wasn't in school at all but had a jumper that made even hardened street ballers shake their heads in appreciation.
"This is stupid," Dre muttered beside Markus, just loud enough to be heard over the music. "We about to get embarrassed in front of scouts and shit."
Markus said nothing, his mind already elsewhere. Hiroshi had kept his word – no basketball for the past week. Instead, visualization exercises, breathing techniques, and long conversations about approaching competition with clarity. The forced break had left Markus with a strange, restless energy coiled inside him.
"You even listening?" Dre nudged him. "Yo, what happened to you, man? Used to be cool before you started hanging with Mr. Miyagi up there."
Markus slipped his headphones off. "His name is Hiroshi."
"Whatever. You ain't even played with us in like a year, then suddenly Marcus gets us into this tournament, and you're coming along? Better bring something special if you expect minutes."
There was a challenge in Dre's eyes. Once, they'd been friends. Now, they occupied different worlds.
"I'm not expecting anything," Markus said simply, a response that clearly irritated Dre more than an argument would have.
[|]
The University of Illinois Chicago gymnasium buzzed with activity. Eight courts set up side by side, games running simultaneously, the cacophony of bouncing balls, squeaking sneakers, and shouted plays creating a basketball symphony. The air smelled of sweat and ambition, with a hint of the popcorn being sold at concession stands.
Teams from across the Midwest filled the sidelines – college freshmen and sophomores mostly, with a few high school teams that had paid the premium entry fee for the experience. Scouts from smaller colleges dotted the bleachers, notebooks in hand.
In the locker room, Marcus laid out the situation with bluntness.
"Listen up. Entry fee was two grand. Hiroshi covered it." He nodded toward the Japanese man who stood quietly in the corner. "Tournament pays ten K for first place, five K for second, two-five for semifinalists. Individual awards for All-Tournament and MVP worth up to four K. We're in Group F, need to win at least two of three to advance to knockout rounds."
Ty whistled. "Two grand? Shit, Mr. Tanaka must really believe in somebody." He glanced meaningfully at Markus.
"It's an investment," Hiroshi said, his first words since they'd arrived. "In potential."
Dre snorted. "Yeah, well, investment's probably going down the drain. We're facing Milwaukee Tech's summer squad first. Actual college players."
Jason Wilson, the more vocal of the brothers, groaned. "The fuck we even doing here?"
"Getting experience," Marcus replied sharply. "And maybe, if y'all pull your heads out your asses, making some money." He tossed jerseys at each of them – plain white with blue numbers, no team name. "Dre, you're starting at point. Ty at the two. Wilson brothers, you're our forwards. I'll take center since I'm the biggest."
Markus caught the jersey thrown his way – number 23, of course – and said nothing about being left out of the starting lineup. He'd expected it. Deserved it, even, after disappearing from the scene for so long.
"Any questions?" Marcus asked.
"Yeah," Dre said. "If we win anything, how we splitting it?"
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "Equally. After paying Hiroshi back. Now get dressed. We're on Court 4 in twenty."
As the others changed, Hiroshi approached Markus. "You understand what is happening?"
"I'm being benched," Markus replied, no bitterness in his voice. "It's the right call. I haven't played with them in a year."
Hiroshi nodded approvingly. "Your time will come. Be ready for it. Remember everything we've worked on, but don't force it. The game will tell you when it needs you."
Cryptic as always, but Markus understood. Presence. Awareness. Letting the game flow through him rather than imposing himself upon it.
[|]
The first game was a bloodbath.
Milwaukee Tech was bigger, stronger, more cohesive. By halftime, they led by twenty-six. Markus watched from the bench, studying the college players' movements, their defensive rotations, the way they communicated. More importantly, he identified the gaps, the weaknesses, the patterns a disciplined mind could exploit.
"Put me in," he said quietly to Marcus during a timeout late in the third quarter.
Marcus glanced at the scoreboard – down thirty-two – then back at Markus. "Why bother? Game's over."
Markus didn't argue. He simply nodded and returned to his observation post on the bench.
They lost by thirty-seven. The second game, against a community college team from Indiana, was closer but still a clear defeat. Dre struggled against more physical defenders, the Wilson brothers couldn't establish position inside, and Ty's shooting touch abandoned him. Markus remained glued to the bench, not even receiving garbage time minutes.
"Yo, what's the point of bringing him if he ain't gonna play?" Jason Wilson complained loudly in the locker room afterward. "We could've had my cousin Keith instead. At least he can rebound."
"Markus will play when I say he plays," Marcus replied sharply. "Meanwhile, worry about your own game. You grabbed two rebounds in twenty-eight minutes."
The third game would be their last – a mere formality against Loyola Chicago's summer squad, a team that had easily handled the same opponents who had demolished Detroit East.
In the locker room, the mood was somber. Ty had already changed back into street clothes.
"No point, man," he said when Marcus questioned him. "We about to get smacked again, then drive six hours home with nothing but participation trophies."
"So that's it? You quitting?"
"Being realistic. No offense, but we don't belong here."
The Wilson brothers nodded in agreement. Even Dre, despite his earlier bravado, seemed resigned to another humiliation.
Marcus turned to Markus, who sat quietly lacing up his shoes. "You got anything to say about this?"
All eyes turned to him. Markus finished tying his laces before looking up.
"If Ty doesn't want to play, I'll take his minutes."
The simple, confident statement hung in the air. Not arrogant, not desperate. Just matter-of-fact.
Ty snorted. "You sat your ass on the bench for two games, but now you want my spot?"
Markus shrugged. "Just saying I'm ready if you're not."
Something in his calmness must have unsettled Ty, because he reached for his jersey. "Fuck that. I'm playing."
Marcus stared at Markus a moment longer, then nodded slightly. "Let's go. Same starters."
As the team filed out, Hiroshi placed a hand on Markus's shoulder. "Patience," was all he said.
Loyola's summer squad moved like a well-oiled machine. Quick guards, smooth ball movement, disciplined defense. By the first timeout, they led 15-4.
On the sideline, Dre slammed his water bottle down. "They're running the same fucking play every time down and we still can't stop it."
"Calm down," Marcus growled. "We just need to—"
"To what?" Jamal interrupted. "Lose by less? This is embarrassing."
While they argued, Markus watched the Loyola players. Their point guard – Martinez, according to the roster – directed everything, calling out signals, orchestrating the offense with subtle hand gestures. Stop him, disrupt his rhythm, and the whole system would falter.
The game resumed. Three minutes into the second quarter, with Detroit East down twenty-two, disaster struck. Dre drove hard to the basket, collided with Loyola's center, and came down awkwardly. His scream cut through the gymnasium's din as he clutched his ankle.
Marcus and a tournament medical staff member helped him to the sideline. The ankle already swelling visibly.
"Ice it," the medic instructed. "Definitely done for today."
Marcus surveyed his depleted team, then looked at Markus. "Well? You said you were ready."
Markus stood, removing his warm-up shirt. The gymnasium lights suddenly seemed brighter, the court lines sharper, the sounds around him more distinct. The sensation was familiar from his training with Hiroshi – heightened awareness, presence in the moment.
"Let me run point," he said quietly to Marcus.
"You haven't played with these guys in a year."
"Doesn't matter. Tell them to space the floor and cut when I draw doubles."
Something in Markus's certainty must have convinced him, because Marcus nodded. "Don't make me regret this."
The first possession was simple. Markus brought the ball upcourt, surveying Loyola's defense. Martinez pressured him, clearly seeing a high school kid he could bully. Markus let him get close, then executed a subtle hesitation dribble – almost imperceptible – before a lightning-quick crossover that left Martinez stumbling slightly.
The move created just enough space. Markus pulled up from twenty-two feet, release smooth as silk. The ball rotated perfectly, a tight spiral that snapped through the net.
Three points. The bench straightened slightly.
On defense, Markus positioned himself directly in front of Martinez, hands active but not reaching, feet sliding rather than jumping. The Loyola guard tried to run their standard play, but Markus anticipated every cut, every screen, disrupting the timing just enough to force a contested shot that clanked off the rim.
Back on offense, Markus again. This time a drive, drawing two defenders before a no-look bounce pass to Jason for an easy layup.
The pattern continued. Possession by possession, Markus imposed his will on the game. Not with flashy moves or highlight-reel plays, but with a controlled precision that seemed to bend the court's very geometry to his advantage. Every decision came from a place of absolute clarity – when to shoot, when to pass, when to change pace.
By halftime, he had twelve points, three assists, and two steals. The deficit had shrunk to eleven.
In the locker room, his teammates stared at him with newfound respect.
"Where the fuck did that come from?" Ty finally asked.
Markus sipped his water. "Been working on some things."
Marcus exchanged a glance with Hiroshi, who stood silently in the corner, expression inscrutable as always.
"Whatever you're doing," Marcus said, "keep it up. We might actually have a shot."
The second half elevated Markus's performance from impressive to revelatory. His movements became even more fluid, his decision-making quicker, his shooting touch supernatural. A hesitation dribble that sent Martinez backpedaling. A step-back three over a defender six inches taller. A no-look, behind-the-back pass to Jamal that brought spectators from other courts wandering over to watch.
Loyola adjusted, sending double-teams, then triple-teams at him. Markus responded by finding open teammates with passes that seemed to anticipate their movements before they knew where they were going. When they missed – which happened frustratingly often – he somehow materialized for offensive rebounds, keeping possessions alive.
With ninety seconds remaining, Detroit East had pulled within two.
"That's Reinhart?" A voice carried from the bleachers. "Kid's not even on any recruiting lists."
"He is now," came the reply.
The final possession. Game down three, 79-76. Twenty seconds left. Marcus called timeout.
"You've got the hot hand," he said simply to Markus.
The play wasn't complicated. Clear out. Let Markus work. As he crossed half-court, the entire Loyola defense shifted toward him. Five sets of eyes tracking his every move. Exactly as he'd anticipated.
Markus dribbled deliberately, the clock ticking down. Twelve seconds. Eleven. Ten. He gave the slightest nod to Ty, who immediately set a screen on Martinez. The switch came – now a bigger defender on Markus, but slightly off-balance from the screen.
Nine seconds. Eight. Markus attacked, not with speed but with change of pace. Hesitation. Crossover. Behind the back. Each move deliberate, efficient, setting up the next. The defender retreated, then lunged when he thought Markus was driving.
Seven seconds. Six. Markus stepped back, creating just enough space at the three-point line. The ball left his hands with five seconds remaining, a high arcing shot that seemed to hang in the air forever.
Swish.
Tied at 79-79. But the clock hadn't expired.
Loyola, out of timeouts, inbounded quickly. Martinez received the pass and raced upcourt, looking for a final shot. Markus stayed with him stride for stride, not reaching, just applying enough pressure to make him uncomfortable. Martinez's hurried jumper at the buzzer clanked off the rim.
Overtime.
The extra period was all Markus. By now, his teammates had fully bought in, setting screens, cutting hard, believing in the passes that arrived in perfect position. He scored or assisted on every basket, finishing a masterful performance with a driving layup through contact with twenty seconds left that put them up four.
Final score: Detroit East 92, Loyola Chicago 88. Markus's stat line: 35 points, 9 assists, 6 rebounds, 4 steals. More incredibly, just one turnover in twenty-three minutes of play.
He found himself surrounded by teammates who, hours earlier, had questioned his very presence. Now they pounded his back, shouted in his ear, grinning with disbelief at what they'd witnessed.
<>
The victory advanced them to the tournament's second phase as a third seed from their group. Their reward: a Round of 36 matchup against a semi-pro team from Ohio – grown men with overseas experience.
"No pressure," Marcus told them before tip-off. "Nobody expected us to be here anyway."
But Markus had tasted something in that comeback win – a clarity of purpose, a purity of execution that transcended the competition. Where before he'd been patient on the bench, now he itched to continue what he'd started.
The Ohio team was physical, experienced, and initially dismissive of their young opponents. That changed quickly. Markus picked up where he'd left off, controlling the game's tempo with a veteran's poise. His handle seemed impossibly tight, the ball an extension of his will rather than a separate object.
"Lock him up!" the Ohio coach barked after Markus dissected their defense for the fifth straight possession. "He's just a high school kid!"
But there was nothing "just" about Markus's game anymore. His movements were economical yet unpredictable, his decision-making crisp, his shooting range extending well beyond the three-point line. He manipulated defenders with subtle head fakes and hesitations that created fractional advantages, then exploited those gaps with surgical precision.
With two minutes remaining, Detroit East clung to a one-point lead. Ohio's defense had adjusted, sending aggressive traps at Markus, forcing the ball from his hands.
During a timeout, Marcus addressed the team. "They're selling out to stop Markus. That means the rest of you will be open. Knock down the damn shots."
The Wilson brothers nodded grimly. Ty, who'd struggled with his shot all game, bounced nervously on his toes.
Markus gathered them before they returned to the court. "Trust me," he said quietly. "I'll find you. Just be ready."
The final possessions unfolded like a chess match. Ohio trapped, Markus passed, his teammates—finally—converted. Jason Wilson hit a corner three. Ty made a cutting layup. Detroit East extended their lead to six with thirty seconds left.
They held on to win by four. Markus finished with 28 points, 11 assists, and arguably more importantly, the complete trust of teammates who had doubted him hours earlier.
The round of 16 brought them against the tournament favorites – a collection of Division I players from various Chicago universities. Despite Markus' continued brilliance – 33 points on efficient shooting – the talent gap proved too much. Detroit East fought valiantly but fell by fourteen, ending their improbable run.
Yet even in defeat, Markus had cemented his status as the tournament's breakout star.
"Young blood," the Chicago team's captain said after the game, embracing him briefly. "You got something special. Keep working."
Tournament officials approached as they packed up. Individual honors were being distributed – Markus had been named to the All-Tournament First Team and received the Top Scorer award, which came with a $3,000 performance bonus.
In the parking lot, clutching the check, Markus approached Hiroshi.
"This should cover part of what you paid for our entry," he said, offering the envelope.
Hiroshi regarded him steadily. "The money was never the point."
"Still. You spent two thousand on us. Let me pay you back."
"The investment was not in the tournament, Markus. It was in you." Hiroshi pushed the envelope gently back. "Your mother could use this more than I could."
Markus wanted to argue but knew better. "Thank you. For everything."
"You have barely begun," Hiroshi replied. "What happened here was confirmation, not completion. Monday, we return to work."
Two weeks later, on a sweltering August Sunday, the Reinhart apartment's small balcony hosted a family cookout. Lisa Reinhart – eyes brighter than Markus had seen in years – tended the small charcoal grill while relatives crowded the limited space.
The tournament's aftermath had brought changes. A few local news outlets had picked up the story of the unknown high schooler who had dominated college competition. East Side High's basketball coach called daily, alternating between apologies and promises of a starring role. College scouts had begun inquiring about the unheralded guard from Detroit.
Marcus held court by the railing, retelling the tournament story with increasingly dramatic embellishments.
"So there's five seconds left, down three, and I tell him – take the shot. And Markus here, cool as ice, just nods. Doesn't even speak! Hits this step-back three over two defenders like he's been doing it his whole life."
Lisa's brother Jerome shook his head. "Always knew the boy had game, but damn." He lowered his voice. "So what's the deal with the Japanese guy?"
"Hiroshi is my coach," Markus said simply.
"Coach for what? Karate and shit?" Jerome laughed. "No offense, but what's some foreigner know about basketball?"
Markus bristled. "He knows more about movement, discipline, and mental preparation than anyone I've ever met. And he believed in me when no one else did."
Jerome raised his hands defensively. "Easy, easy. Just saying, now that you're getting attention, might want to hook up with a real basketball trainer. Someone with connections."
"Hiroshi is the reason I'm getting attention in the first place," Markus said flatly.
Lisa intervened, sensing tension. "Jerome, hand me those plates. Markus, could you get the extra chairs from inside?"
In the kitchen, she touched his arm. "Your uncle means well."
"He's disrespecting Hiroshi. And you know that's not the first time."
"People fear what they don't understand." She smiled gently. "You've changed so much this past year. In good ways. But not everyone will get it."
Markus nodded, frustration easing. His mother had been his constant through everything – working impossible hours, never complaining, believing in him even when his path made no sense to her.
"That tournament money," he said. "I want you to have it."
"Markus—"
"Please, Mom. You've been carrying us forever. Let me help for once."
Her eyes glistened. "Keep some for yourself. You've earned it."
"I didn't do it alone."
She touched his face, the gesture both tender and reverent. "No one ever does anything truly alone. But what you did – that was all you."
Outside, the conversation had shifted to Markus's senior year and college prospects.
"Michigan State been asking about you," Marcus was saying as they returned. "Coach called me yesterday."
"For real?" Dre asked from his seat, ankle elevated on a cooler. The injury had proven less serious than feared.
"Several programs have inquired," a new voice added. Hiroshi stood in the doorway, a small dish in his hands. "I hope I am not intruding. Lisa invited me."
An awkward silence fell over the balcony. Markus moved immediately to his mentor's side.
"You're always welcome," he said pointedly, with a glance at his uncle.
Lisa took the dish – a beautifully arranged sushi platter. "This looks amazing, Hiroshi. Thank you for coming."
The tension gradually eased as food was distributed and conversations splintered. Markus found himself between Dre and Hiroshi, an odd juxtaposition of his past and present.
"So you really going back to East Side?" Dre asked. "Coach Williams been running his mouth about how he always knew you were special."
Markus nodded. "One more year. Need to graduate."
"You know half the team's in gangs now, right? Keshawn and them basically run the locker room."
"I'm there to play ball and graduate. That's it."
Dre studied him. "You really have changed, man. Used to be more fun."
"Used to be more lost," Markus corrected.
"And now?"
Markus glanced at Hiroshi, who was politely fielding questions from Markus's aunt about Japanese cuisine.
"Now I know what I'm capable of. And what I'm not."
-
Senior year at East Side High began with a buzz Markus neither expected nor particularly welcomed. His performance in Chicago had elevated him from dropout to prodigy in the school's collective estimation. Teachers who had previously ignored him now inquired about college plans. Students who had never spoken to him claimed long-standing friendship.
The basketball team – as Dre had warned – had evolved in his absence. Coach Williams remained, but the team culture had shifted. Several players openly displayed gang affiliations. Practice often felt secondary to the social hierarchies being established in the locker room.
Markus navigated it all with a detachment that confounded his teammates. He attended classes diligently, maintained solid if unspectacular grades, and transformed on the court. During games, he operated on a level so far beyond his high school competition that coaches often pulled their best defenders after a few minutes, recognizing the futility.
"Why you even here?" Keshawn asked him after practice one day in October. As the team's self-appointed leader – more for his connections than his basketball ability – he had initially viewed Markus's return with suspicion. "You could've transferred to Country Day or some prep school. Got more exposure."
Markus shrugged, lacing up his shoes. "This is my school."
"That's it? Loyalty to this dump?"
"Something like that."
Keshawn shook his head. "You weird now, Reinhart. Used to be normal."
Normal. The word followed Markus through the halls. He wasn't normal anymore – not in how he carried himself, how he spoke, how he played. The discipline Hiroshi had instilled set him apart in ways both subtle and profound.
On the court, the differences became stark. While his teammates played for highlights and individual glory, Markus orchestrated. His scoring came within the flow of the game – effortless thirty-point performances that felt incidental to the control he exerted over each possession.
By December, college scouts regularly attended games. Michigan, Michigan State, Ohio State, Illinois – the entire Big Ten expressed interest, along with mid-majors and several prominent programs from other conferences.
"You need to decide soon," Coach Williams urged after a thirty-five-point performance against their crosstown rivals. "Early signing period's almost over."
Markus nodded politely but made no commitments. The decision, he knew, would come when the time was right. Until then, he continued his dual education – conventional schooling by day, Hiroshi's increasingly advanced training by night.
The season progressed predictably. East Side won games when Markus was allowed to control the tempo, lost when his teammates prioritized individual agendas. By February, they had compiled a respectable 14-7 record, enough to secure a district tournament berth.
Colleges pressed harder for commitments. Coaches called daily. Marcus, acting as an unofficial advisor, forwarded scholarship offers with increasing urgency.
"You can't wait forever," he warned. "These schools are filling roster spots."
But Markus remained patient, trusting the process Hiroshi had instilled in him. The right opportunity would reveal itself, just as the right moment in a game eventually presented the perfect shot.
One evening in late February, after another routine victory where Markus had scored twenty-eight points without seeming to exert himself, he found Hiroshi waiting outside the locker room.
"Walk with me," his mentor said.
They strolled through the quiet school hallways, sneakers squeaking on polished floors beneath flickering fluorescent lights.
"The season ends soon," Hiroshi observed. "Then decisions must be made."
"About college."
"About your path forward." Hiroshi stopped beside a trophy case, glass reflecting their contrasting figures – the aging martial artist and the young athlete, connected by something deeper than their outward differences. "You understand now what you are capable of."
It wasn't a question, but Markus answered anyway. "I do."
"And what is that, precisely?"
Markus considered carefully. "I can play at any level. Against anyone."
Hiroshi nodded, satisfaction in his eyes. "The tournament in Chicago revealed what I already knew. Your ceiling is not determined by physical limitations, but by your willingness to continue the discipline we have begun."
"I'm not stopping," Markus assured him. "Whatever comes next."
"Good. Because what comes next will test everything we have built." Hiroshi turned to face him directly. "College is a step you cannot skip, but it need not be a long one. One year – to adapt to the level, to refine what we've developed, to prepare for what lies beyond."
The implication hung in the air between them. Beyond college meant only one thing – the professional level. The NBA. A dream Markus had once abandoned as childish fantasy.
"You believe I can make it," Markus said softly. "To the league."
"I do not deal in belief," Hiroshi replied. "I deal in observation and analysis. And what I observe is a player whose physical gifts are matched by mental discipline few professionals possess." He placed a hand on Markus's shoulder. "But the path will not be without obstacles. Your age, your unorthodox development, the limited exposure of a single college season – these will work against you."
"So what do we do?"
"We choose carefully. The right program for your single year. Not necessarily the most prestigious, but the one that will showcase what you've become while allowing you to develop further." Hiroshi smiled slightly. "I have some thoughts on this."
As they resumed walking, Markus felt a familiar clarity settling over him. The noise – recruiting pitches, media attention, the expectations of others – faded to background static. What remained was the path forward, illuminated one step at a time.
His mother had sacrificed everything to give him this chance. Hiroshi had invested countless hours developing not just his basketball skills, but his character, his discipline, his understanding of himself. Now came the next phase – the step that would begin to fulfill the potential they had seen in him long before he recognized it himself.
One year of college. Then, the NBA.