Chapter 12
TWELVE
CADEN
Draft Day.
There are a dozen things I thought I’d feel when I woke up this morning—hype, nerves, maybe full-body nausea—but not this floaty, out-of-body feeling like I’m a background extra in my own life.
My clothes are sharp, I’ve got my hair trimmed, and I’m parked on a couch in a downtown hotel suite with my parents on one side and Theo on the other.
But my brain? My brain’s still back at the practice court, shooting free throws until my shoulders ache.
Theo leans in so no one else hears him. “Breathe.”
My eyes slide to his, and I do. His pinkie rests against mine on the cushion, barely touching, but enough to remind me I’m not alone. Not now. Not ever.
“You okay?” Mom asks softly, adjusting the edge of her navy dress like she’s smoothing the fabric’s nerves along with her own.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to pass off the tightness in my chest as excitement. “Just staying cool.”
Dad lets out a low chuckle. “You’ve been cool since you were twelve, boy. Don’t let it go to your head.”
I crack a smile. It helps. A little.
The TV screen is massive, muted for now, but the ESPN logo pulses in the bottom corner like a heartbeat.
Highlight reels flash. Stats scroll. Analysts dissect my game like I’m already somebody.
Shooting averages. Rebounding. Wingspan.
Interview answers. Everything but blood type and whether I put ketchup on my eggs (I don’t).
I glance again at Theo, and for a second, he’s just my person.
No titles. No hiding. His button-down’s slightly wrinkled, his foot tucked under him on the couch, and his curls are freshly trimmed.
He looks casual, like he belongs here—which he does.
He’s played just as much of a role in getting me to this point as my coaches have.
But right now, to everyone else in the room, he’s just my best friend.
And I hate that part. I hate pretending.
Still, pretending is better than not having him here at all.
We’d gotten here an hour ago, threading our way through a sea of press badges, media crews, and jittery players with suit jackets lying stiff over their nerves. Everyone had a smile they practiced in the mirror this morning, and an agent somewhere lurking like a hawk.
Mine, Marcus—thanks to Cameron hooking me up with the agency he interned for and plans to work for when he graduates next year—had briefed me with a grin and a bottle of water, saying, “Eyes bright, smile clean, hands off everything except the mic and your career. Got it?”
Now he’s perched by the minibar, phone in one hand, sparkling cider in the other, just in case the moment strikes and he needs to pop a cork without actually breaking NCAA image rules.
“Second round is the sweet spot,” he told me on the drive over. “You’ve got teams looking. Stay calm.”
Right. Stay calm. Easier said than done when your entire future is crawling across the bottom of a screen next to college stats and the words “projected pick.”
The first round begins. The room stills, the volume clicks up, and suddenly it’s real.
Names get called. Families scream and sob. Players in pristine suits hug their moms and dab at their eyes as cameras zoom in. I smile at the right moments, clap when I’m supposed to, but my knee won’t stop bouncing and my palms are starting to sweat.
“You’re vibrating,” Theo murmurs. “Knock it off.”
“Trying,” I mutter, not even pretending to deny it.
He leans over just slightly, so no one else can hear. “Whatever happens, I’m proud of you. And I’m yours.”
God, I want to kiss him. Instead, I just breathe through it and nod.
The first round ends and my name hasn’t been called. Nobody says anything right away. Mom grabs a snack from the table like she’s totally chill. Dad focuses on the newspaper. Theo shifts his foot again, brushing my leg.
“You holding up?” Dad finally asks, glancing at me over the top of his glasses.
“Yeah.”
“You’re here. That’s already more than most ever get.”
I nod, appreciating it even if it doesn’t quite make the disappointment loosen its grip on my chest.
Marcus checks his phone every two minutes like the screen might change the game. He doesn’t say much. But his eyebrows twitch upward every so often, and I know he’s waiting on something.
Theo’s chatting with my mom now about his summer course. She’s asking if he’s still planning to TA this fall. He says maybe. She laughs, soft and warm, and I watch the way she looks at him—like she loves him almost as much as she loves me.
The second-round picks start to roll. 37. 41. 47.
Still nothing.
My pulse is thudding now. I stop watching the screen. Instead, I stare at my hands.
“Atlanta’s eyeing you for 52,” Marcus finally says from the window. “If that doesn’t land, we go into free agency prep.”
Free agency prep. That means scrambling. That means proving myself without a draft spot beside my name. And Atlanta would be too perfect. Just six hours or so away from Theo while he finishes his last two years of college.
Pick 52 blinks onto the screen. The name they call isn’t mine. It’s like a punch to the ribs. Not sharp, just dull and heavy.
Theo doesn’t say anything. He just squeezes my knee.
Marcus doesn’t waste time. “Okay. We work now. Don’t lose focus.”
I nod, because I know he’s right. There’s still a chance. Still a way in. But the draft was supposed to be the moment.
Ten minutes pass. Then Marcus’s phone buzzes on the arm of the couch. He all but dives for it, grabs it, reads, and turns toward me like a coach calling the final play. “Don’t move,” he says. Then he walks away, phone pressed to his ear.
Every breath I take feels like it might shake my whole chest loose.
Theo’s pinkie finds mine again. “You’re doing great,” he whispers. “No matter what.”
The call is short. Marcus returns with a look I’ve never seen before—sharp and bright, like lightning and sunrise all at once. His phone’s still in his hand, and his other pushes through his hair like he’s letting himself feel it for half a second.
“Detroit,” he says. “Undrafted free agent. Two-way contract. You’re invited to training camp.”
The silence in the room cracks like ice.
I blink, trying to catch up with the words. Detroit. Two-way. Training camp.
Detroit.
My stomach flips—then steadies. Because holy shit, Detroit is closer to Louisville. Like way closer. Barely five hours if traffic behaves. And that small detail lands harder than everything else.
My knees give a little under the weight of all of it—the disappointment of not being drafted, the surge of still making it, and this unreal twist of fate that places me even closer to Theo than I dared to hope.
Hope slams into my chest like a fast break. And this time, it blooms.
My mom’s the first to move. She’s up and around the coffee table before I can stand, wrapping her arms tight around my shoulders and kissing my cheek like I’m still seventeen and just nailed a game-winner at districts.
“Oh, baby,” she breathes. “I knew it. I knew it would happen.”
I don’t have words yet. Not ones that make sense. I just squeeze her and nod.
My dad’s next, pulling us both into his arms. His clap on my back lands solid, grounding. He doesn’t say much. He never does in moments like this. He simply holds on and lets me know he’s proud.
And Theo… Theo just watches, beaming like the sun cracked right down the center of his chest.
I reach for him, without even thinking, and tug him into the huddle of bodies. For a second, I forget who’s watching, who might put two and two together.
He leans in, sliding his arm around my waist, soft and familiar and absolutely necessary. “I am so fucking proud of you,” he murmurs, right against my jaw where only I can hear.
I squeeze his hand behind my back and whisper, “Love you.”
“Always.”
My heart swells so fast and so big it might actually explode.
And just like that, I’m a pro.
Not the way I imagined—no ESPN cameras zooming in on a teary-eyed Caden North as his name blares from the stage. No confetti. No Draft Day snapback from a glittering first-round table.
But it’s real. It’s honest. It’s mine.
And ours.
Marcus clears his throat, breaking the moment like a coach refocusing a huddle.
“Okay, fam, emotions are good, we love emotions—but I need you focused again for a sec. You’ve got ten pages of contract paperwork to sign and a quick Skype call with Detroit’s media rep.
Let’s keep it tight, twenty minutes max. ”
Theo lets go of me, hands in his pockets, as I nod and follow Marcus to the dining table, where the laptop’s already set up. The contract slides open on the screen. My mom grabs reading glasses from her purse like she’s been preparing for this moment her whole life.
Theo stays close but quiet, leaning on the back of a chair, watching as I scroll through paragraphs of legalese about terms, expectations, and conditional clauses. He doesn’t say anything, but every time I glance up, his eyes meet mine like he’s checking in on my heart as much as my head.
The Skype call is short. Just a welcome, a nod from a media manager, and a few “We’re excited to see what you bring to the table” lines. I smile, I thank them, I say all the right things—even though the real victory is standing quietly behind me, wearing a smile I’d give anything to kiss.
By the time we’ve wrapped, Marcus is already lining up training camp details, dates, travel logistics. He tosses a folder onto the couch along with the hotel list. “You’ve got two days to breathe. Then we start work.”
I nod along, but my mind’s somewhere else. My hands are still shaking slightly from adrenaline, but my eyes keep flicking to Theo—who looks like he’s barely resisting the urge to grab my hand and pull me into the next room.
Which… honestly, sounds perfect.
He catches my eye, tilts his head just slightly, and smiles.
Marcus claps me on the back. “You earned this, kid. You really did.”