Chapter 2
The arena isn’t full—not like 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 to look for something.
A breakout.
A headline.
A reason to say I 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.
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 is him. 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.
The final minute is just survival. Free throws, fouls, one last defensive possession where they try to drive middle, and I meet them there like a wall.
We win by four. The buzzer sounds, and my lungs pull in air like they’re relearning how. I shake hands and nod at the other big even though he doesn’t deserve it. I keep my face controlled for the cameras, because I’ve already learned that the League loves a composed rookie.
But inside? Inside I’m shaking. Relief is a physical thing. A flood. A loosening.
Coach catches me just before I reach the tunnel.
He doesn’t smile—that’s not his style. Instead, he claps my shoulder once—hard enough to mean something.
“Good minutes,” he says. That’s it. Two words.
But my throat tightens anyway. Because two words from him could be the difference between a roster and a suitcase.
The locker room is a mess of sound and sweat and victory music that’s just a little too loud. Someone’s got a speaker going, bass rattling through metal lockers. Guys are laughing, shouting, throwing towels, acting like this was the championship instead of a Summer League finale.
But I know why it matters. Everything matters when you’re trying to stay.