The court was cracked, the nets were torn, and the backboards had seen better decades, but tonight, it felt like the center of the universe.
It was game point. The crowd, mostly kids, teens, and a few old heads leaning on bikes, circled the asphalt like it was Madison Square Garden. The sun was sinking behind the city buildings, casting long shadows across the court as sweat dripped from every player's face. But all eyes were on one person.
Dante King.
Seventeen. Six-foot-six. Calm as ever.
He stood at the top of the key, cradling the ball in his left hand like it was part of him. Across from him, a bulky defender panted hard, his arms low, knees bent, trying to read Dante's next move. He wouldn't. No one ever really did.
"Let's go, King!" someone shouted from the fence.
Dante didn't flinch.
He dribbled once. Twice. Then, with a flash, a crossover so smooth it made the defender stumble, he stepped back just inside the three-point line and let it fly.
Swoosh, into the net.
The court erupted. Voices rose. Some kids ran onto the asphalt as if it were an NBA Finals buzzer-beater. Others shook the fence, screaming his name.
Dante just turned, lowered his head, and walked off the court without a word.
"Yo!" Rico Steele caught up, panting and laughing, throwing a towel over Dante's shoulder. "You really gon' leave me hangin' like that? No look, no dime, no shoutout?"
Dante smirked. "You missed three layups, Rico."
"I was settin' you up, man! You're the highlight. I'm the set-up guy."
Dante laughed softly, the sound low and rare. The kind of laugh that only came out when he was around Rico. They walked off together through the chain-link gate. The city air was thick with heat and pride. Dante nodded at some neighborhood folks posted up nearby. He didn't have to say much. His game did the talking.
A group of younger boys trailed behind them, whispering and nudging each other. One of them finally stepped up.
"Hey, Dante," the kid said, eyes wide. "You think maybe… sometime... You could show us that crossover?"
Dante looked down at the kid, maybe twelve, arms skinny as wires, holding a half-deflated ball.
"Next Saturday," Dante said. "Be here by four. Bring that ball."
The kid grinned like it was Christmas morning.
But just down the street, a black SUV sat idle. Tinted windows. Engine humming.
Inside, a man in a crisp button-down shirt watched the court through binoculars, even though the game had already ended. He scribbled something into a notebook, lips pursed.
He'd seen enough.
Later that night, Dante sat on the worn couch at home, legs stretched out, watching ESPN on mute while his mom hustled around the kitchen.
The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering light from the TV. A fan buzzed near the window, doing its best to fight the sticky summer air. A trophy shelf stood in the corner, modest but full. MVP plaques, medals, and even a framed newspaper clipping from his freshman year.
"Game go okay?" Alicia Smith, his mom, asked without turning around.
"Yeah," he said. "Same as usual."
She chuckled under her breath. "Same as usual means you scored how many?"
He shrugged. "Twenty-four."
Alicia shook her head, placing a plastic bag of groceries on the counter. "Just don't let it get to your head. Talent's cool, but it means nothing without heart, Dante."
She turned then, wiping her hands with a towel, her eyes sharp but warm. "You listening to me?"
Dante looked up and nodded slowly. "Yeah. I hear you."
He did. He always did. His mom didn't waste words. She didn't have the energy for it. Two jobs. Late shifts. Bags under her eyes that never fully went away. But she always showed up at games, at practice, or waiting up like this.
"I heard Coach Hale came by," she added.
"He did."
"What'd he say?"
"He said the scout might be coming to the tournament next week."
Alicia raised her eyebrows but kept her voice even. "From where?"
"Georgetown. Maybe Oregon, too."
She sat on the arm of the couch, her fingers tightening around the towel. "That's big."
"I know."
She studied him for a moment, searching his face. "You ready for that kind of light?"
Dante paused. His jaw tightened slightly.
"I don't know."
That was the honest answer. The court, this court, he knew. These people, this city, the rhythm of it all. But cameras? Recruiters? Interviews? That world felt... fake. Fast. Like a place where you blink and everything you love gets left behind.
Alicia leaned over and kissed his forehead.
"You'll be ready. Just don't forget who you are, okay?"
"I won't."
Outside, in the SUV, the man closed his notebook and spoke into his phone.
"Number twenty-three. Name: Dante King. We need to watch this one closely."
He looked back toward the court, now dark and quiet.
"Kid's got something."
Meanwhile, inside the apartment, Dante lay in bed staring at the ceiling. His fan rotated slowly, creaking every few seconds. He could still hear the crowd, the chain-link fence shaking, Rico's voice joking in his ear.
He should've felt good.
He didn't.
The scout's presence, just the mention of it, had turned something in his stomach. It wasn't fear. He wasn't scared of playing in front of anyone. But the idea of being watched, of being evaluated, was different from just playing. He'd never liked being someone's project.
Alicia walked past his room, quiet, but not sneaky. He could hear her settle into the couch, sighing as she leaned back. That couch was her bed more often than not.
He closed his eyes, but sleep didn't come. His thoughts wouldn't let it.
The next morning, Dante was up before the sun.
He laced his shoes and hit the outdoor court by himself. His neighborhood was still asleep, shutters drawn, dogs barking in the distance. The streetlights were still on, flickering as the night began to lose its grip.
He shot free throws. Ten in a row. Then twenty.
Then he ran suicides until his shirt clung to him and his breath came in heavy gasps.
There was no music, no crowd, no coach yelling. Just the rhythm of the ball, the squeak of sneakers on concrete, and his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
By the time the sun broke through the buildings, casting long shadows over the court, Dante was bent over, hands on his knees, drenched in sweat.
At school later that day, the hallways were loud and chaotic as always. Slamming lockers. Shouting. Sneakers squeaking on linoleum. But whispers followed Dante wherever he walked.
"You hear Georgetown's sending someone?"
"I saw him at the rec last night. Cooked that whole team."
"Bro's outta here."
He kept his head down, moving through the noise like a ghost. He hated the attention. He didn't play for the hype. But still, it was here now. The expectations. The pressure.
Rico caught up with him by the vending machines, bouncing a bag of chips in his palm.
"You really out here doing 6 a.m. training sessions without your boy?" he asked, grinning.
Dante shrugged. "Didn't think you'd wake up."
"I wouldn't," Rico said proudly. "But it's the principle, man. We're supposed to grind together."
Dante gave a faint smile. "You still down for it after school?"
"Always," Rico said, fist-bumping him. "Let's get it."
But behind them, across the hall, Coach Marcus Hale stood silently by the trophy case, watching.
He had seen plenty of talented kids flame out. Plenty of hype turns to nothing. But Dante?
Something about the boy's silence, the weight in his eyes, told Hale this one was different.
Or, at least, he could be.
If he doesn't lose himself before the game truly began.