The weekend brought no rest.
Saturday morning, the gym was humming by 7 a.m., lights buzzing, sneakers squeaking, whistles echoing. Lincoln's varsity squad was scrimmaging behind closed doors. Coach Hale had invited a few alumni to play with the team, former D1 athletes and semi-pros, just to raise the bar. The energy in the building felt different. Heavier. Like every possession meant something.
Dante tied his shoes tighter than usual.
No one said it out loud, but today was another test. He was the newest face in the gym, and that made him the easiest target. Everyone, from the assistant coaches to the water boy, was watching how he handled pressure.
"Let's get real today," Coach Hale barked. "No walk-throughs. No holding back. You want minutes this season, earn them."
Dante ran with the second unit again, but he didn't complain. He didn't ask when he'd start. That wasn't his style. The only thing he ever said was through his play.
Early in the scrimmage, he caught an outlet pass, pushed the break, and threaded a bounce pass between two defenders to a slashing forward. Bucket.
Next possession, he stayed low, stuck to Malik on a switch, and forced a turnover. Coach Hale clapped from the sideline.
But then came the pushback.
During a cut through the lane, Andre, the starting forward, shouldered Dante hard off his line. No call. The whistle stayed silent.
Dante got up, dusted off, and nodded. Message received.
Next trip down, he returned the favor. Clean body-up on Andre as he drove to the rim, stripping the ball without flinching. The gym murmured.
From the sideline, Malik called out. "Okay, I see you, East Side."
Dante didn't smile. He never did during games.
After two quarters of battle, sweat poured off everyone's faces. The scrimmage broke for water, but Dante stayed near the baseline, shooting free throws alone.
Malik walked over, towel slung around his neck.
"You play like you've been here three seasons."
Dante shrugged, watching the ball drop through the net. "I play like I want to stay."
Malik tilted his head. "That hunger's real. But just remember, it ain't always about who's best. Politics plays too."
Dante looked him in the eye. "Then I'll beat politics, too."
Malik chuckled. "Alright. Keep talking like that, and we might win something this year."
After the scrimmage, Dante sat in the locker room peeling off his jersey. His arms ached. His feet throbbed. But his head? Clear.
Rico popped his head in, grinning. "Man, I watched that from the stands. You killed it."
Dante smirked. "Thought you were sleeping in."
"Had to see for myself. You looked sharp. Like… really sharp."
Dante nodded. "You think Coach sees it?"
Rico sat on the bench across from him. "I think he sees everything. But I also think he's waiting to see if you'll fold when it gets ugly."
"It's already ugly."
"Not yet," Rico said. "Not until the city hears your name."
That evening, as Dante sat on the balcony of their small apartment, eating microwaved rice and beans, his mother stepped out with a blanket draped over her shoulders.
"Coach working you hard?"
"Yeah."
She sat beside him and stared out at the skyline. "He should."
Dante hesitated, then asked, "What if I'm not enough? What if all this… just fades?"
Alicia turned to him, her eyes soft but firm. "You are enough, Dante. But being enough isn't the same as being ready. And that's what you're doing now. You're getting ready."
He nodded slowly, letting her words settle like warmth in his chest.
Just then, his phone buzzed again.
Another message from Coach Hale:
"We've got a city showcase next week. Prep starts Monday. I'm putting you on the roster."
Dante stared at the screen. His pulse didn't spike, but his vision narrowed.
The showcase.
Real crowds. Real scouts.
The furnace was finally heating up.
The message from Coach Hale didn't leave Dante's mind for the rest of the night. The city showcase wasn't just another game. It was the place where reputations were either born or broken. Coaches came. Scouts watched. Social media exploded. Everyone brought their best, and the hungry tried to take it all.
As Dante stared at the screen, Alicia reached over and gently took the phone from his hand.
"You still have to sleep," she said softly.
"I know."
"You've got something a lot of boys in this city would kill for. But don't let that make you feel like you owe it to anyone. You do this for you, Dante."
He nodded slowly. "I just… I don't want to let you down."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "You couldn't. Even if you tried."
Monday morning, the gym lights flickered on as Dante stepped inside, earlier than usual. It was 5:30 a.m. This time, he didn't wait for Coach. He started his routine alone: free throws, pull-ups from the wing, elbow jumpers.
Each bounce of the ball echoed like a drumbeat of focus. He wasn't thinking about Malik. Or Coach Hale. Or even the scouts. He was chasing the cleanest version of himself, the one who didn't flinch, didn't doubt, didn't settle.
Coach Hale arrived a few minutes later and stood quietly by the baseline, arms folded.
"Getting greedy, huh?"
Dante kept shooting. "Just getting started."
Coach stepped forward. "This week's gonna stretch you. You're going to be tired. People are going to test you. But if you stay sharp, this showcase could change your life."
Dante caught the ball, turned, and looked him in the eye. "I'm ready."
Coach nodded. "Good. Because I'm putting you in the fire. First unit. Starting point guard."
Dante's hands froze. "What about Malik?"
Coach smirked. "Malik's playing two. He's good. But he's not a pure point. You are."
It wasn't favoritism. It was a statement. Coach Hale was betting on him, publicly. Dante knew the target on his back just got bigger.
That afternoon, varsity practice was a war zone.
The starters, Dante, Malik, Andre, Terrence, and a forward named Bryce, ran through plays while the second unit guarded like their scholarships depended on it. Elbows flew. Trash talk escalated.
"Yo, King!" one of the second-team guards barked. "How's it feel being Coach's new golden boy?"
Dante didn't respond. He crossed him over the next play, stepped back, and drained a three in his face.
Malik jogged beside him, breathing hard. "You might actually be a problem."
Dante smirked. "Told you I wasn't here to get eaten."
After practice, Dante sat in the locker room with his head down, arms resting on his knees. His legs felt like sandbags. Every muscle ached. But somewhere inside, something was building. Not just confidence, but hunger. Purpose.
Coach Hale stepped in, clipboard under his arm.
"You held your own today," he said. "Malik respects you now. That's a bigger deal than you think."
"I'm not looking for respect," Dante said. "I'm looking for results."
Coach paused, then nodded. "City Showcase is Friday night. At Central Prep's gym. You'll be starting. Game's gonna be packed. Eyes everywhere. You ready for that kind of light?"
Dante stood slowly, shoulders squared. "I've been in the dark long enough."
That night, at home, Rico showed up unannounced, two sodas in hand.
"Thought you might need a break from thinking."
Dante opened the door and stepped aside. "You heard?"
"Of course I did," Rico said. "Word's flying. You starting in the showcase?"
Dante sat on the couch and cracked his drink. "Yeah. Coach told me this morning."
Rico sat next to him, eyes sharp. "That's big, man. Real big."
Dante studied his face. There was pride in Rico's voice, but there was something else, too, hesitation. A flicker of distance.
"You alright?"
Rico took a long sip. "Yeah. I'm proud of you, for real. Just… It's weird, you know? Watching your boy step into something bigger while you're still figuring your lane out."
Dante nodded. "I get it. But this? It ain't just for me. We've both been hoopin' on cracked courts and chain nets since we were kids. If one of us makes it out, it's a win-win for both."
Rico smiled. "Then go get it. All of it."
Friday night was coming fast.
And with it, everything Dante had worked for.
The question now wasn't if the spotlight would find him.
It was: Would he shine… or burn?