When Connors rushed back with the supplements, the first morning session was just about over.
"He's been training with Brown the whole time?"
Seeing Dawson stretching with Brown, his shirt drenched in sweat, Connors couldn't hide his surprise.
Moore nodded. "Yep. From start to finish. Really dedicated."
Connors raised an eyebrow. "Yeah… that's pretty dedicated."
Trainers usually didn't do the full workout alongside their players. Whether it made sense or not, at least Connors felt like his money wasn't being wasted—Dawson was clearly putting in real work.
"Is it over?"
Brown's head felt like it was floating. He turned toward Dawson and asked.
When Dawson confirmed, Brown collapsed onto the floor.
Back on the school team, he'd always thought of himself as a hard worker. But today's workout had him feeling like death would be a mercy. He honestly didn't know what kind of willpower had kept him going.
"Dawson… that's it for today, right?" he asked again.
Dawson, still standing tall after the same workload, grinned. "Not even close. Starting today, you've got three sessions a day. That was just the first."
"What?!"
Brown let out a strangled yelp, eyes going wide as saucers. "No way. I can't move."
He wriggled his fingers and toes just to prove he wasn't exaggerating.
Dawson ignored him and twisted his own waist to loosen up. He was tired too, but he felt… clear-headed. That drenched, muscle-drained emptiness actually felt good.
He told Brown to rest, then walked over to Connors.
"Dawson, isn't this workload a bit much?" Connors asked, a hint of worry in his voice. Moore had told him it looked intense—scary intense.
"I get the importance of training," Connors continued, "but pushing this hard could cause injuries. The draft's right around the corner."
Dawson took the supplements from him and shook his head. "Relax. I know exactly where the line is."
And he really did. The simulated training space let him see Brown's body status in real time. A zoomed-in scan showed every muscle under the skin, color-coded by condition—green for healthy, yellow for minor strain, red for injury.
Right now, Brown's abs, lower back, and hip muscles were all showing light yellow—not deep enough to be dangerous, just enough that a bit of rest would lead to overcompensation and bigger gains.
With that ability, Connors' worries about overtraining were irrelevant.
"Let's divide up the work," Dawson said, calling the other three over. "Training isn't just what happens in the gym—it's also everything outside of it."
Hard work on the court meant nothing if you slacked off after. In Dawson's mind, the split was fifty-fifty—half in training, half in lifestyle discipline.
"Tabari," he turned to Brown's older brother, "you spend the most time with him, so you've got the biggest job: make sure he rests on schedule, eats on time, and keeps his free time in check."
"Oh, and one more thing—no sex."
Tabari froze, face going awkward.
"That's right," Dawson said seriously. "At his age, too much of that will hurt his training results. You know how important this draft is—help him keep it under control."
At the mention of the draft, Tabari's expression hardened. He nodded firmly.
"As for food," Dawson continued, "I recommend hiring a personal chef—preferably with a nutritionist background—to handle Brown's meals for the next month."
If they were going to bulk him up, he'd have to eat big, and eat well. With Dawson's training plan, Brown would need close to 10,000 calories a day just to put on weight.
"And we'll need a massage therapist. I know a bit about recovery, but we'll want a pro to help him bounce back faster," Dawson added, looking at Connors.
Connors frowned. Nutritionist, massage therapist—professional ones weren't cheap.
"…Alright. I'll make some calls," Connors said after gritting his teeth. The $30,000 training fee was already sunk—might as well go all in. If Brown landed a top pick, or better yet went first overall, they'd earn it all back with interest.
"From now on, we're a team," Dawson finished. "Let's work together to get him that high draft slot."
It was clear now—these four were Brown's draft squad.
Dawson handed the diet plan to Williams—meat-heavy, high protein—and walked back to Brown.
The kid was already out cold, snoring. Good. That meant they'd hit the right intensity. If a player finished a workout still bouncing with energy, it meant the load wasn't enough.
But rest wasn't on the schedule yet. Dawson woke him up for his injections.
These weren't banned substances—at least, not all of them. The basics like multivitamins and creatine didn't even count.
First up: Deca-Durabolin, to boost protein synthesis and nitrogen retention in the muscles.
Then a mix of testosterone enanthate and boldenone—the latter great for increasing appetite, which was crucial for bulking.
Finally, HGH. Beyond muscle growth, it strengthened connective tissue, helping ligaments and tendons keep pace with bigger muscles.
Brown shuddered at the needles, asking if NBA players had to do this every day.
"I wouldn't know," Dawson said. "But I do know nobody gets to the top without putting in the work. So quit whining."
Brown just nodded thoughtfully.
With the shots done, Dawson sent him off to rest—there were still afternoon and evening sessions ahead. His plan alternated physical and technical training, day by day.
By the time the final session ended that night, Brown had to be helped out of the gym by Tabari.
And Dawson was satisfied. Brown hadn't quit, hadn't tried to cut corners. That meant he had the mentality for the grind.
The next morning, Dawson weighed him in. Yesterday before training, Brown had been 243 pounds (110.2 kg).
Today? 241. Down almost a kilo.
"Is this scale broken?" Connors fiddled with the electronic display, then shot Dawson a doubtful look.
They'd agreed on bulking up—not slimming down.