Marcus woke up earlier than usual. The room was quiet, the curtains still holding back the faint morning light, but his mind was already racing. Fourteen days. Hammond's words echoed in his head as clearly as if the old man were standing at the foot of his bed. Fourteen days to prove he was ready, not just for the court, but for himself.
He sat on the edge of his bed for a long moment, rubbing his face with both hands. There was no time for hesitation. The chance Hammond had given him was rare, and he knew well enough what happened to players who let chances slip away. They disappeared. They became stories of what could have been. Marcus had been close to being one of those stories.
He laced up his sneakers and stepped outside. The morning air was crisp and cool, brushing his skin as if to remind him that a new day had begun. The streets were mostly empty except for a milk truck rattling past and an old woman sweeping her front step. Marcus started jogging. The sound of his shoes hitting the pavement created a steady rhythm that carried him through the sleeping city.
Every stride felt like he was running from his old self, the man who spent nights drowning in alcohol and mornings waking up with regret. Sweat dripped down his temples, but he did not slow down. He imagined the clock ticking in his head, every second bringing him closer to that first semi pro practice.
By the time he reached the park, the sun was pushing through the clouds. The court stretched out in front of him, cracked in a few places, the paint on the lines fading, but it still felt like sacred ground. At the far end, a young boy was dribbling awkwardly, bouncing the ball too high and losing control. Marcus slowed his jog and watched for a moment.
"Eyes up," Marcus called out as he approached. "The ball will follow."
The boy looked startled, then tried again, this time keeping his head lifted. The bounce became smoother. The ball obeyed. His face lit up.
"Like that?" he asked eagerly.
"Exactly like that," Marcus said, giving him a nod of approval. He remembered his own younger days, when one kind word from an older player could fuel him for weeks. He picked up his bag and walked to the other hoop.
The moment he touched the ball, the world narrowed. He began his drills with a simple routine: jump shots from each corner, layups with either hand, free throws. Every shot felt like a promise. A promise that he would not waste this chance. His arms grew heavy, his legs screamed with every sprint, but he refused to quit. Sweat poured down his back, soaking his shirt, and still he pushed on.
Hours passed without him noticing. He was only pulled back when a voice called out.
"You planning to collapse out here?"
Marcus turned. Walt stood at the edge of the court holding two bottles of water. He walked over and tossed one at Marcus.
"You have been here for three hours," Walt said. "What are you trying to do, kill yourself before the big day?"
Marcus cracked a tired smile, wiping his forehead with his wrist. "If I do, just bury me at half court."
Walt shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. He could see it, the fire that had been missing for so long. This was not the broken man who had been drowning himself in bottles. This was Marcus, the player, the competitor.
They sat together for a while on the bench, drinking in silence. Walt did not need to say much. Sometimes silence spoke louder than words. When Marcus finally stood up, his legs trembled but his eyes shone.
That evening, Marcus wandered into a small café near the train station. He had noticed it before but never stepped inside. The warm glow from the windows pulled him in, and the smell of fresh coffee wrapped around him the moment he opened the door.
There, at a corner table, sat the girl he had seen a few nights earlier. She was bent over a notebook, sketching intently, her hair falling across her cheek. For a brief second Marcus considered walking past, but something in him resisted. He approached instead.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked softly.
She looked up, surprised, then smiled and gestured to the empty chair. "Go ahead."
Her name was Lena. She was an architecture student, though she confessed she spent more time sketching than studying. Marcus told her about basketball, about the sound of the crowd, about the way a perfect shot felt like music. Their conversation flowed easily, like they had known each other for longer than an hour.
When the café began closing, they stepped outside together. The night air was cool, and the streets were painted in yellow from the lamps. They walked slowly, not wanting the conversation to end. Marcus found himself telling her things he had not shared in years: the weight of losing the final, the dark days of drinking, the unexpected push from Hammond. She listened without judgment, her eyes steady on his.
By the time they reached the corner where their paths split, Marcus felt something unfamiliar stirring inside him. Hope, yes, but something else too. A calmness.
Back in his apartment, the old Marcus would have reached for the fridge, for the familiar comfort of a bottle. Tonight, he ignored it. He washed his face, set his alarm earlier than usual, and slid under the sheets.
Tomorrow he would train harder. Tomorrow he would be sharper. The countdown had started, and for the first time in years, Marcus was not afraid of it. He welcomed it.