The alarm rang before the sun. Marcus reached out with a groggy hand and silenced it, then lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. His body ached from the day before, but his mind was wide awake. He rolled out of bed, tied his shoes, and went out into the morning chill.
The streets were hushed, a thin fog clinging to the corners. His breaths came out in little clouds as he started jogging. Step after step, his body loosened. He remembered Hammond's words: You have fourteen days. Use every one of them.
By the time Marcus reached the court, the fog was lifting. He pulled out the basketball from his bag and let it bounce once, twice. The sound cut through the quiet like a drumbeat. He began moving through his drills. Crossovers, spins, shots from every angle. Sweat quickly soaked his shirt, but he ignored it.
He pictured the faces of those who doubted him. The sneers, the whispers about wasted talent. Each jump shot felt like an answer to those voices. He was not done. He refused to be done.
Halfway through his workout, he noticed someone sitting on the bleachers. Hammond. The old man sat with his hands clasped around a walking stick, his sharp eyes following every move Marcus made.
"You are early," Marcus called out, trying to catch his breath.
"So are you," Hammond replied. His voice was steady, though his body looked worn. "That is good. The ones who rise before the rest are the ones who go far."
Marcus nodded, wiped his face with his shirt, and went back to shooting. Hammond watched in silence for a while before speaking again.
"You are training like a man running from something," he said.
Marcus froze at that, then slowly turned. Hammond's gaze was piercing, almost as if he could see through him.
"Maybe I am," Marcus admitted. "I wasted too many years."
Hammond shook his head. "The past is heavy if you carry it everywhere. You cannot play basketball with a sack of stones on your back. You must drop it."
The words struck him harder than any missed shot. He wanted to argue, but instead he nodded quietly and kept working.
As the sun climbed higher, other players began to arrive. Walt was among them, his usual grin plastered across his face. A few of the younger guys trailed in, chattering loudly. When they spotted Marcus, their smiles faded. One of them muttered something under his breath, and the others laughed.
Marcus heard it. He always did.
"Why is he here again? He will just slow us down. Or worse, show up drunk."
He clenched his jaw, but said nothing. Hammond's words echoed in his ears. Drop the stones. Prove yourself on the court, not with your mouth.
They began a scrimmage. Walt passed Marcus the ball early, giving him a chance to make a move. Marcus drove hard into the lane, spun, and finished with a layup that kissed the glass and dropped in. The doubters raised their brows but said nothing.
On the next possession, Marcus found himself guarded by the loudest critic of the group, a tall forward named Darius. Darius smirked as if daring him to try. Marcus took a breath, dribbled left, then crossed right with lightning speed. Darius stumbled, and Marcus pulled up for a jumper. The ball swished cleanly through the net.
The court went quiet for a second.
"Lucky shot," Darius grunted, though his pride was clearly stung.
But Marcus kept going, each play sharper than the last. He rebounded, passed, defended with intensity. By the time the game ended, his shirt was drenched, but he had scored nearly half of his team's points.
Hammond rose slowly from the bench, leaning on his stick. "That," he said, "is the player I saw the first night. The one who has not yet been broken."
The players glanced at each other, some with reluctant respect. Even Darius avoided Marcus' eyes as they walked off the court.
That night, Marcus sat again in the small café. Lena was there, just like before, her notebook open in front of her. She looked up and smiled when she saw him.
"You look tired," she said.
"Good tired," Marcus answered, sliding into the chair across from her. "The kind that comes from work."
She studied him for a moment. "I like that. Better than the tired that comes from drinking."
Marcus chuckled. "Yeah, I used to know that one too well."
They talked for hours again. Lena told him about her family, about the pressure she felt to follow paths that were not her own. Marcus told her about Hammond, about the challenge of proving himself to teammates who did not trust him. He found himself opening up more than he expected.
At one point, she reached across the table and rested her hand on his. "You are not who you were before," she said softly. "You are someone new."
The words stayed with him long after they parted ways. Back in his apartment, he lay awake staring at the ceiling. For the first time in years, the future did not look like a dark tunnel. It looked like a door slowly opening.
The days rolled on. Each morning, Marcus trained harder. Each evening, he spent time with Lena. The bond between them grew, though quietly. He was careful, almost afraid to name it, but he could not deny the pull he felt whenever she was near.
One night, as he walked her home, she hesitated before turning into her gate. "Marcus," she said, almost in a whisper. "Not everyone will understand you. Some will try to drag you back into the past. You cannot let them. Promise me that."
"I promise," he said, his voice steady.
He meant it.
But even as he spoke, he knew storms were waiting ahead.