The first team dinner was uneventful. The boys behaved – not out of respect, but because they hadn't figured out the hierarchy yet. New faces, new places, too many unfamiliar adults watching them to start peacocking.
The only real spark came when Coach Kuhlmann stood up at the head of the long table.
"Good evening, everyone. I'm glad to finally meet all you young talents. But first, let me ask – do you know who I am?"
The looks he got back were all kinds of confused. A couple thought he was joking. One or two clearly wondered if he had dementia. Novak just blinked like he was buffering. Jesus froze with a fork halfway to his mouth.
Finally, Tyrone spoke up with that effortless LA arrogance: "You're Erik Kuhlmann. D1 coach, Pasadena. You hit March Madness a bunch of times and made Elite Eight runs with trash rosters."
Daniel actually flinched. The fuck was wrong with kids these days? "Trash roster"? Just throw that out there in public? This was the first ten minutes of knowing the kid.
Coach K didn't blink. "Trash rosters, hmph… Yes. How honest of you… And because of that, I want to start with honesty, yes. I'll be honest with you. And you need to be honest with yourselves, too."
He scanned the table, letting silence get heavy.
"You're all rejects. You are – what kids in fancy prep schools, AAU circuits, and Euro academies call – fucking losers."
That got every eye up. Even Ector stopped chewing.
"That tall guy," Coach went on, pointing straight at Daniel, "is Daniel Weiss. He's got more injuries on his medical record than Bill Russell has rings. He played under me, and he didn't like to listen. Yes – he was closer to being a first-round pick than all of you here combined at this point. But he didn't listen. Now he's coaching at LA Fitness of all places."
Daniel blinked. What the hell did I do? He hadn't said a word all evening and somehow still got sniped.
Coach kept going without a drop of hesitation.
"So here's your choice. One – you listen to me, you don't crash out, we all get along well, and you get a chance to come close to your dreams. Two – you don't listen, you fuck around, and LA Fitness will end up being your fucking dream."
He looked at each of them one more time. No jokes, no warmth, no pep talk.
"This is serious business we're stepping into. Don't fuck up your own futures. I'm finished."
And just like that, Coach K turned and left the table – no dessert, no questions, no follow-up. The silence he left behind felt like a crater.
Every kid just stared at their plate. Even Mason had nothing slick to say. Novak looked like he'd just watched someone get executed. Jesus had stopped chewing somewhere back at "fucking losers." Grigori blinked like Coach had just spoken in Swahili.
Daniel just sipped his water and pretended not to be the example of failure in the room.
~~~~~
The dining hall stayed silent long after Coach Kuhlmann disappeared through the doors. His words still hung in the air like smoke from a fired gun.
Daniel stared at his empty plate, heat still burning in his cheeks.
What the hell was that for, old man? You didn't need to drag me into it like roadkill.
Across the table, the boys processed the blast in very different ways.
Tyrone Mason was the first to move. He leaned back in his chair with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Damn," he said, low and amused. "Old man came in swinging."
Nobody argued.
Nevsky just kept eating. Knife and fork moving with calm, lazy precision. He didn't even acknowledge the tension.
"At least he didn't start bitching about teamwork," he muttered, with a thick Russian accent, more to his potatoes than anyone else.
Ector hadn't moved since the speech. His eyes were pinned to the end of the table where the coach had stood. His jaw flexed once. Under the surface, something coiled tight.
Jesus blew air out his nose in a half-laugh. "Shit… viejo didn't miss with that one."
He smirked, but his fingers drummed on the table, restless.
Aliir Deng sat rigid in his chair. Eyes low, posture straight. He looked like he'd just been called into court rather than a basketball program.
Serious… too serious.
Jean-Baptiste Biha blinked a little slower than the rest. English wasn't the problem – tone was. He quietly picked his fork back up and resumed cutting his chicken with surgeon-like focus.
Novak tried to defuse the pressure with a weak laugh.
"Well… that was… something," he said, forcing cheer into his voice.
Silence swallowed the attempt whole. He coughed into his water glass.
Across the table, Daniel finally exhaled and stretched his lips into a grin that felt stapled on.
"Don't worry," he said to no one in particular. "He always talks like that."
Marcus leaned forward with his trademark grin, eyes sparking.
"Nah," he said. "Today he talked like he meant it."
He swept a glance over the boys, trying to see who'd crack first.
Dr. Lang sipped her wine and shook her head. "Subtle as always…"
But her eyes weren't soft – they were studying, assessing. Deng. Biha. Ector. Mason. She too wanted to see who broke.
Michiko looked like she had swallowed a battery. For a moment, she actually forgot to smile. Then, with a graceful clap of the hands, she slid back into composure.
"Well! The food is still warm. Please – eat."
The boys didn't move immediately. Eventually, forks and knives resumed in uneven waves.
Mason smirked at Novak across the table. "Yo, peach boy, you still breathing?"
Novak flicked his eyes up. "Barely. I thought Germans started with paperwork, not war crimes."
Jesus snorted. Nevsky didn't even look up.
"War crimes usually come first," he said flatly.
Ector finally spoke, voice tight. "If we listen… he actually gets us to the league?"
Daniel blinked. He hadn't expected the question from him of all people. He nodded carefully.
"If you don't quit or kill each other – yeah. That's the point."
Aliir looked up for the first time since the speech. "I will listen."
Jean-Baptiste gave a short nod beside him.
Jesus rolled a shoulder. "As long as he don't come at me like that again, we cool, ese."
Mason grinned wolfishly. "Shit, I wanna see him try."
Marcus clapped his hands once, loud enough to make Novak flinch. "Good. Then finish your plates. Practice starts tomorrow at 6 AM."
The room froze.
"Six WHAT?" Novak asked, fork halfway to his mouth.
Nevsky finally glanced up, expression bone-dry. "Morning."