They didn't walk out of the classroom wing – they oozed out, like their souls had been wrung out through worksheets. Lunch had been thirty minutes in the cafeteria with Dr. Lang policing plates like a drill sergeant in an apron. Nobody dared to skip vegetables, and Novak nearly cried when she swapped his bread for another scoop of quinoa. Jesus tried to joke about ramen and vending machines, and she told him in five calm words she'd outlive him and his sodium.
By the time they'd eaten, got themselves to the locker room, and changed, it was almost 3 p.m. Daniel was waiting by the water cooler, already in a training shirt, clipboard in hand. Coach wasn't there yet, which gave everyone false hope for about twelve seconds.
"Shoes on, shirts changed, water in you. You get five minutes," Daniel said. "Drills start at fifteen-hundred. Don't be late."
Five minutes vanished instantly. Some of them just sat on the floor and stretched half-heartedly. Deng closed his eyes like he was powering up through misery. Biha sat cross-legged and cracked his neck like an off-duty bouncer. Novak was the only one drinking water like he was storing it for winter. Grigori didn't sit. He leaned on the wall, arms folded, watching the clock like he'd start without them if it hit :00 and they weren't up. Mason tied his shoes too tight and groaned. "Bro, my brain ain't even rebooted yet."
Jesus slapped him on the knee. "Then update the firmware, cabrón."
Daniel blew the whistle once. Break's over.
Coach Kuhlmann walked in behind him, hands behind his back, calm as ever. "You had lessons. You had food. Now comes the part you think you're already good at. Stretch. Get loose. We are getting into drills after that."
They formed a circle automatically. Mason led the warm-up stretches again, talking under his breath just enough to annoy people without getting caught. Jesus corrected him twice, then made fun of his own form. Novak followed every motion a half-second late like he was still buffering. Deng did everything perfect and still looked like he'd rather be unconscious. Biha grunted through hamstring stretches.
Grigori closed the line, quiet and sharp, moving like this was beneath him but also proof he could outlast all of them.
Daniel watched. Coach didn't need to.
When they finished, Kuhlmann clapped once. He didn't bother raising his voice. He just stepped forward, hands still behind his back, and the room quieted the way it always did when he was about to lay something out.
"Today is not about winning anything," he said. "No one-on-ones. No scrimmage. We're going to run through a progression and you're going to do it properly. After, under Marcus, you are going to go through some mobility, core strength, explosiveness, stamina, and basic lifting mechanics. We should have finished with that yesterday, but because of your actions we are late already.
He paced once in front of them, eyes moving from face to face.
"We start simple – layups, form shooting, footwork. Then we move to real shot reps. After that, we add movement. Cuts. Screens. Closeouts. We finish with pick-and-roll reads and transition situations."
A few of them straightened up when they heard "finish," like it meant mercy was built in. It didn't.
"This is not conditioning. This is an assessment. I want to see what you can do, what you can't, and what you've been faking your way through your whole lives. If you're good at something, it'll show. If you're bad at something, it'll show louder."
He nodded at Daniel, who already had the cones ready.
"You mess up, you keep going. You look lost, you keep going. Nobody hides today. I don't care if you're tired from class, from running laps, or from being stupid the night before."
He stopped pacing.
"Get your balls and get on the baseline. We start with layups. If you miss one without being fouled, I assume you hate your parents."
Jesus snorted. Mason exhaled through his nose like a laugh would get him punched. Novak clutched his ball a little tighter. Deng and Biha looked like they were being drafted into a war they didn't remember signing up for. Grigori was already walking.
Coach clapped once – sharp, final.
"Show me everything. I'm watching all of it."
~~~~~
They'd pushed two conference tables together in one of the hotel's side lounges. Whiteboard against the wall, a stack of clipboards, and the smell of chlorine drifting in from the pool area down the hall. Kuhlmann stood, arms crossed, watching Daniel and Marcus settle in.
Daniel had a folder full of notes from the skill work. Marcus had a tablet with numbers pulled from the weight room, treadmill tests, pool recovery times, and mobility assessments. Kuhlmann didn't bother sitting.
"Let's go," he said, nodding at Daniel first. "Skill work."
Daniel flipped open the folder. "We'll start with the obvious. Grigori ran through the drills like someone set the difficulty sliders wrong. He sees everything before it happens. Shooting, timing, footwork – clean. Only thing that shows up as a red flag is when he's off-ball too long; he gets bored and wanders." He shrugged. "Still the best player on the floor by a mile."
"Bored gets fixed with responsibility," Kuhlmann said. "Next."
"Novak surprised me," Daniel continued. "Reads come to him like muscle memory. The pick-and-roll assessment? He waited out the hedge like he'd been doing it in EuroLeague already. Slow feet showed, but he covered it with angles and timing. You clean his body up, you get a real playmaker."
Marcus snorted. "Clean his body up? He's carrying enough spare weight to feed a youth camp."
"He's growing," Kuhlmann said without looking at him. "His numbers will shift once the mass redistributes."
Daniel tapped the next sheet. "Mason was solid across everything. Took every drill personally, like someone kept score in his head. Defensive reads were good, passing was better than expected. Shooting streaky, but that's fixable. He plays like someone who knows the consequences of messing up."
Kuhlmann nodded once. "That stays useful if he channels it and shuts up about it."
"Jesus," Daniel said, "has one speed and no governor. Ball-handling smooth as butter, but there were at least six possessions where he could've made the right read and called God instead. Shot selection is something we'll have to strangle into him."
"Fearless beats passive," Kuhlmann replied. "If he bleeds out on the floor, we can stitch him later."
Daniel moved on. "Ector's a highlight reel trapped in a turnover machine. His motor never shuts off, but he plays like someone owes him a ball and he's afraid to give it back. When he guesses right, it works. When he guesses wrong, you get a disaster."
"Teach him to see the floor before he jumps," Kuhlmann said. "Not midair."
Daniel reached the last page. "The bigs – raw isn't even the word. Biha's got presence. Once he seals a man, it's done. But the footwork looks like someone hit random on create-a-player. Deng tries, but everything catches up to him late. Hands, timing, foot speed – he's a second behind."
"They don't know how to be big yet," Kuhlmann said. "We'll give them jobs and teach them why they matter later."
He shifted his attention to Marcus. "Physicals."
Marcus swiped his tablet and exhaled through his nose. "You want top down?"
"Top down," Kuhlmann said.
"Grigori first," Marcus said. "You can tell he hates the weight room. His numbers aren't pathetic, but they're nowhere near his frame should allow. Upper body strength is behind, mobility is tight in the hips, and he looks at a squat rack like it killed his dog. Conditioning's fine because he's long and efficient, but he'll get knocked around if we don't build the armor on him."
"That's your problem," Kuhlmann said. "Keep his knees alive while you do it."
Marcus moved on. "Novak's a project. Body composition scan shows fat percentage higher than we want, but density in the bone reads like he's mid-growth. The swimming pool test was rough – legs drag, arms do most of the work. But he recovers fast and didn't break form even when gassed. He's got something to work with."
"He's going up another inch or two before the year ends," Kuhlmann said. "Make sure the frame can handle it."
Daniel glanced up. "If he hits six-five, six-six with that brain, he's a problem, Serbian LeBron."
"Mason," Marcus continued, "is already a man physically. Balanced strength, explosive jumps, takes cues well. I only had to correct his form once and he didn't argue. Conditioned, durable, and stubborn in a productive way. Might overtrain if we don't watch him."
"Give him structure before ego fills the cracks," Kuhlmann said.
"Jesus," Marcus said, "shocked me. He's lighter than he should be but strong where it counts. Core and shoulders held up in resistance drills. Bad habit of muscling through everything instead of bracing properly. Put him in the pool for recovery and he kept trying to race the clock."
Daniel snorted. "That tracks."
"Ector," Marcus went on, "burns energy like it's a dare. Strength's underdeveloped, balance wobbles when he's tired. Tried to max the treadmill incline and nearly flew off. Needs control work before power work."
"He listens when he's tired," Kuhlmann said. "We'll use that."
Marcus tapped the last section. "The Africans… Look, they're built like factory orders. But the mechanics are prehistoric. In the weight room, they move like they're afraid the equipment bites. Swimming was a comedy sketch. But their recovery rates? Off the charts. Biha's oxygen retention looks freakish. Deng's joints absorb impact like nothing happened."
"They'll break things before they learn to use them," Kuhlmann said. "Prevent the breaks."
Silence held for a moment. Daniel closed his folder. Marcus dropped the tablet face-down.
Kuhlmann finally sat, just enough to lean forward. "Seems like things go off the rails again. Tomorrow we separate them. No more wide-net drills. Individual corrections start now. With how things are going we don't have much time left."
Daniel nodded. "Skill blocks by archetype?"
"Yes," Kuhlmann said. "And no comfort pairings. They don't pick who stands next to them."
Marcus looked up. "You want me to start pool recovery as mandatory?"
"You start everything as mandatory," Kuhlmann said. "We don't wait until someone snaps."
Daniel leaned back. "You think they'll survive the week?"
"They don't need to survive it," Kuhlmann said. "They need to come back for the next one."
He stood again, already done. "Tomorrow, same hour. Bring me plans, not observations."
Daniel scooped the folder. Marcus grabbed the tablet. Neither argued.
Outside the window, the pool lights reflected off the water – quiet now, but not for long.