The next morning hit like a hangover – no alcohol, just bruises and adrenaline leftovers. The gym was quiet except for sneakers squeaking on hardwood and the faint hiss of the AC. Nobody spoke much. Eyes were puffy, knuckles swollen, ribs sore. A couple of them still had faint scratches on their necks from the night before.
But beneath the silence, there was something else – a strange pride. They hadn't lost. They hadn't finished. But for the first time, they'd stood shoulder to shoulder and refused to back down.
Even Marcus couldn't decide if he was supposed to be mad or secretly impressed. Daniel's expression said "idiots," but his tone at breakfast had said "idiots with heart."
Then the gym door opened. Coach Kuhlmann walked in, hands behind his back, expression carved from granite. The chatter – what little there was – died instantly.
He stopped at half court and scanned the team slowly. "You fought," he said simply. "You bled. You embarrassed this program in front of two hundred people and made headlines before your visas cleared."
Nobody dared breathe.
"But," he continued, voice steady, "you also showed me something I can use."
He turned his gaze toward Tyrone. "Mason. You led until I pulled you. You held the team together when it was falling apart. You didn't lose your head when everyone else did. That's why, starting today, you're captain."
Tyrone blinked. "Sir?"
"Don't thank me," Kuhlmann said. "It's not a reward. It's a burden. When somebody slacks off, it's your fault. When somebody fights, it's your fault. You wanted to lead? Now you carry the weight. Gute Arbeit!"
Tyrone nodded once, jaw set.
Then Kuhlmann's eyes shifted. "Troy."
Ector straightened, expecting hell.
"You wanted to die for the team yesterday?" Kuhlmann said, tone dry as dust. "Good. You'll live for it now."
A few heads turned.
"You're vice-captain," the coach continued. "Not because you earned it. Because you act before you think, and I need that kind of fire pointed the right direction. From now on, you and Mason share everything – credit, blame, punishment. When the team screws up, both your names go on the board first."
Ector opened his mouth, closed it, then muttered, "Yes, sir."
"Good." Kuhlmann's voice softened just a notch. "Now pick up your bruised egos, stretch, and get back to work. You embarrassed me once. Don't make it a habit."
He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. "Oh, and if anyone decides to start another brawl – at least make sure you win the game first."
A few smothered laughs slipped out, even from Marcus.
~~~~~
The morning practice continued as usual. They were still catching their breath when Daniel barked, "Ector. Jesus. Over here."
They jogged over, sweat still running, not sure if they were in trouble or about to get drilled again. Daniel pointed at the empty half-court. "You two are talented, but you drive like it's one-on-one in a parking lot. You see the man in front of you and nothing else. That's a problem."
Jesus scoffed. "Ain't that who's guarding me?"
Daniel ignored it. "You think Kyrie Irving sees his defender? He doesn't. The on-ball guy is noise. The real information is behind him – two lines deep."
He stepped onto the floor and pointed an invisible defender in front of him. "This dude? I don't care about him. The ones that matter are behind him – line one and line two."
Ector crossed his arms. "Two lines?"
"First line is the guys in the gaps – stunts, digs, strong-side helpers. Second line is back-line and rim help – the real threats. If you're only reacting to the guy touching your jersey, you're driving with one eye closed."
Daniel looked over his shoulder. "Mason! Grigori! Get over here."
Mason didn't hurry but came. Grigori strolled in silent as always. Daniel pointed at them. "You two – when you attack, do you even see the dude guarding you?"
Grigori shrugged. "No."
Mason shook his head. "By the time I go, he's gone."
Jesus raised a brow. "Porque? You two skyscrapers can see over everybody?"
Grigori didn't even look at him. "No. It's because the first body isn't worth reading."
Daniel snapped his fingers. "Exactly. They're already looking at the two lines behind the ball. They know who's stunting from the nail, who's tagging the roller, who's sitting at the rim."
He pointed at Jesus. "You? You beat your man, then run into a charge or a block because you never checked line two."
Then at Ector. "You go downhill like you're trying to break ribs, but you don't know who's rotating behind the first line. That's how you get stripped or funneled."
Daniel walked through it slowly, hands in motion. "When you pick up the ball or make your first dribble, your eyes have to skip the defender on you and go straight behind him. First line tells you if you're free to keep going. Second line tells you if you gotta kick, dump, or finish."
Mason nodded. "First line stops drives early. Second line kills you at the rim."
Ector frowned, processing.
Daniel jabbed a finger toward the paint. "You want to score on structured defenses? You stop playing against the body in front of you. That's just the front door. The real defenders are already waiting deeper."
Jesus exhaled. "So before I even go, I should be checking who's sitting behind the stunt?"
Daniel gave a rare half-smirk. "Now you're thinking like someone worth guarding."
Grigori added, flat: "If you only see level one, you're bait."
Daniel clapped once. "We're repping it tomorrow. Tonight, I'm pulling game film – Sierra's help rotations, your drives, every dumb read. We'll break it down after dinner. You're gonna see every body you ignored."
He looked between Jesus and Ector. "You two aren't stepping on the court again with one-level vision. And Mason, Grigori – you stay close. You know it, so you'll help teach it."
Ector nodded in silent agreement and even Jesus just muttered, "Está bien… I get it."
~~~~~
They were back in the auxiliary gym after lunch, just the bigs and Novak. Daniel had taped off lanes on the floor with painter's tape, rough outlines of where bodies should be when the ball moved. Deng and Biha stood there like they were waiting for instructions in a foreign language. Novak bounced a ball lazily, watching them.
Daniel didn't waste breath. "You two aren't shooters yet. You're not passing out of doubles. You're not catching lobs in traffic. That all takes time." He pointed to the tape. "But this? This is day one work. You learn how to make space and hold it."
He clapped once. "Screens first. There's no point being seven feet if you set picks like air. You don't graze a defender and hope he notices you. You hit something. Body to body. Novak's your guard for this. You give him a shoulder to rub off, or you're dead weight."
Novak stepped into place at the top of the key. "I'm not slowing down for you," he said to Deng and Biha. "If I hit you and you fall, that's your problem. If I hit you and you don't move their guy, that's mine."
Daniel nodded. "And after the screen, you don't stand there admiring your work. You roll. Or you slip. Or you seal. But you move. Nobody's throwing a pass to a statue."
He snapped his fingers and Novak walked through the first action – fake screen, quick slip to the rim. Deng followed, slow and too upright. Daniel stopped him with one word. "Lower."
Biha went next, and at least bent his knees, but turned his back the wrong way. Novak tossed the ball at his chest anyway. It bounced off his hands and skittered across the floor. He swore in French under his breath.
Daniel didn't even react. "You drop that in a game, that's a turnover we don't earn back. You keep your hands up the whole time – like you expect the ball. Because if Novak sees space and you're not ready, that's on you, not him."
He let that linger, then shifted the tone. "You want proof that big men don't need to be 'finished products' to matter right away? Look at the draft this year. There's a kid at Kansas – Joel Embiid. Barely been playing organized ball, already climbing boards. Why? He's huge, he moves, and he sets real contact. He doesn't drift. Guards get open because of him."
Before he could continue, Novak spoke up, dribbling once. "There's another one. Back home. Nikola Jokić."
Daniel looked over. "Who?"
"He plays for Mega Vizura," Novak said, like it should mean something. "I saw him twice in Belgrade. Big, but not like Embiid. Slow feet, no hops. Looks tired even when he's fresh. But he passes like a guard. You don't even call for it – he just finds you. We practiced once. Pickup. You think he's asleep, then the ball hits you in rhythm without him looking."
Deng blinked like he was trying to picture it. Biha frowned but listened.
Novak kept going. "He doesn't score big yet, but everybody scores because of him. Screens, handoffs, little rolls, slip passes – it's all timing. Guards love bigs who make space and don't clog the paint."
Daniel took that in, then nodded once. "Fine. Embiid, Jokić – different builds, same rule. You don't wait to be special. You set the screen, you roll hard, you open the lane, you keep your hands ready. Somebody will feed you if you give them something to use."
He pointed at Deng. "You're first. Novak's coming off your shoulder. If he doesn't feel you, you're running suicides until you do."
Novak tossed him the ball. "Catch it this time," he said, not unkindly. "Or I'll tell Jokić you're embarrassing Serbia by association."
Deng didn't get the joke, but he squared up anyway, and they ran it again.
It wasn't pretty yet, but it was starting to look like basketball.
Daniel checked the clock, then pointed to the far wall. "We're not done when the bodies quit. Tonight we're in the film room after dinner – same as with Ector and Jesus. You'll see Embiid's screens, and if Novak can find tape on that Jokić kid, we'll break him down too. You watch it, then you do it. No exceptions."
~~~~~
They trickled into the film room in clumps, still smelling like sweat and cafeteria food. The lights were half-dimmed, the projector screen blank and waiting. Chairs scraped tile as they claimed their spots – some slumped, some sprawled, some trying to act like they weren't tired.
Jesus was the first to kick it off, dropping into a seat backwards. "Yo, if we're watching tape, can we at least start with something fire? Throw on Ride Along. Kevin Hart got more handles than half of y'all anyway. El enano corre like his life is on fire."
Novak snorted. "Please. That movie's dumb. Ice Cube looks like he hasn't smiled since birth."
Mason raised an eyebrow. "Says the dude whose idea of comedy is Serbian news channels."
Before Novak could clap back, Grigori spoke up from the second row, dead serious: "We should watch the Lego movie."
Silence. Then Ector actually choked. "Bruh. What?"
Grigori shrugged. "It has Batman."
Jesus turned all the way around in his chair. "Hermano… tú eres grande como un camión and you wanna watch plastic Batman?"
"My little brother," Ector added, shaking his head. "He's eight. Even he too grown for Lego Batman."
Grigori didn't blink. "Your brother has bad taste."
Tyrone rubbed his face like he was in pain. "Nah, see, this some Russian brain damage. That's what no cartoons for ten years does."
Biha, already half-asleep in his chair, mumbled, "I like Batman."
"That's because you don't understand English yet," Jesus shot back. "Ni sabes lo que pasa, gigante."
Deng shifted his weight and pointed at Mason. "I want to see the one with the police car chase. The short angry man."
"That's Ride Along," Mason said. "Kevin Hart."
Deng nodded once. "Yes. He run like Ector when coach shouting."
Ector glared. "Say it again, I'll show you a chase."
Jesus lifted his hands, grinning. "Man, I'm telling you, Ice Cube and Kevin Hart got chemistry. That's culture, cabrón."
Novak leaned back, smirking. "Lego movie made more money, though."
"Because children exist," Mason replied.
Grigori folded his arms, unbothered. "Batman is better than Ice Cube."
"Bro," Ector said flatly, "Batman made of blocks in that one."
"Still Batman."
Tyrone snorted. "You really built like a radiator and wanna watch animated Legos."
Jesus looked at the ceiling. "Dios mío, we got a Serbian, a Russian, and two skyscrapers arguing about cartoons."
"Ride Along got guns," Novak said. "Batman got no guns."
"Batman throws people off buildings," Grigori countered calmly. "More efficient."
Marcus walked in just in time to hear that last line and blinked. "Please tell me y'all not debating homicide cartoons."
Nobody answered. Daniel came in behind him with a binder under his arm and looked around once. "You done auditioning for clown school?"
Silence, a few shuffles.
"Good," Daniel said, dropping the binder on the front desk. "Because nobody's watching Lego Batman or Kevin Hart tonight. You're watching yourselves, then some guys who actually know how to play your positions."
Groans rolled through the room like thunder, but nobody dared speak up.
Daniel flipped on the projector. The screen blinked to life, frozen on a Sierra Canyon possession. Nobody reached for popcorn.
After that, they started the film studies.