Kobe didn't touch a basketball right away.
That alone would've shocked anyone who knew him.
He dropped to the floor near the baseline and pulled resistance bands out of the bag. Thin. Cheap. Easy to ignore. He looped one around his ankle, anchored it to the bleacher leg, and started slow, controlled movements—side pulls, rotations, balance holds.
Ankles first. Always.
He remembered every tweak. Every roll. Every time he told himself it was "nothing" and kept playing. That stuff stacked up over years. He wasn't doing that again.
Core next.
Planks. Dead bugs. Slow, ugly reps that didn't look impressive but burned deep. He moved with focus, counting breath instead of reps, making sure everything stayed clean. No rush.
Flexibility after that. Hips. Hamstrings. Lower back. He held stretches longer than any teenager ever would, letting the tightness go instead of forcing through it.
This was the work he skipped before.
The boring stuff.
The important stuff.
By the time he finally stood up, sweat was already dripping down his neck, legs warm, joints loose. His body felt ready, not tired.
The door creaked open.
Kobe glanced over and saw a kid step in, gym bag slung over one shoulder. Rob Schwartz. He recognized him instantly—future teammate, decent athlete, early riser.
Rob stopped when he saw Kobe on the floor, bands still around his ankles.
"Uh… what are you doing?" Rob asked.
Kobe didn't look up right away. Finished the set. Slow. Controlled. Then he stood and wiped his hands on his shorts.
"Prehab," he said.
Rob blinked. "Pre-what?"
"Prehabilitation," Kobe said, calm. "Keeps your joints healthy. Helps you stay on the court longer."
Rob frowned, looking at the bands like they were a joke. "You hurt or something?"
"No," Kobe said. "Trying to stay that way."
There was something in his voice—not loud, not aggressive. Just certain. Rob shrugged, nodded once, and headed toward the weight room without another word.
He didn't get it.
But he respected it.
Kobe finally grabbed a ball.
He didn't drift to the elbow. Didn't start with fadeaways. He walked straight to the corner.
First shot. Clean.
Second. Same.
He moved fast but not rushed, catching, setting his feet, shooting in rhythm. Corners first. Then above the break. Left side. Right side. Over and over.
High volume. Same spots.
He tracked everything in his head—makes, misses, balance, arc. He knew the numbers now. He knew what mattered. Three was more than two. Spacing changed games. Efficiency won championships.
The mid-range would always be there.
But this time, it wouldn't be the foundation.
The ball snapped through the net again.
Kobe stepped back, already lining up the next rep, building a game nobody in this gym fully understood yet.
But they would.