"Steph, relax. If the Kings are blind enough to pass on you, the Knicks aren't going to make the same mistake. Coach D'Antoni lives for players like you. In his system? You'll be a household name in a month."
Luke Thorne snapped his suitcase shut, his movements precise and calm. Across the hotel room in Sacramento, Stephen Curry looked like he was vibrating with nervous energy.
The previous day's workout with the Kings had been a grind—and not the good kind. Tyreke Evans had been a force of nature in the scrimmages, using his bulk and explosive first step to overpower Steph at every turn. Defense had never been Steph's calling card, and while the Kings' coaching staff expected that, his uncharacteristic cold streak from beyond the arc had left a sour taste in their mouths.
Their agent, Jeff Austin, had been pulled aside after the session. The verdict was blunt: Sacramento was leaning toward Evans with the fourth overall pick.
Luke, however, had turned heads. His lockdown perimeter defense and his ability to sink corner threes with robotic consistency had intrigued the Kings' scouts. They held the 23rd pick and the first pick of the second round. According to the mock drafts on ESPN and NBADraft.net, Luke was projected as a late first-rounder or an early second-rounder—the classic "3-and-D" sleeper.
The draft experts were calling 2009 a "weak year." They were obsessed with Blake Griffin's freakish athleticism and the legendary hype surrounding the "Golden Boy" from Spain, Ricky Rubio. Rubio was a prodigy who had been dismantling grown men in Europe since he was fifteen. To the scouts, he was the only point guard worth a top-five pick.
Luke knew better. He had the "God's Eye" perspective of a man who had seen the future. 2009 wasn't a weak year; it was a gold mine. It was a class that would rival the legendary 2003 draft. But for now, he let the "experts" keep talking.
"Yeah, you're right," Steph said, sitting on the edge of the sofa and balling his hands into fists. "New York is a better fit anyway. Big stage, big market, and D'Antoni's pace... it's perfect. I can't let yesterday happen again."
"Exactly," Luke said, looking his teammate in the eye. "Go out there and show D'Antoni you're the next Steve Nash. Remember what Coach McKillop told us? You were born for the bright lights. Don't let one bad workout in a cow town like Sacramento shake you."
Luke felt a slight twinge of guilt. He knew the Golden State Warriors were lurking in the shadows, ready to hijack the Knicks' plans, but now wasn't the time for spoilers. Steph needed the fire.
"I'm getting that Knicks jersey," Steph vowed. He stood up, some of the light returning to his eyes. "And you too, Luke. New York has the 38th pick. They need a defensive stopper who can actually hit a shot. We could stay teammates."
"One step at a time, Steph." Luke offered his fist.
Steph bumped it, the tension in the room finally breaking. "Let's go. Jeff's probably burning a hole in the sidewalk waiting for us."
As they stepped out of the hotel, the Sacramento heat hit them like a physical wall. The Mediterranean climate was in full swing—dry, scorching, and unforgiving. Their agent, Jeff Austin, was already waving them toward a waiting taxi.
"Alright, boys," Austin said from the front seat as the AC blasted them with sweet, refrigerated relief. "Rest up on the flight. Tomorrow, we take Manhattan."
Austin glanced at his two players in the rearview mirror. He was fully invested in Curry, convinced the kid was a generational talent despite the critics. As for Luke Thorne, Austin had originally signed him as a favor to Steph, knowing the two were inseparable at Davidson.
But his perspective was shifting. Luke was a dark horse. After the Yao Ming explosion in Houston, NBA owners were desperate for the "next big thing" from the East. The marketing potential alone was worth millions, but Luke wasn't just a marketing tool. He was a 6'8" wall of muscle and discipline.
While Steph only worked out for lottery teams, Luke had been on a whirlwind tour: the Kings, the Wizards, the Mavs, the Blazers. But it was the stop in San Antonio that changed everything.
Gregg Popovich, the mastermind of the Spurs, had watched Luke's defensive rotations and nearly started drooling. Bruce Bowen was retiring, leaving a gaping hole in the Spurs' championship-caliber defense. In Luke, Popovich saw a plug-and-play weapon. He didn't need to teach Luke how to slide his feet or find his spots; the kid played with the veteran IQ of a ten-year pro.
Popovich had been vocal: "If Luke Thorne is on the board, we move mountains to get him."
For Luke, the Spurs were the dream destination for a ring, but the journey wasn't over. They had one last stop on the itinerary. The Mecca. Madison Square Garden.
New York was waiting.