"Luke, are you kidding me? This place is in the middle of nowhere."
Stephen Curry leaned against the window of the taxi, staring at the New York Knicks' practice facility in Tarrytown. It wasn't the concrete jungle he had expected. "If I get drafted by the Knicks, I'm going to spend half my career in a car. Why didn't Dolan build this place closer to the city?"
Luke Thorne looked out at the Westchester suburbs. He knew the geography well. Tarrytown was nearly thirty miles from Madison Square Garden. Between the distance and the legendary New York traffic, players often faced a grueling ninety-minute commute just to get to work.
"Maybe Dolan spent all the construction money on the luxury tax," Luke joked, though it was barely a punchline.
Ever since James Dolan took the reins of the Knicks, the franchise had become the league's punchline—the team with the deepest pockets and the shallowest trophy case. They consistently ranked in the top three for team payroll, yet in the last decade, they'd only sniffed the playoffs three times. Most of those runs ended in a swift first-round exit.
To Luke, Dolan was the ultimate "Iron-Head"—a man who insisted on solving every problem with a checkbook, regardless of the results. In 2006, the Knicks' payroll hit $120 million back when the salary cap was less than half that. Dolan lived in the future, just not the winning kind.
"Alright, boys, enough complaining," Jeff Austin interrupted, ushering them toward the entrance. "When you're signing a multi-million dollar contract, you won't care about the commute. Get inside. There's a crowd today, and you both need to make a statement."
Austin stopped them at the glass doors, his expression turning serious. "Steph, D'Antoni loves you, but you still have to give him a reason to fight for you in the draft room. And Luke? Your target is that 38th pick. D'Antoni thrives with players like you. Think Shawn Marion. Think Raja Bell. He values guys who can lock up and space the floor."
Luke nodded, feeling the familiar hum of the Training System in the back of his mind. "Don't worry, Jeff. We're going to give them a show."
Steph looked up at the facility one last time, a strange smile on his face. "I have a feeling about this place, Luke. I think I'm going to be seeing a lot of this gym. I like it here."
Luke bit his tongue to keep from laughing. He desperately wished he had a recorder. He could already imagine playing that clip back for Steph once the Golden State Warriors inevitably "snatched" him on draft night. The look on Steph's face would be priceless.
As they entered the gym, they were met by a man with a clipboard and an air of professional urgency.
"Welcome. I'm Kenny Atkinson, assistant coach," he said, his voice rhythmic and rehearsed, likely having repeated the same line to fifty prospects already. "We're glad to have you. Hope you're ready to work."
Luke recognized Atkinson immediately. In a few years, this man would be the head coach of the Brooklyn Nets, famous for developing talent before a certain "superstar duo" forced him out.
But the real gravity in the room was centered on the man standing at mid-court.
Mike D'Antoni, fifty-eight years old with hair beginning to silver, stood with his signature parted hair and the iconic mustache. When he saw Steph, his eyes lit up like he'd just found a winning lottery ticket. He marched over, a wide grin breaking across his face.
"Steph! You finally made it," D'Antoni heralded, shaking Curry's hand enthusiastically. "I told you, you didn't even need to come. If it's up to me, you're already a Knick!"
D'Antoni's obsession with Curry was no secret. Ever since he saw Steph light up Madison Square Garden during a college tournament in 2008, he had envisioned the kid as the engine of his "Seven Seconds or Less" offense. Last season, the Knicks had the #1 offense in the league—but the #25 defense. They were a Ferrari with no brakes.
D'Antoni's gaze shifted to the 6'8" frame of Luke Thorne.
He didn't see a superstar, but he saw a weapon. Luke's reputation as a collegiate defensive monster had preceded him. In a draft where every team was hunting for "potential," 3-and-D specialists like Luke were often overlooked until the late first or early second round. They weren't flashy, but they were the glue that held championships together.
D'Antoni stepped closer, eyeing Luke's massive wingspan. "Incredible reach. You have the look of the next Raja Bell, kid. I want to see that intensity today. Show me you can make life miserable for whoever you're guarding."
He turned back to Atkinson. "Kenny, is the roster set? If everyone's here, let's stop talking and start playing."
Atkinson checked his list, marking a final check beside the names of the two Davidson stars. "Everyone is accounted for, Coach. We're ready."
D'Antoni clapped his hands, the sound echoing through the rafters. "Then let's get to it! Ball up!"