Marcus woke the next morning with a dull ache in his legs and shoulders. It was the kind of soreness that told him he had given everything the night before. The pain was not what made him smile. It was the memory of the crowd. The sound of the ball sliding through the net. That rush he had not felt in years. He lay there staring at the cracked paint on the ceiling letting it linger.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it expecting a few messages. The screen lit up again and again. Walt had called three times. Teammates from Hammond's squad had sent congratulations. Even players from the other team had messaged him a simple well played.
Then he saw the one that stopped him.
Hammond.
Meet me at Joe's Diner. 10 a.m. Don't be late.
The message pulled him out of bed faster than any alarm. Hammond did not schedule meetings without a reason.
Marcus pulled on a hoodie old joggers and his worn sneakers. He grabbed his keys and slipped his phone into his pocket. Morning traffic was already building and the sun sat low in the sky sharp enough to make him squint. The walk to Joe's took fifteen minutes. Long enough for his mind to run through every reason Hammond might want to see him.
Joe's Diner sat near the train station. A small place with peeling red paint and a flickering neon Open sign. When Marcus stepped inside the smell of bacon and strong coffee wrapped around him. Plates clinked. Voices murmured. It was the kind of place where the staff remembered faces.
Hammond sat in a corner booth with a half empty cup of coffee and a folded newspaper beside his plate. He looked up nodded once and motioned Marcus over.
"Morning" Marcus said sliding into the seat.
Hammond did not smile but his eyes were sharp. "You played well last night. Better than I've seen you in years."
Marcus shrugged though the words warmed him. "Felt good."
"That's why I asked you here" Hammond said leaning forward. "I've got something for you. Not just a spot on my team. Something bigger."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Bigger how?"
"There's a semi pro league starting next month" Hammond said. "Scouts will be there. I know the coach. I can get you in if you're ready."
Marcus blinked. "Semi pro. You're serious?"
"As serious as I get" Hammond said. "But there's a catch. They want commitment. No drinking. No missed practices. No excuses."
The words settled heavy in Marcus's chest. He thought about the cold beer waiting in his fridge. The nights when a drink had been the only thing that quieted his head. He rubbed the back of his neck buying time.
"I've been cutting back" he said softly.
Hammond shook his head. "Cutting back isn't enough. This is your shot. I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe you could take it. But I can't want it more than you do."
The waitress came by poured Marcus coffee and topped up Hammond's without asking. She smiled and moved on. The diner filled the silence around them.
Marcus thought about the Northside game. The roar when the shot fell. The way his pulse had jumped as teammates slapped his back. He had felt alive. Then he thought about mornings he barely remembered. About chances he had lost because of nights he chose wrong.
He looked up. "If I say yes I'm all in."
Hammond studied him for a long moment. "No half measures?"
"No half measures" Marcus said.
Hammond nodded. A small smile broke through. "Good. I'll call the coach tonight. First practice is in two weeks. That gives you fourteen days."
They finished their coffee in quiet. Hammond left cash on the table and walked out with a brief wave.
Marcus did not go home. He headed to the park instead. The court was mostly empty. Two kids shot at the far hoop. The sound of the ball echoed across the concrete.
Marcus dropped his bag on the bench laced up his sneakers and stood for a moment. The tight pull of the laces settled something inside him.
He started with sprints. The kind that burned his lungs. Sweat soaked his back as he moved into shooting drills. Every jumper felt like a promise. Not to Hammond. Not to scouts. To himself.
By the time the sun dipped low he stopped. His shirt clung to him. His legs felt heavy. His chest felt light.
On the way home he stopped at a convenience store. Cold air brushed his skin as he passed rows of beer and wine. The labels stared back at him like old friends.
He kept walking.
He grabbed a bottle of water paid and left. No one noticed. Marcus did.
That evening Walt called.
"Heard you got some good news."
"Yeah" Marcus said. "Big chance. But I've got to quit for real this time."
"Then do it" Walt replied. "We both know what happens when you don't."
Marcus smiled faintly. "You're right."
"You've got fourteen days" Walt said. "Make them count."
That night Marcus lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Fourteen days.
It did not sound like much. But it felt like the start of something real.
This time he was not going to let it slip.