Marcus woke earlier than usual. The room was still dark and the curtains held back the first hint of morning. His body was tired but his mind was already moving.
Fourteen days.
Hammond's words echoed in his head. Fourteen days to be ready. Not just for the court. For himself.
He sat on the edge of the bed with his hands pressed to his face. There was no space left for doubt. Chances like this did not come twice. He had seen what happened to players who wasted them. They faded. They became stories people told with a shake of the head. He had almost become one of them.
Marcus tied his sneakers and stepped outside. The air was cool and sharp against his skin. The street was nearly empty. A milk truck rattled past. An old woman swept her doorstep. He started jogging.
His shoes struck the pavement in a steady rhythm. With every step he felt like he was running away from the man he used to be. The nights lost to drink. The mornings full of regret. Sweat gathered at his temples but he did not slow down. In his head a clock ticked. Every second brought him closer to the first semi pro practice.
By the time he reached the park the sun was breaking through the clouds. The court lay open in front of him. Cracked in places. Lines faded. Still, it felt like home.
At one end a young boy struggled with the ball. It bounced too high and slipped away from him. Marcus slowed and watched.
"Eyes up" Marcus said as he walked over. "The ball will follow."
The boy looked startled then tried again. This time his head stayed up. The bounce steadied. Control came back. His face lit up.
"Like that?" he asked.
"Exactly" Marcus said with a nod.
It reminded him of his own childhood. How a single word from an older player could stay with you for days. Marcus picked up his bag and moved to the other hoop.
The moment the ball touched his hands the world narrowed. He went through his routine. Corner shots. Layups with both hands. Free throws. Each shot felt like a promise. His arms grew heavy. His legs burned. Still, he kept going.
Time slipped by unnoticed.
"Planning to collapse out here?"
Marcus turned. Walt stood near the sideline holding two bottles of water. He tossed one over.
"You've been here three hours" Walt said. "Trying to finish yourself before the big day?"
Marcus smiled tiredly and wiped his face. "If I do just bury me at half court."
Walt shook his head but smiled. He could see it now. The fire. This was not the man who had been drowning himself. This was the competitor.
They sat together in silence for a while. Drinking. Breathing. Sometimes words were not needed. When Marcus stood his legs shook but his eyes were alive.
That evening Marcus wandered into a small café near the train station. He had passed it many times but never gone in. Warm light spilled through the windows. The smell of coffee pulled him inside.
At a corner table sat the girl he had noticed days earlier. She was bent over a notebook sketching. Hair falling across her face. Marcus almost walked past.
Instead, he stopped.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked.
She looked up surprised then smiled. "Go ahead."
Her name was Lena. She studied architecture though she admitted she spent more time drawing than studying. Marcus talked about basketball. About the sound of the crowd. About the feeling of a perfect shot. The conversation flowed easily.
When the café closed, they stepped outside together. Streetlights painted the road yellow. They walked slowly. Marcus found himself opening up. About the final. About losing himself. About Hammond.
Lena listened without interrupting.
At the corner where they parted Marcus felt something new settle inside him. Hope. Calm. Something steady.
Back in his apartment the old Marcus would have gone straight to the fridge. Tonight, he did not. He washed his face set his alarm earlier than usual and climbed into bed.
Tomorrow he would train harder. Tomorrow he would be sharper.
The countdown had begun.
For the first time in years Marcus was not afraid of it.