He dropped his bag on the sideline—black, understated, the thing that looked like quality without screaming money. Inside was his training kit: compression shirt, performance shorts, shoes that had cost more than some people's rent but were designed to look like regular high-end athletic gear rather than "billionaire's nephew" gear.
Only he knew how expensive it all was.
Everyone else just saw a guy who took care of his equipment.
Good enough.
The spectators—about twenty of them scattered across mismatched lawn chairs, overturned crates, and one truly ancient bleacher that looked like it remembered segregation—perked up at the commotion.
"Yo, is that him?"
"The Paradise kid?"
"He ain't from Paradise, look at him. Paradise kids don't take taxis to this side of town."
"I'm telling you, I saw him get out of a Mercedes last week—"
"That was a taxi, dumbass. A black taxi. Not everything black and shiny is a Mercedes."
