The shock of the first pick lingered like a held breath long after the commissioner's voice faded from the speakers.
North Gate Buffalo had already broken the night.
Now they had to survive it.
Coach Fran Delgado sat at the long table, shoulders squared, jaw tight. Around him, assistants shifted in their seats, whispering into tablets, flipping pages, recalculating boards that no longer made sense. The name Elias Moreno glowed on the draft screen above them like a quiet accusation.
Thirty-eight.
First pick.
Owner's decision.
Fran had been in basketball long enough to know when an argument was over. This was one of those moments. Still, the season wouldn't wait for emotions to settle. Games would come. Matchups would expose holes mercilessly. And if North Gate was going to survive this gamble, they needed to build around it—fast.
The league officials signaled that the next selection window was opening.
Fran leaned forward.
"Alright," he said quietly, but with authority. "We adjust."
No one argued. They all knew what that meant.
Before the first pick, they had planned for youth, speed, upside. Now they needed structure. Balance. Someone who could do the work no headline ever praised.
Fran's eyes scanned the remaining board.
Bigs.
Rebounders.
Players who didn't need the ball to matter.
His finger stopped.
Ritchie Santino.
Power Forward.
Twenty-one years old.
Strong frame. Raw offense. Elite motor. The scouting report was blunt: limited ceiling, high floor.
Exactly what they needed.
"He boxes out like his life depends on it," Fran said, more to himself than anyone else. "He won't complain. He won't disappear."
Assistant Coach Ben nodded. "He covers space."
"That's the point," Fran replied. "We've created space whether we like it or not."
When North Gate's turn came again, the announcer's voice returned, steadier this time, familiar.
"With their next selection, the North Gate Buffalo choose… Ritchie Santino."
The reaction was immediate—and mercifully normal.
Applause rolled through the hall. Analysts nodded into their microphones. Cameras cut to Fran, who gave a brief, professional smile. This was a pick the basketball world understood.
Ritchie Santino sat frozen for a moment, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. When the realization hit, he stood so quickly his chair nearly tipped. His hands shook as he smoothed his suit, breath uneven, heart pounding with disbelief and joy.
As he walked toward the stage, he passed Elias Moreno.
For a split second, their eyes met.
Ritchie nodded—respectful, instinctive.
Elias nodded back.
No words were exchanged, but something passed between them. An understanding. One man stepping into the beginning of his dream. Another stepping into its last possible doorway.
When the final selections were announced and the commissioner formally closed the draft, the night shifted.
The spectacle ended.
The storm began.
Reporters surged toward the North Gate table, voices overlapping, questions sharp and relentless.
"Why Elias Moreno?"
"Is this a rebuild or a publicity move?"
"Does North Gate still believe in analytics?"
Microphones were thrust forward. Cameras zoomed in. Analysts shouted from across the aisle.
Eliza Northgate rose calmly, her posture composed, her face unreadable. She did not slow her pace. She did not answer a single question.
Coach Fran followed, eyes straight ahead, expression carved from discipline.
Elias felt the pull of attention without fully understanding it. He wasn't used to being hunted by curiosity. Assistant Coach Ben stepped in close, subtly guiding him through the chaos.
"Stay with me," Ben murmured. "Eyes forward."
They exited without explanation.
And that silence became the loudest statement of the night.
Later, far from the bright lights and unanswered questions, Ben finally allowed himself to breathe.
"There's a place nearby," he said, adjusting his coat. "Quiet. Good food. Thought we could talk like humans again."
Elias nodded. "I'd like that."
Ritchie, still glowing with disbelief, laughed nervously. "I've never eaten draft-night food before. Is that a thing?"
Ben smiled. "It is tonight."
They went together—Elias, Ritchie, Eliza, and a few members of the staff—to a well-known restaurant tucked away from the city's noise. No banners. No cameras. Just warm light, low conversation, and the smell of real food.
One absence was noticeable.
Charles Northgate wasn't there.
No one mentioned it, but Elias felt it. The man who had spoken his name into existence remained a shadow—for now.
They sat at a long table. Plates arrived. Water glasses clinked softly. The tension that had gripped the night slowly loosened.
Eliza lifted her glass.
"Welcome to the Buffalo," she said. Simple. Direct.
Ritchie flushed red. "Thank you. I swear—I'll do whatever the team needs."
Elias waited before speaking. When he did, his voice was steady.
"Thank you for the chance."
Ben leaned back, studying him. "Training camp details will come soon. Keep your phones close. This league doesn't wait."
Eliza nodded. "My father will meet you both soon. He prefers… fewer distractions."
Elias understood that more deeply than he let on.
They ate. They talked—not about systems or expectations, but about cities, food, small things. Ritchie laughed easily, his youth filling the space. Elias listened, absorbing the rhythm of his new reality.
When the night ended, handshakes were exchanged. Promises made quietly.
Outside, the city had softened.
Ritchie left buzzing with excitement, practically floating toward his future.
Eliza departed with the staff.
Elias stood alone for a moment, looking up at the sky framed by concrete and glass.
Instead of heading home, he turned the other way.
The church was small, its doors open, lights low. Elias slipped inside, sat in the back pew, and bowed his head.
No cameras.
No questions.
Just gratitude.
He didn't ask for success.
He didn't ask for glory.
He didn't ask for money.
But his heart is still in cloud nine.
The only thing he can say that time is a simply thank you God—for the chance to try.