Elias woke before the sun, the way he had trained himself to do for years—not because an alarm demanded it, but because his body already understood the weight of opportunity.
This morning felt different.
Not heavier. Sharper.
He sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, hands resting on his knees, breathing slowly. He checked his left knee out of habit, gently flexing it, rolling his ankle, standing up carefully. No pain. No protest. Just quiet strength. The kind earned, not given.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's go."
He moved through his small apartment with deliberate calm. He packed a worn duffel bag, placing each item inside as if following a ritual: rubber shoes, neatly folded socks, a white sando, black shorts. Last, he paused before lifting the jersey.
North Gate Buffalo.
The fabric felt unreal in his hands—lighter than it looked on television, heavier in meaning than anything he had worn before. He folded it carefully and placed it on top.
No big breakfast. Just coffee.
He stood by the kitchen counter, mug warm between his palms, staring out the small window as the sky slowly lightened.
Somewhere in the city, young players were already stretching, already sweating, already dreaming. Elias took one last sip, set the mug down, and grabbed his bag.
He didn't look back.
The North Gate Arena loomed larger than he imagined. Steel, glass, banners from seasons long past—some glorious, many painful. Elias parked and sat for a second inside his car, listening to his own breathing, steady but deep.
This is real.
Inside, the echo of bouncing balls greeted him immediately. Sneakers squeaked against polished wood. Whistles cut through the air.
The smell of sweat and disinfectant mixed with something electric—anticipation.
Young players ran drills in sharp lines. Bodies moved fast, springy, hungry. Elias watched quietly from the sideline, noting footwork, spacing, mistakes. The game still spoke to him in a language he never forgot.
"Yo!"
He turned to see Ritchie Santino jogging toward him, towel over his shoulder, grin wide.
"Hey, bro," Santino said, extending a hand.
"You ready?"
Elias shook it firmly. "Always ready, bro."
Santino laughed. "Man, you don't look thirty-eight."
Elias smiled. "Don't worry. I feel it sometimes."
Before more words could be exchanged, a sharp whistle echoed across the court.
Assistant Coach Ed Witsel stood at center court, clipboard in hand.
"Alright, everyone in!" he called. "Circle up!"
Players gathered quickly. Elias and Santino stood side by side, the two newest names in the room—one young and untested, the other old and doubted.
Ed cleared his throat. "Welcome to training camp. Before we begin, I want to introduce our new draftees."
He gestured. "Ritchie Santino."
A few nods. Polite claps.
"And Elias Moreno."
This time, the reaction was different. Curious eyes. Measuring looks. A few raised eyebrows. Elias met them calmly, chin up, shoulders relaxed. He had learned long ago not to shrink.
Before Ed could continue, a woman approached quietly from the tunnel—Nathy.
She leaned toward the assistant coach and whispered something.
Ed nodded. "Elias—Mr. Moreno—can you step aside for a moment?"
Elias blinked. "Yes, coach."
As he followed Nathy down the hallway, the sounds of practice faded behind them.
"So," Nathy said with a friendly smile, "how's your first day?"
"So far, so good," Elias replied honestly.
She hesitated, then added, "Do you know why the team owner wants to speak with you?"
Elias shook his head. "No idea. Honestly… it's making my heart beat a little faster."
Nathy chuckled softly. "You're not alone. This is the first time a new draftee has been called for a closed-door meeting on day one."
That didn't help his pulse.
They stopped in front of a large wooden door.
"Here we are, Mr. Moreno," Nathy said. "Mr. Charles Northgate and his daughter are inside."
She knocked lightly, then opened the door.
"Good day, sir," she said. "Elias is here."
"Thank you, Nathy," a deep voice replied.
"You may close the door."
Elias stepped in.
The room was spacious, lined with framed photographs of past teams, trophies dulled by time, and large windows overlooking the empty court. Eliza Northgate stood near the table, arms folded, speaking quietly with Head Coach Fran Delgado.
At the far end of the room sat Charles Northgate—his chair turned away, phone pressed to his ear.
"Please have a seat, Elias," Charles said without turning. "Let me finish this call."
Elias obeyed, heart pounding. He glanced around, absorbing the weight of the room, the decisions made here, the careers ended and reborn. Something about Charles's voice tugged at his memory—deep, familiar, almost unsettling.
Where have I heard that voice before?
The call ended. The chair turned.
Charles stood up.
"Hey, buddy," he said with a wide grin, extending his hand. "What took you so long to come here?"
Elias froze.
Then his eyes widened.
"…Charles?" he breathed.
Eliza's eyes snapped between them. Coach Fran's brows shot up.
Charles laughed and pulled Elias into a tight hug. "It's me, Mr. Big Shot."
Elias hugged him back, disbelief melting into laughter. "Is that really you?"
"Still alive. Still stubborn," Charles said. "And still waiting for you."
Coach Fran shook his head slowly. "Well," he muttered, "now everything makes sense."
Eliza stared at her father. "You know each other?"
Charles clapped Elias on the shoulder. "Know him? I played with him. This man carried me in college."
Elias smiled sheepishly. "You were no slouch yourself."
"So why only now?" Charles asked, suddenly serious. "Why did it take you so long to chase this league?"
Elias exhaled. "Fear. Injury. Life. And maybe… I finally found the courage."
Charles nodded. "Injuries heal. Age happens. But fire?" He tapped Elias's chest. "That stays."
Eliza looked thoughtful. "So that's why you chose him."
"Yes, my dear," Charles said simply.
He turned to Coach Fran. "Give him real minutes. Let him prove it."
Fran met Elias's eyes, then nodded once. "Understood."
Charles smiled. "Eliza, call Nathy. Tell everyone—we're having a team dinner later."
As Eliza moved to comply, Elias stood quietly, heart full, grounded not by promises—but by trust.
And for the first time since the draft, he felt something deeper than excitement.
He felt home.