Elias joined the team's training quietly, without announcement, without ceremony.
The North Gate practice court was alive with movement—bodies sliding across hardwood, balls bouncing in steady rhythms, sneakers squealing with every sharp cut.
The air smelled of effort already, even though the morning had just begun. For Elias, the sound was familiar, comforting, and intimidating all at once. This was not the neighborhood gym. This was not the dusty street court where mistakes disappeared with laughter.
This was the big league.
Assistant Coach Ed Witsel clapped his hands sharply, commanding attention. His voice carried authority earned through years of repetition.
"Alright, let's move! Warm-up drills first. No shortcuts!"
The players broke into lines. Elias fell in naturally, neither forcing his presence nor shrinking from it. He felt eyes on him—curious, doubtful, measuring. He understood them. If he were in their place, he might look the same way.
Thirty-eight years old.
First pick.
Unusual didn't even begin to cover it.
They started with basic movement drills. Defensive slides. Close-outs. Passing patterns. Over and over again, Coach Ed corrected foot angles, hand placement, spacing. Elias listened carefully, absorbing instructions with the seriousness of a student who knew he could not afford arrogance.
His body responded slower than the youngest players, but smarter. Where others relied on speed, Elias relied on timing. He anticipated where the ball would go before it moved. He made the extra pass instinctively. He talked—quietly but clearly—calling screens, warning of switches.
Joe Cruz, the team captain, noticed.
Joe was a sturdy forward with years of scars etched into his game. He had carried this team through losing seasons and public doubt. He didn't smile much during practice, but he watched everything.
Beside him ran Lord Victor, the veteran point guard. Quick-minded, sharp-tongued, respected. Lord had seen hype come and go. He had no patience for gimmicks.
When Elias made a clean defensive rotation, Lord nodded once.
That nod meant more than applause.
Ritchie Santino struggled early, fighting nerves more than defenders. Elias caught it immediately.
"Relax," Elias murmured to him during a break. "Rebounds come when you stop chasing them."
Santino blinked. "What?"
"Just box out. Let the ball find you."
The next drill, Santino grabbed three straight boards.
Coach Ed blew his whistle and gathered everyone at midcourt. Head Coach Fran Delgado stepped forward, clipboard under his arm, expression firm.
"Listen up," Fran said. "In the coming weeks, we'll be playing tune-up games."
Murmurs rippled through the group.
"These games are not about winning every matchup," Fran continued. "They are about building habits. Chemistry. Understanding."
Coach Ed took over. "We will track our stats closely. Ball movement. Defensive efficiency. Turnovers. Communication. That's our priority."
Elias felt a quiet agreement settle in his chest. Winning mattered—but not yet. Survival came first.
The drills intensified. Scrimmages followed. Elias rotated with different units, learning tendencies quickly. He missed a shot. He didn't flinch. He made a steal. He didn't celebrate. He stayed present.
When practice finally ended, sweat soaked through his shirt, legs heavy but steady, Elias felt something he hadn't in a long time.
Belonging.
The team gathered their bags, laughter and exhaustion mixing. Joe Cruz clapped his hands.
"Clean up fast," Joe said. "Owner's treating us to dinner."
A few players cheered.
They boarded the team bus as the sun dipped lower, orange streaks reflecting off the arena windows. Elias sat near the middle, Santino beside him, Lord Victor across the aisle scrolling through his phone.
The Sea Side Food Haus greeted them with salty air and warm lights. Long tables waited, food already steaming. Laughter came easier here. Plates piled high. Stories flowed.
Elias ate quietly, listening. Learning personalities. Lord Victor joked about missed shots. Joe teased rookies. Santino laughed too loudly, nerves finally fading.
Then Charles Northgate stood.
He tapped his glass gently until silence followed.
"Guys," Charles said, smiling broadly, "I won't keep this long."
He looked around the table, eyes warm but serious.
"For every game we win this season, we will make a donation to a school."
A murmur of approval rippled through the players.
"And," Charles added, "I'll give two hundred dollars to the Player of the Game. A hundred dollar to the player who got most rebond. A hundred dollar to the one who got most steels and a hundred dollar to the one who gets most blocks. Thats 's five hundred total if only one person will get that four top spot."
Every one clap hard.
"Plus 1 dollar for every free throws made by each players," Charles added.
Laughter followed.
"Any player can get that cash incentives even after the game," Eliza's assurance.
"But more than that," Charles continued, "I want you to understand something. This team represents more than wins and losses. You represent hope—to kids watching, to communities forgotten, to yourselves."
His gaze lingered briefly on Elias.
"Let's play with purpose."
Applause followed, genuine and loud.
Elias lowered his head slightly, absorbing the weight of it all. For the first time, he wasn't chasing the dream alone.
He was part of something bigger.
And tomorrow, the real work would begin.