The air in the green room was thick enough to taste, a cloying mix of new carpet, hairspray, and the collective anxiety of twenty young men waiting for their lives to be split into a 'before' and 'after'. Alex Ryder sat at a small, round table, a glass of ice water sweating onto the white linen in front of him. He watched a single bead of condensation trace a path down the side of the glass, a slow, deliberate journey that felt like the last calm thing in the universe.
He'd chosen a simple, dark grey suit. It was a stark contrast to the shimmering fabrics and jeweled watches adorning the other prospects. Kenyon Martin, all swagger and bravado, held court at the center of the room, his smile as bright as the diamond stud in his ear. Stromile Swift looked like a panther poured into a pinstripe suit, coiled and ready. Alex felt the gulf between them, the chasm of pedigree. They were products of the NCAA machine, polished and presented for this exact moment. He was the anomaly, the question mark from a smaller conference who had clawed his way into this room on the back of relentless workouts and a string of undeniable stats against second-tier competition.
His agent, David Falk, sat beside him, a statue of implacable confidence. Falk didn't fidget. He didn't sweat. He simply existed, a gravitational force in a room full of orbiting bodies. He hadn't said a word in ten minutes.
"You're quiet," Alex murmured, his voice low.
Falk's eyes didn't leave the massive screen displaying the broadcast feed. "No need to talk. The talking is done. Now we listen."
On the screen, NBA Commissioner David Stern, looking smaller and more severe than he did in person, strode to the podium. The low hum of chatter in the room died instantly, replaced by the crisp, amplified sound of Stern's footsteps on the stage. A crackle of feedback from the microphone, then silence. "Good evening, and welcome to the 2000 NBA Draft, live from the Target Center in Minneapolis."
Alex's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. He took a slow sip of water, the ice clinking against his teeth.
"With the first pick," Stern's voice boomed, echoing slightly, "the New Jersey Nets select Kenyon Martin from the University of Cincinnati."
A roar went up from Martin's table. He leapt to his feet, embracing his family, his face split by a grin of pure, unadulterated triumph. Alex watched him go, a pang of something he couldn't name—envy, respect, a desperate yearning—twisting in his gut. One down.
"With the second pick, the Vancouver Grizzlies select Stromile Swift, from Louisiana State University."
Another explosion of cheers, another handshake, another walk to the stage. Alex's leg began to bounce under the table, a betrayal of the calm he was trying to project. He forced it still. Falk glanced at him, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Breathe, kid. Your range is four to nine. It's a lock. We just don't know which door the key fits."
"With the third pick," Stern continued, "the Los Angeles Clippers select Darius Miles, from East St. Louis High School."
The room buzzed. A high schooler. Alex felt a cold knot form in his stomach. The league was changing, enamored with raw potential, with the idea of what a player could be. He was twenty-one. In this room, that almost felt old. He had built his game on fundamentals, on footwork, on a reliable jump shot—the solid, unglamorous architecture of basketball. Miles was a highlight reel incarnate.
"The Bulls are a possibility," Falk said, his voice a low conspiracy. "Krause likes you. But he also likes Fizer. Fizer is the safe pick. Big body, Big Ten Player of the Year. Chicago needs a banger down low."
"The Magic?" Alex asked, his own voice sounding distant.
"They want a scorer to pair with McGrady, now that Hill is there. They'd take you at five. But they'd rather have Fizer fall to them." Falk finally turned to look at him directly. "Listen to me. The Bulls are the pivot point. Krause is an iconoclast. He loves to outsmart the room. He either plays it safe with Fizer, or he rolls the dice on you. You're the high-ceiling, high-risk play. The guy who can run an offense or finish on the wing. That versatility is either your greatest asset or what makes you a man without a position."
Alex said nothing. He just nodded, his gaze fixed on the stage. He remembered the workout in Chicago. The squeak of his sneakers on the floor of the Berto Center, the ghostly silence of the empty facility. Jerry Krause had watched him for two hours, his portly figure stationary in the stands, his eyes narrowed behind thick glasses. He hadn't offered a word of encouragement. He'd just watched. At the very end, as Alex was gasping for air after a final set of suicides, their eyes met across the court. And in Krause's gaze, Alex saw something beyond evaluation. It wasn't approval, not exactly. It was recognition. A flicker of a secret understood.
On the screen, the clock for the fourth pick was ticking down. The commentators were chattering, filling the air with speculation. "All signs point to Marcus Fizer," one of them said. "The Bulls need toughness and a post-presence to start this rebuild."
Fizer, seated two tables over, looked confident. He was already nodding along, a small smile playing on his lips.
"The Chicago Bulls are on the clock," Stern announced, his voice cutting through the noise. He held the card in his hand. The camera zoomed in on his face. For a single, heart-stopping second, Alex felt the world warp around him, the ambient noise dissolving into a high-pitched whine. He saw the memory of Krause's eyes, clear as day.
"With the fourth pick in the 2000 NBA Draft," Stern said, and the silence in the room became absolute, a physical pressure. "The Chicago Bulls select... Alex Ryder, from Western Michigan University."
The sound didn't return. It was replaced by a deafening, internal roar. For a moment, Alex was sure he'd misheard. He looked at Falk, whose face was a mask of cold, calculated victory. A slow, thin smile spread across his lips. "I told you," the agent said, his voice seeming to come from a great distance. "He loves to outsmart the room." Across the room, Marcus Fizer's smile had vanished, replaced by a look of stark, naked disbelief that quickly hardened into resentment. The camera panned to him for a moment, capturing it all.
Then the world came rushing back in a chaotic wave of sound and light. The polite, slightly stunned applause. The murmurings of the commentators, their voices laced with shock. "Well, this is a surprise! Jerry Krause has thrown the first major curveball of the draft!"
A hand clapped his shoulder. Falk. "Get up, kid. Go shake the man's hand. Your life just changed."
Alex stood, his legs feeling like they were carved from wood. He saw his mother through a blur of tears, her face a beautiful mess of joy and shock. He leaned down and hugged her tightly, smelling her perfume, the one solid thing in this tilting universe. He hugged his younger sister, who was screaming with excitement. He turned back to Falk, who simply nodded once. "Go on."
The walk to the stage was a dream. The flashes from the photographers' cameras were like strobing explosions, bleaching the world white for a split second, then plunging it back into a smear of colors and indistinct faces. He kept his eyes on Stern, a fixed point in the storm. He shook the commissioner's hand, a firm, dry grip. The man leaned in. "Congratulations, son. You've got some big shoes to fill in that city."
Someone handed him a hat. Chicago Bulls. He put it on. Someone else handed him a jersey. It was heavy, the fabric thick and unfamiliar. He held it up for the cameras, forcing a smile that felt tight and unnatural on his face. The lights were blinding, hot. He was an astronaut on a new planet.
He looked down at the jersey in his hands. Red, with black trim. Across the chest, the iconic BULLS font. And below it, the number. 8. They had given him number 8—a new beginning, a number not tied to the past. He just stared at it, the weight of a ghost settling onto his shoulders. The smile on his face never wavered, but behind his eyes, the celebration had already ended. The work, the impossible work, had just begun.