The gym was dark when Dante arrived. Not silent, there was always a faint hum in a place like that, but empty, echoing, waiting to come alive. The only light poured in through the high windows, painting pale lines across the hardwood. He dropped his bag by the bleachers and walked to the center circle, his sneakers squeaking faintly.
6:00 a.m. sharp.
Coach Hale emerged from the shadows near the equipment room, holding a rack of balls.
"You're early."
"I couldn't sleep."
Coach nodded approvingly. "Good. Sleep when you've earned it."
They didn't waste time. No greetings, no pep talk. Just movement. Coach Hale fed him passes from the top of the key. Jumper after jumper. No dribbling, no hesi, just footwork, rhythm, repetition.
"Catch, plant, rise. Again."
Sweat started to bead at Dante's temples, running down his arms. The ball snapped against the backboard, swished through the net, or clanged off the iron. Coach didn't flinch either way.
"Your shot's decent. Not clean enough yet. You gotta be automatic. Ain't no time for second guesses when the lights are on."
By 6:45, his shoulders ached, and his shirt clung to his back. Coach Hale finally waved him off and tossed him a water bottle.
"You got the tools," he said. "But there's a price. Are you willing to pay it?"
Dante took a long drink, breathing heavy. "I already am."
Coach cracked a rare smile. "Good. Varsity practice starts Monday. Until then, we meet every morning."
Dante nodded, then turned back to the court. "Can I keep shooting?"
Coach raised a brow but didn't object. "Lights stay on another 30. Earn your rhythm."
And Dante did.
By the time the first period rolled around, Dante had already put up over 400 shots. He dragged his sore legs through the crowded hallway, hoodie up, earbuds in. Rico caught up with him just outside their economics class.
"Bro, you look cooked. You good?"
Dante gave a small nod. "Coach had me in the gym early."
Rico opened his mouth to joke, but stopped. Something in Dante's eyes, tired but locked in, made him pause.
"Damn. You're really on your Kobe."
"I have to be."
They walked in together, settling into the back row. While the teacher droned on about supply and demand curves, Dante's mind stayed in motion. The gym. His mother's tired face at dinner. Rico's warning. Coach Hale's words. Everything was starting to blur together.
At lunch, a few varsity players stopped by Dante's table.
One of them, Andre, a long-armed forward with a sharp smile, nodded. "Heard you locked Malik down yesterday."
"I got lucky," Dante replied flatly.
Andre chuckled. "Ain't no such thing in hoops. Coach sees something in you. Hope you're ready."
Then, more quietly, "Lincoln eats its own, freshman. Stay sharp."
Dante didn't flinch. "I'm not here to get eaten."
After school, he found his mom on the couch, asleep, with the TV still on and a bowl of half-eaten noodles in her lap. Her shoes were still on. She hadn't even made it to her room.
Dante gently took the bowl, turned off the TV, and covered her with a blanket.
She stirred slightly. "That you, baby?"
"Yeah, Ma. Just got in."
"Eat something, alright? I brought back leftovers."
"I will. Rest."
As she drifted back to sleep, Dante stepped into the kitchen, grabbed a paper plate, and nuked the container she'd brought home. His eyes were heavy, but his spirit buzzed.
He was starting to understand something no one told him directly:
The road to greatness didn't start under bright lights.
It started in silence. In pain. In choices no one clapped for.
Later that evening, just as he was about to crash, Rico called.
"You seen the Lincoln High Hoops page?"
Dante frowned, rubbing his eyes. "What?"
"Coach posted highlights from practice. Your block on Malik's floater made the reel. It's got like... 800 views already. You people talking."
Dante opened the app, and there it was, his name in the caption.
"Fresh blood. Don't blink," said the caption.
He didn't know whether to feel proud or hunted.
It was 5:53 a.m. when Dante walked in, hoodie up, bag slung over one shoulder, and eyes still adjusting to the lights. Coach Hale was already on the court, sipping from a thermos and watching him like a hawk.
"You're early," Coach said.
Dante shrugged, dropped his bag, and pulled out his shoes. "Didn't sleep much."
Coach gave a small nod. "That'll change. This grind has a way of putting you to sleep real good."
They started with shooting drills. Spot-ups. Pull-ups. One-dribble jumpers from both wings. No talking, just the sound of the ball bouncing and the swish or clang of each shot. Coach rebounded silently, passing the ball back with precision every time.
"Again," he'd say. "Feet set. Ball high. Shoot through."
It was brutal, but Dante loved it. Every repetition was a reminder of what he wanted, no, what he needed to become. He wasn't here to just blend in with Lincoln's elite program. He was here to own it.
After thirty minutes of shooting, they moved to ball-handling. Two-ball drills. Cone crossovers. Pull-back hesi's into jumpers. His arms started to burn, but Dante didn't complain.
Coach finally blew the whistle. "Grab water."
As Dante leaned down, hands on knees, sweat dripping off his chin, Coach spoke again. "You know what separates the ones who make it?"
Dante looked up.
"It's not height. Not speed. Not even talent. It's intention. What you decide to sacrifice to be better than the man next to you."
Dante stood straight. "Then I'll out-sacrifice everyone."
Coach stared at him for a long moment. "Good. Because I've seen your type before. Quiet. Dangerous. But you've got to want it more than sleep. More than parties. More than being liked. That a problem?"
"No, sir."
Coach Hale cracked the slightest smile. "Good answer."
By the time the regular school day started, Dante had already put up 500 shots, done countless dribbling drills, and run lines until his legs begged for rest. He showered in the locker room, slipped on his school hoodie, and walked the halls like a ghost moving through fog. Focused. Unbothered.
Word of his varsity scrimmage had gotten around. Whispers followed him.
"That's the new guy who clamped Malik."
"He's not even supposed to be varsity yet."
"Coach Hale's pet project?"
He ignored them.
During lunch, he sat with Rico in the back of the cafeteria. Rico was already chewing on a sandwich, tossing occasional nods to people who passed by.
"So," Rico said through a mouthful, "you gonna tell me how it felt to run with the big dogs?"
Dante sipped water and smirked. "Fast. Aggressive. But it fits."
Rico leaned in slightly. "Yeah, but watch your back. You shook the tree. Now the snakes are watching."
Dante nodded. He wasn't naive. Gaining respect this fast meant he'd be a target. Not just on the court, but off it too. The social game was just as brutal: jealous teammates, coaches with favorites, girls who saw him as a name before a person.
But he wasn't here for distractions.
He checked his phone, another message from Coach.
"Film room after school. Bring a notebook."
Dante tucked it away and stood. "Gotta go. See you at practice."
Rico gave him a fist bump. "Keep grinding, D. I'm watching you rise."
That afternoon, in the film room, Coach Hale broke down tape from the morning.
"See here," he paused the screen, showing Dante on defense, "your stance is solid, but your hips are a half-second late on that turn. A better guard would've cooked you."
Dante scribbled notes furiously, nodding.
Coach hit play again. "Now this, perfect read. You stayed home, forced the miss. That's varsity IQ."
For the next hour, they studied every frame. Every close out. Every angle. It was exhausting in a different way, but Dante soaked it all in.
As the sun dipped behind the buildings outside, casting long shadows into the room, Coach finally leaned back in his chair.
"You've got the tools. But tools without blueprint? They build nothing."
Dante looked up, eyes sharp. "Then give me the blueprint."
Coach smiled.
"Alright, then. Let's build a monster."