The gym smelled like fresh polish and sweat, an odd mix of preparation and pressure. Lincoln High's warm-up jerseys rippled as the players moved in sync, each pass crisp, each layup smooth. Dante King stood at half-court, his headphones still on, eyes locked on the far rim. The voices of his teammates blurred in the background. His heartbeat was steady. Focused.
This game was different.
Not because of the opponent, Franklin Prep had a reputation, sure. But what made this night heavier was who was in the stands. The ones watching.
University scouts. Three of them, maybe more. Dante had caught a glimpse of their collared shirts and clipboards during shoot around. Southern Evandy. Ridge. Possibly even Stanford. But they weren't the only eyes that mattered. His mom, Alicia, sat in the third row, in the same spot every game. Rico's uncle, who always shouted like he was coaching from the bleachers, was here too. And Janelle? She sat close to the baseline with a camera in hand, pretending not to look when he glanced her way.
"Yo." Rico slapped Dante's chest with the back of his hand. "You locked in?"
Dante nodded, finally removing his headphones. "More than ever."
Coach Hale gathered the team at the bench. "Franklin's gonna press hard. They know y'all like to run. Stay patient. Control the tempo. Dante."
"I got it, Coach," Dante said before he could finish.
Coach Hale gave him a nod. Not just one of permission, but of trust.
The game tipped off.
Franklin came out fast, trapping, switching, double-teaming. It wasn't long before Lincoln trailed 8–2, their rhythm disrupted, their nerves exposed. But Dante didn't panic. He didn't bark orders or force plays. Instead, he slowed things down.
On the next possession, he called for a high screen from Rico. As the defender fought over it, Dante took a hard dribble left, stopped on a dime, and hit a mid-range jumper. The net barely moved.
8–4.
Then a steal. Rico poked the ball loose and launched it ahead. Andre caught it in stride, one defender between him and the rim. No hesitation, he exploded off his left foot and rose up. The gym erupted as he flushed the dunk with his right hand, landing with a glare that screamed we're here.
Tied at 10.
From the stands, murmurs grew. Clipboards scribbled notes. A camera zoomed in tighter.
By halftime, Lincoln led 38–34, largely due to Dante's 16 points, 6 assists, and 4 rebounds. But it wasn't just the stats; it was how he carried the team, how he read the game like a second language.
Inside the locker room, the air was tense but electric.
"They're getting frustrated," Coach Hale said. "They're reaching, over-helping. Dante, keep punishing those gaps. Rico, stay aggressive. Andre, keep it up. The corner's yours."
Dante sat at the edge of the bench, towel over his shoulders, head bowed.
"You good?" Jalen, the backup shooting guard, asked from across the room.
Dante looked up. "Yeah. Just thinking about the second half."
But it wasn't just the game. He was thinking about what all this meant. About the pressure that came with being watched. Not just by scouts, but by the people who wanted to see him win, or fail.
The third quarter started with a bang.
Franklin's point guard hit back-to-back threes, putting Lincoln down again. But Dante answered with a pull-up from NBA range, followed by a no-look dime to Rico for a corner three. Then came the move everyone would talk about for weeks.
Andre passed the ball to Dante. He crossed over left, then right, sent his man sliding, then rose for a jumper, mid-air, he adjusted as a second defender flew in, double-clutched, and banked it in off the glass.
The gym lost it.
Even Coach Hale, usually composed, slapped the scorer's table with a laugh.
Dante jogged back down the court, face patient, but inside he felt the shift. He knew eyes were on him. He knew every move was being noted. And he loved it.
By the end of the third quarter, Lincoln had extended their lead to 61–52.
In the final minutes, Dante slowed the pace. He ran the clock, controlled the tempo, and made the safe passes. Every possession had a purpose. Franklin threw traps, but Lincoln danced through them. When they fouled, he calmly hit free throws.
Final score: Lincoln 74, Franklin 67.
Dante finished with 27 points, 10 assists, 7 rebounds, and 2 steals.
After the game, Coach Hale clapped him on the back.
"You made believers out of some folks tonight."
Dante exhaled. "I hope so."
From the corner of his eye, he saw a man in a dark blazer approach, clipboard in hand, university logo peeking from his shirt. Southern Nevada.
"Dante King?" the man said, extending his hand.
Dante shook it. "That's me."
"I'm Coach Wilkins. Assistant from USN. We've been following your game for a while. Tonight confirmed what we already suspected."
Dante didn't say anything, just nodded slowly.
"You're special, son. We'd love to have a more in-depth conversation soon. You've got the kind of tranquility and court vision that doesn't come around often."
Dante felt the weight of those words. Special. Poise. Vision.
As Coach Wilkins walked off, Dante spotted Janelle at the edge of the gym. Her camera hung from her neck, but her eyes weren't behind the lens this time. She was just watching him.
"You were different tonight," she said when he got close.
"I had to be," he replied.
She smiled. "And they saw it. All of them."
Coach Hale wrapped up the post-game talk with a gruff nod, signaling the team to break. The room buzzed with quiet congratulations, chest bumps, and back slaps. Dante sat back, tugging his jersey over his head, still feeling the weight of the night. His 27-point performance had gotten the attention he knew it would, but it was what came next that would matter.
As the players filtered out, Rico lingered, waiting by the locker.
"You good, bro?" Rico asked.
"Yeah," Dante nodded, though his voice lacked certainty. "Just thinking."
Rico arched a brow. "Thinking about Janelle or thinking about the scouts?"
Dante cracked a grin. Janelle! They laugh.
"Both," he answered.
"Play like that again, and they'll be fighting over you," Rico said, nudging him. "Don't let it get to your head."
Outside the locker room, the hallway was crowded. A couple of local reporters waited with notebooks and phones ready. Dante stepped out, spotting Janelle standing off to the side, her camera already in hand. She gave him a subtle smile, then raised her phone.
"You busy?" she asked.
"Always," Dante said with a laugh, "but for you, I've got two minutes."
She chuckled and pressed record. "Dante King. Big win tonight, scouts in the stands, fans chanting your name. What's running through your mind?"
He took a breath. "Gratitude," he said honestly. "For my team, for Coach, for the people who believe in me. And for the ones watching, because I know they see everything. That pressure? I thrive in it, but most of it goes to my mom."
She lowered the phone, lips curling into something softer. "You're built for this."
Dante looked past her, noticing the subtle tension in the crowd. Two men in polos with college logos were waiting off to the side. University of Mitsu and SoCal Tech. He nodded once.
"I just hope they know I'm not done yet."