The alarm went off at 5:30 AM, and Darius's hand shot out from under the covers to silence it before it could wake Malik. The room was still dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside their window casting long shadows across the walls.
He sat up slowly, his body protesting the early wake-up call. His legs were still sore from yesterday's training session. His shoulders ached from the defensive slide drills he'd been running obsessively. But none of that mattered. He had work to do.
Darius slipped out of bed and grabbed his training clothes from where he'd laid them out the night before. No wasted time. No hesitation. Just movement.
By 5:45, he was outside in the cold morning air, his breath coming out in visible puffs as he started his run. The neighborhood was quiet, most houses still dark, most people still sleeping. But Darius's mind was already at full speed, running through defensive scenarios, visualizing Jace's moves, planning his counters.
The Hustle System activated as his heart rate climbed.
Morning Training Protocol: ActiveFocus: Defensive Conditioning and Lateral Quickness
Darius ran his usual three-mile route, but today he added something new. Every block, he stopped and did defensive slides across the width of the street. Left, right, left, right. His thighs burned. His lungs screamed for more air. He kept going.
When he got back home at 6:30, he went straight to the backyard where the basketball hoop stood waiting. No breakfast yet. No shower. Just him and the ball and the goal of getting better before the sun fully rose.
He worked on his closeout drills, sprinting from the three-point line to the corner over and over, his hand reaching up to contest an imaginary shot. Then he practiced his ball denial stance, moving laterally while keeping his arms active, learning to feel comfortable playing defense without seeing the ball.
Inside the house, Malik was still sleeping. His alarm wouldn't go off for another hour. But Darius wasn't thinking about his cousin. He was thinking about Tuesday. About Jace. About proving he belonged on the same court as someone everyone called unstoppable.
Tuesday morning came the same way. 5:30 AM alarm. Same routine. Same intensity. His body was more tired now, the accumulated fatigue starting to settle into his muscles like concrete. But his mind was sharper. More focused. Every rep felt more purposeful than the one before.
Coach Anderson had noticed it during team practice on Monday afternoon. "Darius, you're moving different out there. Faster. More aggressive."
Darius had just nodded, too focused to explain that he was spending four hours a day outside of practice working on defensive positioning, on reading offensive tells, on building the stamina he'd need to chase Jace around screens for forty minutes.
Wednesday morning. Same alarm. Same routine. But this time something was different. As Darius ran his usual route, he felt lighter. His legs didn't protest as much. His breathing stayed controlled even as he pushed the pace. The work was starting to show.
He got back home and went through his defensive drills with a precision that would've made Coach Anderson proud. Every closeout was perfect. Every slide was balanced. Every hand position was exactly where it needed to be.
The Hustle System tracked everything, feeding him data that confirmed what his body was already telling him.
Week Progress Report:
Defensive slide speed: Improved 12% Closeout time: Reduced by 0.3 seconds Stamina capacity: Increased 8% Lateral movement efficiency: Optimal range achieved
Thursday morning felt different the moment Darius woke up. This was the last full training session before the game. Tomorrow would be light work, just staying loose. Today was his last chance to sharpen everything one more time.
He ran harder. Slid faster. Worked longer. By the time he finished his backyard session at 7:30, his shirt was soaked through with sweat despite the cold air. But there was something in his eyes now that hadn't been there on Monday. Confidence. Not the cocky kind. The earned kind.
Across the city, in a nicer neighborhood where the houses had bigger yards and newer cars sat in driveways, another alarm was going off at the exact same time. 5:30 AM.
Jace Carter didn't need to look at his phone to know what time it was. His body had been waking up at 5:30 for so long that he barely needed an alarm anymore. But he set it anyway, because discipline meant not leaving things to chance.
He got out of bed and immediately dropped to the floor for push-ups. Fifty. Then fifty sit-ups. Then fifty squats. His morning activation routine, done before he even thought about touching a basketball.
By 5:45, Jace was in his family's garage, where his father had installed a regulation hoop three years ago. The space was heated, so even in winter he could train in just shorts and a t-shirt. The ball sat waiting for him in the same spot he always left it.
Jace picked it up and started dribbling. Not aimlessly. Every dribble had purpose. Left hand. Right hand. Between the legs. Behind the back. Crossover. Each move executed with the same precision as the last, building muscle memory that would translate to games when defenders were trying to take the ball away.
After twenty minutes of ball-handling, he moved into shooting. Start close. Make ten layups in a row with the right hand. Then ten with the left. Then ten floaters from eight feet. Then ten mid-range jumpers from the elbow. Work your way out to the three-point line methodically, making sure every spot was covered, every angle practiced.
His father had taught him this routine when he was eight years old. "Consistency builds greatness," his dad would say. "Not talent. Not luck. Consistent work when nobody's watching."
Jace made his last three-pointer at 7:15 and finally allowed himself to stop. His shirt was soaked. His legs were tired. But his mind was clear. This was his favorite part of the day, before school, before team practice, before any of the noise that came with being the best player in the league. Just him, the ball, and the sound of swishes.
Tuesday morning, same routine. But today Jace added something new. After his shooting workout, he spent fifteen minutes working on conditioning. Sprint from baseline to baseline. Rest for ten seconds. Sprint again. Repeat until the clock hit fifteen minutes.
His teammates at school would've been shocked to see this. Jace already had the best conditioning on the team. He never looked tired during games. Why would he need extra work?
But Jace knew the truth. The semifinals wouldn't be like the quarterfinals. Teams that made it this far were different. They had guys who could match his intensity. And if it came down to the fourth quarter, down to the final five minutes, he wanted to be the one who still had gas in the tank while everyone else was running on fumes.
Wednesday morning. Same wake-up time. Same routine. But today when Jace finished his workout, he added something else. Film study.
He pulled up footage on his tablet of Bayview's last game. The one against the Striders. He watched their defensive rotations, looking for patterns. He studied their point guard, the kid who'd checked in late and helped them come back. Darius something. Quick hands. Good vision. Played smart.
Jace made mental notes. Their defense was solid but predictable. They relied too much on their center controlling the paint. If he could pull their big man away from the basket, create driving lanes, make them rotate too much, he'd break them down possession by possession.
Thursday morning, Jace woke up with that familiar feeling in his chest. Game day was tomorrow. Everything he'd done this week, all the early mornings, all the extra reps, was leading to this moment.
He went through his routine with even more intensity than usual. Every dribble was sharper. Every shot was focused. Every sprint was faster. His father came into the garage at 7:00 and watched him finish the last set of shooting drills.
"You're ready," his dad said simply.
Jace just nodded. Words weren't necessary. They both knew what was coming.
Friday morning arrived with the kind of nervous energy that made sleep impossible after 5:00 AM anyway. Darius went through a lighter version of his routine. No hard running. No exhausting drills. Just shooting and light movement, keeping his body loose and his mind sharp.
The game was at 4:00 PM. Six more hours.
By noon, Darius was already at the arena with the rest of the team. They had shootaround scheduled for 1:00, then the locker room prep, then warmups. The building was still quiet, the stands empty except for arena staff setting up concessions.
After shootaround, Darius felt his bladder protesting from the water he'd been drinking all morning. "Yo, I gotta hit the bathroom real quick," he told Malik, who was sitting at his locker going through his pre-game playlist.
"Aight, don't take forever. Coach wants us back in twenty minutes."
Darius walked down the hallway toward the bathroom, his slides slapping against the concrete floor. The arena felt different on game day, even when it was empty. The air had this charged quality to it, like the building itself knew something important was about to happen.
He pushed open the bathroom door and walked in. The space was large, typical arena bathroom with multiple stalls and a long counter with several sinks. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
Someone was already at the sinks.
Jace Carter stood with his hands under the running water, washing them slowly, methodically. He was wearing Riverside's warm-up gear, the purple and gold immediately recognizable. His head was down, focused on the task.
Darius felt his heart rate spike slightly, but he kept his face neutral. He walked past Jace toward the stalls, not making eye contact, just two players sharing a bathroom before the biggest game of their season.
The tension in the room was immediate and thick. Not hostile, but present. Like two boxers acknowledging each other before a fight.
Darius finished his business and walked to the sinks, choosing one that was two spots down from where Jace was still washing his hands. He turned on the water and started washing, the sound of both faucets running filling the silence.
In the mirror, Darius could see Jace's reflection. And Jace could see his. Their eyes met for just a second. Not a stare-down. Not a challenge. Just acknowledgment.
Darius finished washing his hands and reached for the paper towel dispenser. He dried his hands slowly, taking his time, not rushing out of the room like some nervous rookie.
He was about to throw the paper towel away and leave when Jace's voice cut through the sound of running water.
"You play for Bayview?"
Darius stopped. He looked at Jace's reflection in the mirror. Jace had finally turned off the water and was drying his hands with a paper towel, but his eyes were on Darius now, direct and calm.
"Yeah," Darius said. His voice came out steady, matching Jace's energy. "I do."