The sun had long slipped beneath the horizon by the time Adrian Carter reached the Onitsuka Athletic High's main basketball gym.
The air outside was thick and warm, heavy with that salt-sweet Okinawan humidity that clung to skin like a second shirt. Through the open door, the light of the court spilled out – cool, fluorescent, and still.
Inside, the gym was nearly empty. Only two men stood near the baseline, their voices echoing faintly in the cavernous space.
One was tall, dark-skinned, and broad-shouldered, leaning against a rack of balls with his arms crossed. The other was only an inch shorter, older – white-haired, posture military-straight, eyes sharp enough to make most kids stammer. They looked like the kind of men who had seen more locker rooms and airports than birthdays.
Adrian adjusted his collar, stepped forward, and spoke clearly.
"Good evening," he said, his baritone steady but polite. "I'm Adrian Carter. My sister told me I was invited for some kind of tryout."
Both men turned toward him.
The younger one smiled first, walking over with easy confidence and an outstretched hand. "Terrific to finally meet you, Adrian. Name's Marcus – Marcus Bane. And this," he gestured to the older man, "is the man, the myth, the legend – Coach Erik Kuhlmann."
Kuhlmann didn't smile. He rarely did. His eyes ran over Adrian like a scanner – posture, proportions, hands, stance. Then he nodded once. "Pleased to meet you too, young Carter," he said, voice low, carrying that dry European rasp. "Your sister said you used to play American football?"
"Yes, sir," Adrian replied. "Wide receiver. Allen High, Texas. 6A Division."
That made Marcus whistle. "Hot damn. That's top-tier ball right there. So why the switch?"
Adrian met his gaze evenly. "Got injured. Broke a… finger. And realized maybe football wasn't worth dying for."
Kuhlmann's expression didn't change. "Understandable. But I still want to see what kind of athlete you are. Are you ready to show us what you have?"
Adrian nodded once. "I think yes. What should I do?"
~~~~~
The first twenty minutes were all movement. Kuhlmann called the drills; Marcus timed them. Suicides. Lane sprints. Cone agility tests.
Adrian didn't explode off the line like Tyrone would've – but his stride was clean, balanced, deliberate. Every cut was sharp, no wasted motion. He moved like someone who'd been trained to respect form before flair.
When Marcus called for verticals, Adrian crouched, inhaled, and launched upward. The sound of his sneakers squeaked, and both men looked up.
"Thirty-three inches," Marcus muttered, impressed. "That's legit."
Kuhlmann scribbled on a clipboard, glancing once more. "Controlled power. He jumps like he knows where he'll land."
Next came ball-handling. Marcus rolled him a ball. Adrian caught it one-handed – clean grip, fingers spread wide – and started dribbling slowly, testing the bounce, the court. Then faster. Then with crossovers. No flash, no rhythm-breaks, just methodical control. His movements were quiet – no thumping, no wasted energy.
"You played point before?" Marcus asked.
"Not really. But route-running teaches the same thing – spacing, timing, momentum."
Kuhlmann tilted his head. "He thinks spatially," he murmured. "That's rare."
Then came shooting. Adrian stepped to the free-throw line, spun the ball once, and let it fly. Swish. Again. Swish.
He wasn't a volume shooter – he took his time, followed through perfectly each time. No ego. Just repetition, precision, breathing.
After ten minutes, Marcus looked up from his stopwatch. "Kid's got mechanics. You sure you never played organized ball?"
Adrian shrugged lightly. "My dad's military. We moved a lot. Hard to stay on one team."
That earned a quiet nod from Kuhlmann. "And yet you learned consistency. Impressive."
~~~~~
After the drills, Adrian sat on the edge of the bench, catching his breath but never panting. Marcus handed him a towel.
"You're calm," Marcus said with a grin. "Too calm. You ever get mad, kid?"
Adrian smiled faintly. "Only when people don't think before they act."
Marcus laughed. "Well, that makes you the opposite of 90% of our roster."
Kuhlmann leaned on the railing, folding his arms. "Tell me, Adrian – why basketball?"
Adrian thought for a moment before answering. "My sister said it might help me focus again," he said honestly. "I haven't played any sport since I quit football. I miss… working toward something. Competing. But not chaos. I'm not looking to be famous. Just want to push myself."
There was no bravado in his tone. Just quiet conviction.
Kuhlmann's eyes softened slightly. "A rare answer," he said. "Most boys your age want the crowd, the lights."
"I guess so," Adrian said.
Marcus looked at Kuhlmann. "What you think, Coach?"
Kuhlmann's lips curved just a little. "I think he's a man we can build upon."
He turned back to Adrian. "If you join, understand this – Onitsuka is not a circus. You'll train under a system. Discipline first, creativity later."
"That's fine by me," Adrian said calmly. "Structure doesn't scare me."
Marcus grinned. "Damn. Music to my ears."
Kuhlmann nodded once. "Then we'll see you tomorrow at practice. Seven a.m. sharp."
Adrian stood and bowed slightly. "Yes, sir. Thank you."
He walked toward the exit, posture straight, footsteps echoing across the empty gym.
Marcus waited until the door closed before speaking again. "Well, Coach? Think the kid's worth the investment?"
Kuhlmann's gaze stayed fixed on the door for a long moment. "He has the frame, the discipline, the control," he said quietly. "But more importantly – he has silence. And silence is power, Marcus. The rest of them will either learn from him… or get humbled by him."
Marcus smiled. "Broke his finger, switched sports… guess we just found our second LeBron."
"Second?" Kuhlmann asked.
"Yeah, Novak is Balkan Bron, that's what the boys call him."
~~~~~
Outside, Adrian exhaled, feeling the warm air hit his skin. He could still smell the faint rubber of the court, the echo of his own heartbeat. He didn't know if he impressed them. But for the first time in a long while, he felt something real – focus.
He pulled out his phone. A text from Aisha blinked at the top.
"So?"
He typed back:
"They said 7 a.m. I think I made the team."
A pause. Then her reply came, fast:
"Proud of you ❤️🩹"
He smiled, slipping the phone into his pocket as the night wind brushed past him. For the first time since leaving Texas, Adrian Carter walked away feeling grounded.