Coaches' Room – March 8, 2007 | Austin, Texas
The gym had gone quiet hours ago, but the lights still burned in the coaches' office. Coffee cups littered the table, stat sheets fanned out in messy piles. The air smelled of paper, sweat, and stale caffeine. On the far wall, a whiteboard carried the bracket in thick black marker, arrows and scribbles crisscrossing toward the center like a battle plan.
Rick Barnes stood at the front, pen tapping against the board. His face looked worn, but his eyes hadn't dulled.
"Alright, gentlemen. Here's where we stand."
The Longhorns sat at 25–10, locked in as the No. 4 seed in the South Region. Their first opponent: No. 13 New Mexico State. The season hadn't been perfect with a few injuries, a few hiccups and the coaches had rested Ethan and Kevin more than the fans liked. No one wanted to risk the two golden guns before March Madness truly began.
"March Madness isn't like the regular season," Barnes said. His voice was steady, but it carried weight. "It's one and done. You lose, you go home. Doesn't matter how good you've been for four months. One bad half, one bad night and you're finished."
He pointed his pen toward the bracket. "Sixty-four down to thirty-two. Sweet Sixteen. Elite Eight. Final Four. And if you're lucky, one game for all of it."
Coach Hayes leaned back, folding his arms. "All single elimination. That's what makes it brutal."
Barnes nodded. "Uncertainty. Anyone could win at any moment. That's why they call it March Madness."
They shifted to specifics. Hayes flipped through the stat sheets, shaking his head. "Ethanis averaging 28.4. Six assists. Nearly six boards. Two and a half steals. He's just not one of our two main scoring points but also a defensive anchor as well. We need him to be healthy as possible."
Daniels added without looking up, "Durant's at 26.7. Nine boards. Two blocks. He's starting to protect the rim too. He's still a freshman, but he's already covering holes for us."
Barnes lowered the pen. His voice dropped. "If we go deep, it'll be because Ethan and Kevin drag us there."
The assistants nodded. Nobody argued. Everyone knew it.
Barnes circled Kansas on the bracket with a red marker, pressing hard enough to squeak. "Biggest threat in our region. Rush, Wright, Chalmers. They've got depth we don't. They'll keep throwing bodies at us until something cracks. A&M will hit us inside. Oklahoma State's guards can go nuclear if you let them. But Kansas?" He drew another circle, darker this time. "Kansas is the wall."
Daniels exhaled through his nose. "If Ethan and Kevin both stay hot, we can beat anybody. But Kansas has length, discipline, and numbers of players they could throw at us. They're the one we prep for."
Hayes spoke up again. "And it's not just on the court. Media's swarming them already, scouts, Nike reps, every shoe brand in the company, every camera in the country. If the boys get careless with their words or worse, their behavior, it's headlines by morning. We can't afford that."
Barnes gave a sharp nod. "Grades, too. Proposition 48 is no joke. You slip below requirements, you're out. Doesn't matter who you are. Ethan has been policing it more even we have making sure guys are in class. He knows what's at stake. More than anyone."
For a moment, the room fell silent. The bracket loomed on the wall like a map to war.
Barnes tapped the edge of the table with his pen. "Alright. Enough dancing around it. We've talked matchups, we've talked threats. Time to set the twelve."
The assistants leaned in. Papers shuffled. Pens clicked.
"Starting five's obvious," Barnes said, voice steady. "We go with what's carried us."
He wrote the names across the board in thick strokes.
Point Guard / Shooting Guard – Ethan Cross.
Nation's leading scorer. Twenty-eight point four a night. Six assists. Five and a half boards. Two and a half steals. He runs the show. He is the show. The leader of the team on field and off it as well.
Shooting Guard – A.J. Abrams.
Sharp shooter. Ten points a game, but more importantly, he stretches defenses. Makes teams pay if they sag on Ethan or Kevin
Small Forward – Kevin Durant.
Twenty-six point seven. Nearly nine boards. Two blocks. He's more than a scorer, he's protecting the rim, rebounding, doing the dirty work. Freshman on paper, but a pro in every way that matters.
Power Forward – Damion James.
Glue guy. Eleven points, seven rebounds. Versatile defender, crashes the glass, does the little things nobody notices until he's gone.
Center – Connor Atchley.
Six points, five boards, nearly two blocks. Not flashy, but he's length, size, and fouls to give. We'll need every inch of him against Kansas and A&M.
Barnes underlined the five, then moved down the board.
"Bench rotation."
D.J. Augustin – Guard.
Thirteen and six. Our change-of-pace guard. Handles pressure, makes good decisions, keeps the tempo where we want it.
Justin Mason – Guard/Forward.
Seven points, four boards, defensive stopper. He bodies up whoever's hot, lets Ethan and Kevin conserve energy.
Dex Thompkins – Center.
Big body. Four and four, but his job's to buy us minutes and hammer inside. Don't need points, just presence.
Matt Hill – Forward.
Energy guy. Hustle plays, rebounds outside his area. Gives us a spark.
Jerome Hunter – Forward.
Defensive utility. Tough kid, won't back down, not afraid to bang.
J.D. Lewis – Guard.
Senior presence. Knows his role, stretches the floor when he's on, doesn't complain when he's not.
Barnes capped the marker and set it down with finality. "That's twelve."
The coaches studied the list in silence, the weight of cutting the other players off, their hopes and dreams crushed.
"We ride our stars," Barnes said."Everyone else fills their role. That's the ticket. That's our way through."
.
Ethan and Durant's Dorm
Kevin sprawled across his bed, long legs dangling, phone in hand. Ethan sat at the desk, hunched over a notebook, pencil scratching through an equation.
"Yo," Kevin said suddenly, eyes still locked on his screen. "You catch Skip this morning? Cold Pizza?"
Ethan didn't even look up. "Skip? He probably woke up hating on somebody. What's he mad about now? LeBron again?"
Kevin smirked, but there was frustration under it. "Nah, me. Said I can't guard anybody in the NBA. Too skinny. Said I'm all bones, can't take contact, I'll be injured before I finish my rookie contract. Then he said I'm just a scorer, nothing else. Can't rebound, can't defend."
Ethan's pencil froze mid-equation.
Kevin kept scrolling. "And you?" He chuckled. "He said you dribble too much. Called you a ball-stopper. All flash, no substance. Streetball moves, not efficient basketball."
Finally, Ethan lifted his head, blue eyes amused. "Kevin… Skip has been talking reckless since the Clinton administration. Man was probably writing hit pieces on Bill Russell's free throw form. This is what he does."
Kevin sat up straighter, heat in his voice. "Man, it's crazy. Twenty-six, nine, and two, and he still says I can't rebound? Like I'm not leading freshmen in boards. And you? Twenty-eight, six, six, locking up on defense, and he acts like you're out here filming an And1 mixtape."
Ethan leaned back, smirk tugging at his mouth. "Because numbers don't matter to Skip. Logic doesn't matter. He's a hot take factory. The louder he yells, the more ESPN pays him. That's it. The man wakes up, pours his coffee, and thinks, 'How do I troll the entire country today?'"
Kevin frowned. "So what, we just let him talk?"
"Yes," Ethan said flatly. "That's exactly what we do. Skip thrives on attention. The more we bite back, the more power he gets. You don't feed a stray cat, Kevin, unless you want it on your porch every morning."
Kevin shook his head, muttering, "He's wild, man."
Ethan turned back to his notes, grin tugging at his face now. In his head, he was laughing.
Skip gonna be doing this for the next forty years, Kevin. First Lebron, then you, then damn near anybody who picks up a basketball. Man even gonna hate on Tom Brady, then spend the rest of his career worshipping him. It's a whole saga.
Out loud, he just said, "Play good. Win games. That's the only clapback he understands. Everything else? Talk you ignore."
Kevin finally sighed, leaned back, and muttered, "Damn Skip. Always gotta hate."
Ethan smirked without looking up. "And he'll keep hating. Forever. That's his job description. Ours is making sure he looks stupid every night we step on the court."
Kevin snorted, then tossed the remote toward the TV. "Fine, but you hear Stephen A. last night on SportsCenter? Those guys won't leave us alone like get off our dick."
On the screen, the replayed clip showed Stephen A. Smith, tie crooked, eyes wide, voice already at max volume:
"Ladies and gentlemen, let me be very, very clear. Kevin Durant… is a special talent. Six-foot-nine, smooth as silk, RANGE for DAYS. BOX OFFICE. But March Madness? That's a different ANIMAL. You can score in December. You can shine in February. But in MARCH? Every. Single. Possession. Is life. Or death."
He jabbed a finger at the camera.
"And I'm telling you right now I need to see how he performs when it's do-or-die. I have questions, yes I do! Can he handle the PHYSICALITY? The PRESSURE? We have NEVER seen a player quite like Kevin Durant with all those attributes. I'm not doubting his talent. But doubting if those talents can translate to the NBA. His first test will be March madness."
Stephen A. pivoted mid-breath, voice dropping low then climbing back up like a rollercoaster.
"And Ethan Cross? The boy is ELECTRIC. Handles. Scoring. Swagger. He's got it all. Taller Allen Iverson with better passing — I said it! — and better scoring too. BUT… let's see if he can LEAD Texas all the way. If he does, if he can do that under this kind of spotlight? He's my NUMBER ONE PICK, ladies and gentlemen. NUMBER. ONE. LET ME SAY IT AGAIN, I VIEW THIS KID IN THE SAME TALENT SCOPE AS LEBRON JAMES."
Kevin muted the screen and stared at Ethan with raised eyebrows. "At least you're not getting shredded. Dude called me soft on national TV."
Ethan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking. "Skip and Stephen A. in one week. Bro, we're like the Avengers of hot takes."
Inside, though, he was cracking up. Stephen A. Smith would be talking like this for thirty years.
Out loud he said, "Ignore it. He loves you. That whole 'I have questions' thing? That's his foreplay before he calls you the greatest of all time five years from now."
Kevin laughed but flopped back on the bed. "You sound like my mom."
"Speaking of moms," Ethan said, sliding KD's untouched homework across the desk toward him. "Yours and mine both got letters and bunch of emails this week. Agents. Shoe companies. Everybody sniffing around. But we don't talk about it until after the tournament. Our moms apparently already talked about this and I agreed with them."
Kevin sat up on one elbow. "After?"
Ethan's stare was firm but not harsh. "You want to announce? Announce with a trophy in your hand. That gets the most attention."
For a second KD was quiet, scrolling his phone. Then he grinned and held it out. "Alright, fine. But what about these?" He showed a screen full of texts from girls with heart emojis.
Ethan rolled his eyes. "Not now. Not until after March. I let it slide when we were cruising in the regular season, but this is different. You sneak out at midnight again, I'll know. And I'll end it."
Kevin groaned like a kid caught red-handed. "Man, you're no fun."
"I'm dead serious," Ethan said, voice low but calm. "NBA's right there. Don't mess it up now. Not when it's all in front of you."
Kevin sat up slowly, eyes narrowing at his best friend. Then he nodded. "Alright, bro. I got you."
Ethan gave a short smile, leaning back in his chair. "Good. Now finish your damn assignment before I make you run suicides in the hallway."
Kevin laughed, grabbing his pencil, muttering under his breath. "Coach Cross, man. Worst roommate ever."
Next Morning
The Longhorns filed into the film room, sneakers squeaking against the floor, voices low. Everyone knew what was coming. The official roster reveal. Twelve names. Twelve seats on the plane to the tournament. For some, it was the realization of a dream. For others, it was the end.
Rick Barnes stood at the front with his clipboard, expression stern. "Alright, gentlemen," he began. "You've worked your tails off all season. Every practice, every drill, every game has led us here. But we can only take twelve into the tournament. That means some of you won't suit up in March. That doesn't mean your work wasn't valuable. It means this is the hardest part of the job."
Silence filled the room. A few players shifted uneasily in their seats. Ethan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, watching, remembering. In his first life, he'd seen this moment countless times having experienced it himself. Some of them never got another chance. He knew the sting. He felt it for them.
Barnes read off the names, steady and deliberate. "Starting five: Ethan Cross, A.J. Abrams, Kevin Durant, Damion James, Connor Atchley."
Ethan caught the flicker of relief across faces. A.J. nodded slightly, Kevin leaned back with calm certainty. Atchley exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for days.
"Bench rotation: D.J. Augustin, Justin Mason, Dex Thompkins, Matt Hill, Jerome Hunter, J.D. Lewis."
The final name echoed in the room. Shoulders slumped from those not called. One player clenched his jaw, staring at the floor. Another forced a smile, masking disappointment. A third just sat frozen, silent.
Barnes lowered the clipboard. "That's the twelve. For those not selected, your work still matters. You pushed us, made us better, and you're still part of this team. Don't forget that."
Ethan's chest tightened. He remembered what it felt like to be overlooked, forgotten. The bitterness, the questions. What more could I have done? Why wasn't I enough? He scanned the room, saw the quiet devastation in their faces. He wanted to say something, but he knew this was their moment to process.
Anything he said would just sting them more.
Still, as the team broke, Ethan made sure to stop by one of the guys who hadn't been picked. He clapped him on the shoulder, voice low but firm. "You helped us get here. Don't forget that."
The player gave a weak nod, eyes glassy. Ethan moved on, but the weight stayed with him.
Ethan sat back, mind racing. This is where dreams were made and crushed. He already knew the feeling. He didn't want to experience it for the second time.
He won't waste this god given opportunity.