"This is where you'll be living for the next two weeks. This gym is open exclusively for the two of you."
The speaker was a white man with a shaved head, a prominent bridge to his nose, and piercing blue eyes. His outfit was eccentric, to say the least: he wore a Washington Wizards jersey with a Dallas Mavericks training vest layered over it.
Luke Thorne looked around. The facility was pristine—better than most professional indoor courts he'd seen. According to Idan Ravin, the hardwood here was specially cushioned, roughly three-quarters the thickness of a standard court to reduce joint impact. It featured breakaway rims, glass backboards, a pro-grade scoreboard, and a high-end sound system.
The gym didn't actually belong to Ravin. It was owned by one of his friends, Andy Gould, a financial elite who was so obsessed with basketball that he had attended Michael Jordan's flight school five times at $15,000 a ticket. Gould lent the space to Ravin for free, driven by the simple joy of seeing superstars forged on his floor.
In the center of the court, twenty orange cones were lined up in a zig-zag pattern. Ravin dribbled a ball twice, then looked at the duo. "Five minutes to warm up, boys. Then we start."
As they stretched, Ravin laid out the first drill. "You need to weave through these twenty cones. Every time you pass a cone, you must switch your dribble move—between the legs, behind the back, crossover—no repeats in a row. And here's the kicker: eyes up. I'll be walking beside you. When I flash my hand, you call out how many fingers I'm holding up instantly."
Steph nodded confidently. For a point guard, this was bread and butter. For Luke, it felt like a looming disaster.
Steph went first. He moved through the cones with the grace of a dancer, his handle tight and rhythmic. Ravin watched with keen interest but stopped him after the first set.
"Steph, your right foot. We need to change how you load it," Ravin said, his voice turning serious. "Every time you drive, your right ankle tilts at an extreme angle. If you keep playing like this, that ankle is going to give out. It won't handle the NBA workload."
Luke was stunned. This guy is the real deal, he thought. In his past life, Luke knew that Steph's early career was defined by his "glass ankles." If not for those injuries, Curry might have reached superstar status two years earlier.
Steph shook his head. "If I change my footwork, I lose my first step. Without that speed, I can't get into the paint. My frame is too thin to bully people like LeBron."
Ravin didn't back down. "Speed is useless if you're in a walking boot, Steph."
Luke stepped in. "Steph, he's right. Remember that sprain you had a few months ago? The NBA isn't the NCAA; the physicality is on another level. Think back to when your dad, Dell, made you change your shooting form in high school. It was painful and slow, but look where it got you. This is the same thing."
Luke's words carried weight. After a long silence, Steph sighed. "Fine. But how do I fix it? I don't even know where to start."
"I know someone," Ravin offered. "A PhD in physical therapy from Northeastern University. He specializes in biomechanics. If you're serious, I'll give you his contact."
"What's his name?" Luke asked.
"Kirk Lyles," Ravin replied. "But fair warning: he isn't cheap."
Steph nodded. Money wasn't an issue; Dell Curry had made a fortune in the league and was still earning well as a broadcaster.
"Alright, keep that in mind for after the Draft," Ravin said, then turned his gaze to Luke. He tossed him the ball. "Now, Asian Boy. Your turn."
Luke looked at the cones with a grimace. He could dribble, sure, but Ravin's requirements were brutal. Eyes up? A different move every cone? Behind the back into a hesitation? He started the drill. By the fifth cone, the ball bounced off his foot and rolled out of bounds.
"Luke, you're pathetic!" Ravin's tone shifted instantly from mentor to drill sergeant. "Is this really an NBA handle? You lose the ball after five cones? You're dreaming if you think you belong in this league!"
"Don't waste my time. I only train future superstars. Look at Steph—his handle is eighteen light-years ahead of yours."
"If all you can do is defend and hit open threes, you're just a glorified role player. A janitor. You'll never be a star. You don't deserve to be on this court!"
The verbal onslaught was relentless. Luke finally understood why LeBron James had been mentally exhausted after training with this man. Ravin didn't just train the body; he attacked the ego to see what was left underneath.
But Luke could take it. He had the system, and he had the [20x Multiplier] active. Every failure was just data. Every drop of sweat was a skill point. He didn't quit; he became obsessed with those orange cones.
Seeing that Luke wouldn't break, Ravin turned his attention back to Steph, amping up the difficulty. He had Steph dribbling two balls at different heights while Ravin threw tennis balls at him that he had to catch and toss back without losing his rhythm.
They moved forward, backward, left, and right, pushing the limits of coordination. While Luke fought to master the basics of an elite handle, Steph was being pushed into the realm of the "untouchable."
By the end of the first session, both were breathless, but Luke's eyes were glowing. He could feel the skill points racking up.