The stage lights faded as Arjun descended the steps, the Lakers cap still perched on his head like a crown he hadn't yet earned. Reporters swarmed the edges of the Barclays Center hallway, microphones thrusting forward like spears. "Arjun! How does it feel to be the last pick?" one shouted. "Any words for the doubters?"
Arjun paused, his mind racing through the memories of his first life—the mockery, the memes labeling him "Mr. Irrelevant" that had haunted him until the cut. But this time, he smiled faintly, channeling the quiet resolve of a man twice-lived. "It feels like the start of something real," he said evenly. "I'm grateful to the Lakers for believing in me. And to the doubters? Watch me prove you wrong."
The crowd of journalists murmured approvals, flashing more photos. Arjun moved through them, guided by an NBA official toward the back rooms where team reps waited. His phone buzzed incessantly—texts from friends, distant relatives in Hyderabad, and one from his agent: Congrats, kid. Flight to LA tomorrow. Meeting with Coach Vogel at the facility.
But first, the calls he needed most.
In a quiet corner of the green room, away from the lingering prospects and their entourages, Arjun pulled out his phone. The blue glow from earlier had vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving him questioning if it was a hallucination born of stress. Basketball Role Play System? What did that even mean? He shook it off; there were more pressing matters.
He dialed home first. The line crackled with the international delay, then his mother's voice broke through, thick with emotion. "Beta! We saw it all on TV. The whole neighborhood is celebrating. Your father... he's so proud he can't speak."
Arjun leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. In his previous life, this call had been filled with hollow excitement, quickly overshadowed by his own complacency. But now, the weight of what he'd lost—and regained—pressed on him like a full-court defense. "Ma," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "I... I don't know how to thank you. All those years, you and Dad working extra jobs, sending me to camps in the States. I remember the nights you stayed up worrying about visas, about money. I wasted it last time—no, I mean, I won't let you down this time."
There was a pause, then his mother's soft laugh, tinged with confusion. "Last time? Arjun, you're talking like an old man. This is your first chance! We're just happy you're living the dream. Remember what we always said: Hard work beats talent when talent doesn't work hard."
Tears welled in Arjun's eyes. He wiped them away quickly, glancing around to ensure no cameras caught the moment. "I remember, Ma. Every word. Tell Dad I love him. And... send my love to everyone back home. This is for Hyderabad, for all of us."
His father came on the line next, his voice gruff but breaking. "Son, you made it. From those dusty courts in Telangana to the NBA. Don't forget where you come from. Train hard. Eat well. No distractions."
"I won't, Dad," Arjun promised, his throat tight. The sacrifices flashed before him—their small apartment in the US during his high school years, his mother's calloused hands from cleaning jobs, his father's long shifts as a driver. In his first life, he'd repaid them with failure, retreating to India broken and bitter. This time, he'd build them a legacy. "I'll make you proud. Rings, MVP—whatever it takes."
They talked for a few more minutes, sharing laughs about relatives who'd called to boast, but Arjun felt the emotion building like a storm. Ending the call was harder than he anticipated; it felt like hanging up on his old regrets.
Next, the coach. Arjun's agent had arranged a quick video call with Frank Vogel, the Lakers' head coach at the time. The screen lit up with Vogel's face, stern but welcoming, against a backdrop of team banners.
"Arjun Reddy," Vogel said, nodding. "Welcome to the Lakers family. Last pick or not, we saw something in your tape—shooting range, quick release. But I won't sugarcoat it: This league chews up rookies. You ready to grind?"
Arjun met his gaze steadily, the future knowledge bubbling up. He knew Vogel's system inside out from his previous stint—pick-and-roll heavy, emphasis on spacing. He also knew the injuries that would plague the team in the coming seasons, the trades that could change everything. But he couldn't reveal that. "Coach, I'm more ready than you know. I've dreamed of this since I was a kid in India, shooting hoops on cracked concrete. I'll put in the work—extra hours, film study, whatever it takes."
Vogel leaned forward, his expression softening. "Good. I like that fire. We've got stars like LeBron and AD, but championships are won with depth. Prove yourself in summer league, in practices. Earn those minutes."
The conversation turned tactical—Arjun's strengths as a shooting guard, areas to improve like defense and conditioning. But beneath the strategy, Arjun felt a surge of gratitude. In his first life, he'd barely spoken to Vogel, too intimidated and lazy to seek advice. Now, he hung on every word, committing it to memory.
As the call wrapped, Vogel added, "One more thing, kid. Family's important. Keep them close. This life... it can be lonely at the top if you forget your roots."
Arjun nodded, the words hitting like a gut punch. "I won't forget, Coach. Thank you—for this chance."
The screen went dark, leaving Arjun alone with his thoughts. The green room had emptied, the draft night's energy waning into quiet echoes. He sat there, replaying the conversations, the emotions raw and unfiltered. This wasn't just a rebirth; it was redemption. For his parents' sacrifices, for the coach's faith, for the boy from Hyderabad who'd almost thrown it all away.
As he stood to leave, gathering his things for the flight to LA, the blue glow returned. Sharper this time, insistent. The translucent panel hovered in his vision once more:
BASKETBALL ROLE PLAY SYSTEM