A Spur Of Faith

Three days before opening night, Markus stood in the Spurs practice facility's empty court, the squeak of his shoes echoing in the cavernous space as he worked through his shooting routine. The arena staff had already started transforming the AT&T Center for the season opener - hanging new banners, testing lighting systems, preparing for the spectacle that would unfold when the Mavericks came to town.

His phone buzzed with a series of notifications. Aisha had managed to rearrange her research schedule to get two days off. Marcus had booked flights for himself and Hiroshi. His mother was already handling the logistics of hosting everyone, turning what would simply be his NBA debut into something approaching a family reunion.

Number 37. That's what would be on his back when he stepped onto that court for real. Not a tribute to anyone, not a childhood number, just the first available option that felt right when equipment manager Travis Wade had approached him after the final preseason game.

"Need to get your jersey finalized," Wade had said. "Any preference?"

Markus had scanned the available options and something about 37 resonated. "That one."

"Any special reason?"

"Just feels right."

Now it would be his identity in box scores, highlight reels, and eventually, if everything went according to plan, the rafters alongside the greatest Spurs in history.

—

The morning of opening night arrived with a clarity that Markus had learned to recognize - that heightened sensory awareness that came before important moments. The sunlight streaming through his bedroom window seemed more vivid, the sounds of Tanka's paws on the hardwood floors downstairs more distinct, even the taste of his standard breakfast smoothie more pronounced.

Lisa was already up and moving around the kitchen with nervous energy when he came downstairs, Tanka trailing at his heels.

"You need to eat something more substantial," she insisted, sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of him despite having watched him make his usual smoothie. "Game day."

"Mom, I have a nutritionist now. This is literally my job."

"And I'm literally your mother," she countered, the set of her jaw indicating this wasn't a battle worth fighting.

He ate the eggs.

The normality of these interactions grounded him amid the surreal reality of what today represented. His NBA debut.

Starting point guard for the Spurs.

National television audience.

By mid-afternoon, the house had transformed into command central. Marcus and Hiroshi arrived first, Aisha appeared an hour later, her presence immediately centering Markus in a way nothing else could.

"You ready for this?" she asked when they finally had a moment alone, standing in the kitchen while the others debated dinner plans in the living room.

"Been ready my whole life," he replied, the simple truth of the statement requiring no embellishment.

She studied him with that perceptive gaze. "You're calm. Like, genuinely calm, not just pretending."

"The work is done," he shrugged. "Now it's just basketball."

"Just basketball," she repeated with a smile. "On national TV. Against Luka Dončić. With the entire basketball world watching."

"When you put it that way..."

"I'm teasing," she said, brushing her hand against his. "You've got this."

—

Three hours before tipoff, Markus navigated his truck through thickening traffic around the AT&T Center. The arena's massive silhouette loomed against the evening sky, illuminated by floodlights, the Spurs logo projected onto the exterior in brilliant silver and black.

Electronic marquees flashed "OPENING NIGHT" and "SPURS VS. MAVERICKS" while early-arriving fans already filled the surrounding plazas.

The players' entrance featured significantly enhanced security compared to preseason - a line of barriers keeping fans and media at a distance while still allowing them to observe the arrivals, creating a red-carpet-like atmosphere that felt distinctly NBA.

Camera flashes popped as players emerged, team staff efficiently guiding them from the gauntlet of shouted questions and photo requests into the arena's secure interior.

"That's Markus Reinhart!" A young fan's excited voice cut through the ambient noise as Markus stepped from his truck, handing the keys to the valet.

"Markus! Over here!" Photographers jostled for position. "This way!"

He moved - not rushing, not dawdling, a subtle nod to the security staff, a quick wave to the gathered fans, then into the private players' entrance where the outside world fell away.

The players' tunnel stretched before him, the glossy black walls featuring imagery of Spurs legends - Duncan, Robinson, Ginobili, Parker, Elliott, Gervin.

Staff members greeted him with knowing nods or brief encouragements, their own preparations already well underway.

The locker room hummed with pre-game activity when he arrived but most players hadn't arrived yet, giving the space an expectant emptiness soon to be filled with controlled chaos.

Markus' locker - positioned between Vassell's and Wembanyama's in the circular arrangement - contained everything. Warm-up gear folded precisely. Game uniform hung centerpiece-like on padded hangers. Custom Nike shoes (still without a signature deal, but with specific performance modifications) positioned perfectly on the shelf. Socks, compression gear, accessories.

The white home jersey bore "SPURS" across the chest in bold black lettering, with "REINHART" arched above the number 37 on the back. Seeing it there, official and ready, crystallized the moment in a way nothing else had.

"First one hits different."

Markus turned to find Vassell already changing into warm-ups, having arrived unnoticed during his contemplation.

"That obvious, huh?"

"Everyone stares at their first jersey," Vassell shrugged. "Should've seen me. Took like twenty pictures before I'd even touch it."

Players began filtering in steadily - Robinson loudly greeting everyone, Anunoby silently moving to his locker, Collins and Sochan engaged in ongoing banter.

Each bringing their own energy, their own rituals.

Wembanyama arrived last, ducking his head slightly through the doorway despite sufficient clearance.

"Big night," he said simply, nodding to Markus as he passed.

The preparation continued—changing into warm-ups, receiving final adjustments from training staff, reviewing last-minute scouting notes provided by assistant coaches.

Forty-five minutes before tipoff, Pop entered, immediately commanding attention without needing to speak. Players instinctively gathered, conversations dying away, focus sharpening.

"Gentlemen. Opening night brings external energy we cannot control. What we can control is our execution, our communication, and our effort." His eyes moved from player to player, making brief but meaningful contact with each. "Dallas will test us in specific ways we've prepared for all week. Trust that preparation."

He reviewed key matchups with surgical precision - defensive assignments, offensive priorities, rotation expectations.

"Most importantly," he concluded, "let's establish who we are from the first possession. Set the tone for our season tonight."

With that, he exited, leaving the players to complete their preparations.

For Markus, this meant a brief period of visualization - eyes closed, breathing regulated, mentally rehearsing specific game scenarios. Not fantasizing about success, but working through actual basketball problems he would likely face. How to navigate Dallas's defensive coverages. When to push pace versus when to execute halfcourt sets.

Twenty minutes before tipoff, they moved as a group toward the court for warm-ups. The arena was already three-quarters full, fans having arrived early to absorb the opening night atmosphere, watch player routines, feel part of the spectacle before official introductions.

The court gleamed under the lights, freshly polished hardwood bearing the Spurs logo at center court, perfect lines demarking the boundaries within which Markus would make his official NBA debut. Basketballs waited in racks near each bench, team staff positioned strategically to facilitate warm-ups, everything orchestrated for optimal preparation.

Emerging from the tunnel, the wave of sound hit first - thousands of conversations creating ambient noise significantly louder than preseason had prepared him for. Then the visual feast - lights brighter, colors more vivid, movement everywhere as fans found seats, staff scurried with last-minute tasks, dance teams rehearsed steps on the sidelines.

Markus moved directly into his warm-up routine.

Starting close to the basket with form shooting, gradually extending range, incorporating specific movement patterns with each progression, adding game-speed actions as his body warmed.

From the corner of his eye, he caught glimpses of his support system arriving - Marcus and Hiroshi following an usher to their courtside seats, Aisha appearing shortly after, joining them with perfect timing. His mother was already settled in the family section, engaged in animated conversation with other players' family members.

The Mavericks emerged for their warm-ups, led by Luka Dončić.

Unlike some stars who performed elaborate pre-game rituals for crowd reaction, Luka worked with casual efficiency, his remarkable talent evident even in basic shooting drills.

"Man moves like he's in slow motion until suddenly he's not," Robinson commented, pausing near Markus during a shooting rotation. "Most deceptive first step in the league."

"Gonna be a challenge," Markus acknowledged, focusing on his own preparation rather than opponent-watching.

"That's why we're here," Robinson grinned, slapping him on the shoulder before returning to his own routine.

The arena gradually filled to capacity, the energy building palpably as tipoff approached. Team staff signaled the five-minute warning, players starting to collect basketballs, complete final stretches, prepare for return to the locker room before introductions.

In the tunnel, waiting to return for introductions, Markus felt a transformation—everyday concerns falling away, external noise fading to background, senses heightening as game reality approached. No nervousness, just heightened alertness, body and mind aligned toward singular purpose.

The lights dimmed suddenly, plunging the arena into dramatic darkness broken only by phone lights throughout the stands. Music swelled - the distinctive opening notes of the Spurs' introduction theme echoing through the space, bass reverberating physically through the floor beneath their feet.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice thundered through the darkness, "please welcome YOUR SAN ANTONIO SPURS!"

A spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating the tunnel entrance as the team emerged to thunderous applause, running through the gauntlet of high-fives from coaches and staff positioned along their path. The production value dwarfed anything from preseason - pyrotechnics flashing along the court edges, specialized lighting effects sweeping across the hardwood, video board displaying cinematic player highlights.

The team gathered at the bench briefly while individual introductions began, starting with reserves before building to starters. Each name triggering specific crowd reactions—appreciation, prospect excitement, varying levels of recognition reflecting each player's status.

"At shooting guard, 6'7" from Florida State, number 24, DEVIN VASSELL!"

"At small forward, 6'7" from Indiana University, number 3, OG ANUNOBY!"

"At power forward, 7'4" from France, number 1, VICTOR WEMBANYAMA!"

The reaction to Wembanyama nearly drowned out the next introduction, fans already on their feet, phones raised to capture his acknowledgment.

"At center, 7'0" from the University of Kentucky, number 23, MITCHELL ROBINSON!"

Then, finally, the moment crystallized in sound and light:

"And at point guard, 6'2" from Davidson College, number 37, MARKUS REINHART!"

The reception surprised him - not merely polite applause typically reserved for rookies, but genuine enthusiasm, fans recognizing his summer league and preseason performances had earned legitimate excitement rather than just curiosity.

The starting five gathered at center court for final words before taking positions for the jump ball. No elaborate speeches or theatrical rituals, just five professionals preparing to execute their jobs.

Markus took his position at the circle, waiting for the official to toss the ball. Across from him stood Dončić, a knowing half-smile playing across his features, he was already comfortable in these moments despite being just a few years older.

The whistle blew, the ball went up, and Wembanyama's extraordinary reach secured first possession easily, tipping to Vassell, who immediately found Markus to initiate their first offensive set.

The 2023-24 NBA season was officially underway.

"Fist up!" Markus called, signaling their opening action.

A high screen from Wembanyama designed to create immediate decision problems for Dallas's defense. Whether they covered, switched, or trapped would each create different advantages to exploit.

Dallas showed a conservative drop coverage, their center sagging to protect the rim while Luka fought over the screen to stay with Markus. The exact coverage they had prepared for extensively.

Markus attacked the space decisively, his first step quicker than most defenders anticipated, getting downhill with two hard dribbles. As the help defender committed, he kept his dribble alive, probing until the rotation fully declared itself, then fired a precise bounce pass between defenders to Wembanyama rolling to the rim.

Wemby caught it in stride, rising well above the rotating defender for a thunderous dunk that sent the crowd into an immediate frenzy, the play's perfect execution making it seem rehearsed rather than the opening possession of their official partnership.

"And that's exactly what Spurs fans have been waiting to see!" Mike Breen exclaimed on the ESPN broadcast. "The Reinhart-Wembanyama connection wasting no time making an impact!"

"That's the challenge this duo presents," Doris Burke added. "You've got a point guard with exceptional vision paired with a seven-foot-four unicorn who can catch anything in his area code. How do you defend that consistently?"

On the sideline, Pop remained expressionless, though assistant coaches exchanged quick glances of approval. One possession meant nothing in the grand scheme, but execution quality always mattered.

Dallas answered on their first possession.

Luka orchestrating a simple pick-and-roll that he manipulated into a step-back three over Anunoby's contest, the ball dropping through with that distinctive swish.

"Welcome to the NBA," Luka smirked as they passed each other moving downcourt.

"Just getting started." Markus replied, already focused on the next possession.

The opening minutes established the game's rhythm - both teams executing with purpose, trading baskets, testing defensive schemes, looking for advantages to exploit.

Markus settled in quickly, the familiar sensation of reading the game's patterns, processing information at high speeds.

A defensive miscommunication led to an open Dallas three, prompting Markus to gather his teammates briefly before the inbound. "Switch everything on the weakside screens," he instructed, noting how Dallas had set up the previous action. "They're hunting that corner look off the double screen."

"Got it," Robinson confirmed, adjusting his positioning immediately on the next possession, denying the initial pass that would have triggered the action.

The adjustment worked, forcing a contested mid-range jumper that caromed off the rim into Wembanyama's waiting hands. Markus received the outlet pass and immediately pushed the tempo, scanning the developing court geometry for advantages.

Dallas's transition defense seemed momentarily disorganized—two defenders gravitating toward Wembanyama sprinting the center lane, creating an opening Markus instantly recognized. With a subtle hesitation that froze his own defender, he accelerated into the space, shoulders squared to the basket as if attacking himself.

The center rotated to stop penetration, exactly as Markus anticipated. Without looking directly at his target, he delivered a no-look pass to Anunoby cutting baseline from the weak side. OG caught it in stride, absorbed contact from the recovering defender, and finished through the foul.

"Beautiful basketball!" Breen enthused. "That's the court vision Reinhart displayed throughout preseason. Eyes on the rim, defender completely focused there, then delivers the perfect pass to the opposite side."

"What makes that special," JJ Redick chimed in, "is not just seeing Anunoby, but manipulating the defense to create that passing lane. Watch how he uses his eyes to move the help defender. That's high-level stuff for any guard, let alone a rookie in his first official game."

OG approached Markus before taking the free throw. "Good find," he said simply.

The quarter continued with impressive offensive efficiency from both teams. Dallas's established system creating quality looks through experienced execution, the Spurs countering with the raw talent and emerging chemistry of their reconstructed core.

Markus found his offensive rhythm—a pull-up jumper when the defense went under a screen, a floater over a late-rotating big, a three when Luka gave him too much space testing his range. Not forcing anything, just taking what the defense provided while primarily focusing on organization and distribution.

With three minutes remaining in the first, Pop made his first substitution.

Markus and Wembanyama both getting early rest, the rotation pattern established in preseason carrying into regular season play.

"Good start," Pop noted as Markus took his seat. "They're loading up on the weak side after made baskets. Second unit will attack that differently. Watch how they adjust."

When Markus returned early in the second quarter, Dallas applied more aggressive pressure—trapping pick-and-rolls, forcing the ball out of his hands earlier in possessions. A tactical adjustment he had anticipated but now needed to counter in real-time.

"They're jumping the screen hard," he noted to Pop during a timeout. "Robinson's short roll is open every time if I can deliver it through the trap."

Pop nodded approval. "So use it. Draw two, create the advantage, trust the next decision."

Returning to action, Markus demonstrated exactly that patience. When Dallas trapped the high screen, he calmly fed Robinson in the middle of the floor, creating a 4-on-3 advantage that the big man could exploit through his developing playmaking.

"ROLL!" Markus called, setting up the action, Robinson's screen angled perfectly to force the trap commitment.

As the defenders converged, Markus manipulated his dribble to keep both occupied while creating the passing angle, not rushing, not panicking despite the defensive pressure, maintaining his dribble until the precise moment Robinson established position in the soft spot.

The bounce pass threaded between defenders, Robinson catching it in stride, immediately processing the rotations in front of him. Vassell had relocated to the corner as they had practiced repeatedly, the weakside defender a half-step late recognizing the developing threat.

Robinson delivered the pass perfectly, Vassell catching and releasing in one fluid motion, the ball dropping cleanly through the net for a three-pointer that triggered appreciative applause for the sequence's execution quality.

On the ensuing defensive possession, Markus found himself isolated against Luka—a matchup Dallas clearly wanted to exploit, clearing that side of the floor to let their superstar work one-on-one against the rookie.

Markus settled into his defensive stance, weight balanced, hands active but not reaching, giving slight cushion to respect the drive while staying close enough to contest.

Luka worked methodically, a series of hesitation dribbles and subtle shoulder feints designed to create separation.

When Luka finally made his move—a lightning-quick crossover into a step-back jumper, Markus stayed connected, contesting vertically without fouling.

The shot missed slightly long, Wembanyama securing the rebound and immediately looking to push. Markus sprinted the right wing, receiving the outlet pass in stride, the transition opportunity developing with every dribble.

Reading the scattered defense, he crossed over between his legs as he approached the three-point line, freezing the backpedaling defender with the change of pace. A quick behind-the-back dribble created the angle for penetration, two elongated steps carrying him into the paint where decision time arrived.

The center rotated to challenge, leaving Anunoby open in the opposite corner. Rather than forcing a contested layup, Markus elevated as if shooting, drawing the defender's full commitment, then redirected mid-air with a one-handed bullet pass to OG for the open three.

"YES!" The exclamation escaped before he could contain it, the satisfaction of execution overriding his usual composed exterior for a brief moment.

OG knocked down the shot, triggering another crowd eruption and forcing a Dallas timeout. As they walked to the bench, Vassell bumped Markus's shoulder playfully.

"I see you getting excited out there. The robot might be human after all."

As halftime approached, the game remained tightly contested - Dallas's experience and cohesion balancing the Spurs' emerging talent and athleticism. Markus had accumulated 19 points and 7 assists by the break, his impact extending beyond statistics to the team's overall offensive organization and defensive communication.

Assistant coaches reviewed film clips on tablets, demonstrating specific coverage breakdowns, communication errors, and timing issues to address. Not harsh criticism but professional problem-solving, treating players as partners in the adjustment process rather than simply issuing commands.

The third quarter began with renewed defensive intensity from both teams - scoring becoming more difficult, possessions extending deeper into the shot clock, execution precision increasingly crucial. Markus felt his conditioning truly tested for the first time, the NBA's speed and physicality demanding sustained focus amid accumulating fatigue.

Dallas strung together three consecutive defensive stops, converting each into transition opportunities, building a seven-point lead that prompted a quick timeout from Pop.

"Expected," he stated calmly in the huddle. "Now we respond. One possession at a time. Quality shots, defensive communication, attention to detail."

Returning to action, Markus projected a deliberate calmness that belied his rookie status. No rushed shots, no forced passes, just methodical execution that gradually eroded Dallas's advantage. A perfectly timed pass to Robinson for a dunk. A step-back three when his defender went under a screen. A defensive deflection that created a transition opportunity.

"The poise is what impresses me most," Burke commented. "Most players would be pressing right now, trying to make the spectacular play to swing momentum immediately. Reinhart is just executing the game plan, trusting the process."

By quarter's end, the Spurs had reclaimed a narrow lead, setting up a fourth-quarter battle that had the capacity crowd fully engaged.

When he returned with eight minutes remaining, the game tied at 94, they implemented exactly a new strategy—Markus pushing the ball aggressively after both makes and misses, forcing Dallas into rushed defensive matchups before they could set their halfcourt defense.

The approach yielded immediate results—a transition three for Vassell, an early offense alley-oop to Wembanyama, a secondary break opportunity that produced free throws for Anunoby. Small advantages accumulating into a five-point lead that forced a Dallas timeout with 5:42 remaining.

"They're tired," Markus noted in the huddle, recognizing the subtle signs of fatigue in their opponents' body language. "Let's keep the pressure on."

The game's final minutes produced the crucible where reputations form—pressure possessions where execution margins narrow, defensive intensity peaks, and mental toughness reveals itself.

For a rookie point guard, these moments typically expose inexperience. For Markus, they showcased precisely the poise that had caught San Antonio's attention initially.

With the Spurs leading by four and just under three minutes remaining, Dallas's defense locked in with playoff-level intensity.

The shot clock wound down to five seconds with no clear advantage created.

Rather than panic or force a pass into traffic, Markus recognized the situation's requirements. Isolated against a defender at the top of the key, he created separation with a lightning-quick crossover dribble, his shoulder dipping slightly to sell the drive before pulling back.

The movement was fluid, practiced thousands of times, muscle memory executing perfect footwork despite the pressure. He stepped back to the three-point line, rising with perfect balance despite the closing defender, release point high above the contest.

The ball arced through the air, the arena collectively holding its breath, before descending cleanly through the net as the shot clock expired. A seven-point lead, a deflating momentum swing for Dallas, a statement moment for a rookie supposedly not ready for such responsibility.

"BANG!" Breen's signature call electrified the broadcast. "Markus Reinhart with ice in his veins! What a three from the rookie in a crucial moment!"

"That's a professional shot," Redick emphasized. "Perfect footwork, on balance despite the contest, confident release. Nothing about that sequence suggested this is a kid playing his first NBA game."

Markus allowed himself a brief moment of celebration—nothing elaborate, just a light tap to his chest and point to the sky as he backpedaled downcourt.

Dallas responded as championship-caliber teams do, Luka orchestrating consecutive scoring possessions that trimmed the lead back to three with 90 seconds remaining. The game's pressure intensifying with each passing moment, the margin for error vanishing completely.

Markus brought the ball upcourt unhurried, allowing the offense to set up properly, clock continuing to wind down, game management beyond his years.

As Dallas's defense extended pressure, he noticed something in their alignment, a subtle overplay on the strong side that created an opportunity.

With a confident gesture, he waved off the called play, instead signaling for a different action - Wembanyama setting a screen then slipping to the weak side, creating momentary confusion in Dallas's coverage. The exact advantage he had anticipated materialized, allowing a perfect skip pass to the corner where Vassell waited, unguarded, for the potential dagger three.

The shot left Vassell's hands with textbook form, rotation perfect, trajectory optimal. The crowd rose in anticipation, the moment hanging suspended briefly before the ball dropped through cleanly, extending the lead to six with 58 seconds remaining.

"ICE COLD!" Breen exclaimed. "Devin Vassell from the corner, and the Spurs are on the verge of opening night victory!"

Dallas managed one more scoring possession, but time became their enemy, forced to foul to extend the game. Markus calmly sank four consecutive free throws in the final thirty seconds, securing a 118-111 victory that sent the AT&T Center into celebration mode as the final buzzer sounded.

"Spurs win!" the arena announcer bellowed over the crowd's roar. "Your San Antonio Spurs defeat the Dallas Mavericks!"

Teammates converged in controlled celebration—not excessive emotion for a single regular season victory, but appropriate acknowledgment of an important first step.

Opponents approached with respectful handshakes, Luka seeking out Markus specifically.

"Good game, Reinhart," the Slovenian star offered genuinely. "You play smart. Looking forward to our next matchup."

"Appreciate that," Markus replied, unable to completely hide his admiration for one of the game's all-time greats. "Learned a lot tonight."

"That's what it's about," Luka nodded. "Just remember, I'm a whole different animal when the real games start."

"I'll be ready."

Luka's smile widened slightly. "We'll see."

Post-game responsibilities followed, courtside interview with ESPN, locker room media availability, ice treatment while answering questions, recovery protocols initiated immediately despite the adrenaline still flowing.

"Markus, how would you assess your NBA debut?" a reporter asked, digital recorder extended expectantly.

"Good team win," he replied, professionalism settling in despite the milestone. "Dallas is a quality opponent with established chemistry. We're still building ours, but tonight showed promising signs of what we can become."

"Were you nervous at all? First NBA game, starting point guard, national TV audience?"

A slight smile crossed his features. "Preparation eliminates nerves. We put in the work, studied their tendencies, trusted our process."

The statistical summary appeared on screens throughout the arena and on broadcasts nationwide:

FINAL: SAN ANTONIO 118, DALLAS 111

SPURS LEADERS:

POINTS: Markus Reinhart - 35

REBOUNDS: Victor Wembanyama - 12

ASSISTS: Markus Reinhart - 11

BLOCKS: Victor Wembanyama - 5

STEALS: OG Anunoby - 3

TEAM STATS:

FG%: 52.7%

3PT%: 41.2%

REBOUNDS: 46

ASSISTS: 28

TURNOVERS: 9

MARKUS REINHART DEBUT:

35 POINTS (13-21 FG, 4-7 3PT, 5-5 FT)

11 ASSISTS

4 REBOUNDS

2 STEALS

1 TURNOVER

37 MINUTES

In the locker room, after media departed, Pop addressed the team briefly. "Good start. Areas to improve, plenty to clean up, but the foundation is evident. Recovery tomorrow, film at 11, practice at 1."

As players dispersed toward their post-game commitments, Vassell approached Markus with a slight grin. "Thirty-five in your debut? Setting the bar kind of high for yourself, aren't you?"

"Like I always say, just playing basketball," Markus replied, though he couldn't completely suppress his own satisfaction.

"Well, keep 'just playing basketball' like that," Vassell laughed, slapping him on the shoulder, "and we might really have something here."

Outside in the family waiting area, Markus found his support system..

Lisa enveloped him in a hug the moment he appeared. "My baby in the NBA! Thirty-five points! I was so nervous I could barely watch in the fourth quarter."

"You did good, cuz," Marcus grinned, already scrolling through his phone. "You're trending number three on Twitter right now. The highlights are crazy."

When he finally reached Aisha, she studied him with that penetrating gaze that always saw more than others. "So," she asked quietly, "how does it feel to be an NBA player for real now?"

Markus considered the question, the enormity of the journey, the significance of the milestone, the road still stretching ahead.

"Feels like just the beginning." he answered.