The water had gone from scalding to merely hot to lukewarm, but Markus didn't move. He stood under the shower head in his apartment bathroom, forehead pressed against the cool tile, letting the water cascade down his back. His legs ached. not the good ache of hard work, but the hollow exhaustion of giving everything and coming up short.
AD's block played on repeat in his mind.
The perfect read, the open lane, the elevation, then—nothing.
Failure at the moment of truth. The water drummed against his shoulders, a metronome marking time he couldn't get back.
That's what I do.
And he was right.
That's what separators did, they separated.
They made the plays that mattered when everything mattered. Markus had thought he was ready for that level. The tournament had taught him otherwise.
The water finally turned cold, shocking him back to the present. He shut it off, grabbed a towel, and padded into his bedroom.
11:47 PM glowed from his phone screen, along with several missed calls from Aisha. She'd watched the game from Philadelphia, had probably been trying to reach him since the final buzzer.
He toweled off and pulled on shorts and a t-shirt, then sprawled across his bed. The ceiling fan turned lazy circles above him, pushing around air that felt too thick, too still. His body was present but his mind remained in that arena, suspended in the moment before AD's hand changed everything.
His phone buzzed.
Aisha again.
This time he answered.
"Hey," his voice came out rougher than expected.
"There you are, I was starting to worry."
"Sorry. Just... processing."
"I watched the whole game. You were incredible, Markus. That step-back three over LeBron? The way you kept fighting even after—" She paused. "It was a great block. That doesn't diminish what you did."
"Doesn't feel that way right now."
He heard her shift, probably curling up in her apartment's reading chair, the one by the window that looked out over Philly's skyline.
They'd FaceTimed enough for him to know her spaces.
"Tell me what you're thinking," she said.
Markus stared at the ceiling fan, letting the silence stretch. One of the things he loved about Aisha was her comfort with quiet.
"I thought I was ready," he finally said. "All the work with Hiroshi, all the preparation, the way the tournament was going... I thought I'd crossed over. From potential to actual. But when it mattered most—"
"You scored 28 points against the Lakers in a semifinal. Eleven assists. You're nineteen years old."
"Stats don't mean shit if you can't make the play when it counts."
"Is that you talking or the voices in your head?"
He almost smiled at that.
She knew him too well.
"Maybe both."
"You know what I see when I watch you play?" she asked. "I see someone who makes everyone around him better. Who sees plays before they happen. Who's already one of the best point guards in the league and doesn't even realize it yet."
"You're biased."
"Extremely. Doesn't make me wrong."
This time he did smile, just slightly. "I miss you."
"I miss you too. Christmas break can't come fast enough." A pause. "What are you going to do now?"
It was the right question. Not 'how do you feel' but 'what comes next.'
Because Aisha understood that for him, forward motion was the only real medicine for failure.
"Work," he said simply. "Get better. Be ready next time."
"That's my guy." He could hear the smile in her voice. "Just... don't disappear into it, okay? Don't go full Markus hermit mode. The work matters but so does everything else."
"I know."
"Do you though?"
"I'm learning."
They talked for another twenty minutes and by the time they hung up, the weight on his chest had lessened fractionally. Still there, still heavy, but bearable.
Markus lay in the dark afterward, processing. The loss hurt because it mattered. Because they'd been close enough to taste what could be. But Aisha was right—he was nineteen, playing against LeBron James in games that counted. The fact that he'd expected to win said something about how far he'd already come.
Tomorrow he'd be back in the gym.
Tonight, he'd let himself feel it.
—
The practice facility at 5:00 AM was a different creature than during normal hours. No music, no chatter, just the hollow echo of footsteps and the eternal hum of ventilation systems. Markus had texted Chip the night before: "Can you meet me early? Need to work."
Chip was already there when Markus arrived, setting up cones in patterns that promised pain. The shooting coach looked up as Markus entered, read something in his expression, and nodded once.
"How early is early?" Chip asked.
"I've got nothing but time."
"That's not what I asked."
Markus met his eyes. "Put me through hell."
A smile ghosted across Chip's face—not cruel, but knowing. The smile of someone who'd been waiting for this moment, this hunger, this willingness to embrace discomfort as the price of evolution.
"Careful what you ask for," Chip said. "Hell's got a way of delivering."
—
Chip had taken his request literally, designing sessions that pushed past physical into psychological, that found his limits and then asked him to live there.
They started each morning at 5:00 AM. Ninety minutes of skill work that was really mental warfare—same shot, same spot, but with increasingly impossible conditions. Make ten in a row. Miss one, start over. Make ten in a row while Chip fouled him. While running suicides between shots. While reciting defensive coverages. While exhausted, frustrated, pushed beyond reason.
"Basketball is played tired," Chip would say when Markus's form started breaking down. "Championships are won by whoever maintains excellence when their body quits. Again."
The work paid dividends immediately. Against Chicago, with the Bulls trying to prove they belonged in the playoff conversation, Markus erupted for 37 points. Not empty calories either—37 points in a grinding, playoff-style game where every bucket was earned. DeRozan tried to check him.
Caruso tried. Didn't matter. The shots Chip had beaten into him through repetition fell like rain.
Final: San Antonio 108, Chicago 96.
The tournament concluded without them, Lakers beating the Pacers for the inaugural championship, LeBron adding another trophy to his endless collection.
Markus watched from his couch, studying rather than sulking, filing away lessons for next time.
Because there would be a next time.
He was certain of that now.
The schedule turned brutal but the Spurs kept winning.
Houston came to San Antonio talking trash about the tournament loss, how the Spurs were pretenders, how reality was setting back in.
Markus took that personally, dissecting their defense with surgical precision. 29 points, 13 assists, a win that felt like a statement.
Then the Lakers again, twice in five days. The first game, Markus played with an edge that surprised everyone, including himself. Every time down the court felt like a chance for redemption. He attacked AD repeatedly, no longer intimidated by the block, converting difficult finishes through contact.
The Lakers won anyway, LeBron orchestrating a fourth-quarter comeback, but Markus had proven something to himself.
The second game, the Spurs ambushed them. Pop's adjustments, a hot shooting night from Vassell, Wembanyama protecting the rim like his life depended on it. And Markus controlling everything, playing chess while others played checkers.
The win felt like delayed vindication.
New Orleans brought Zion's physicality, but the Spurs were becoming comfortable with discomfort.
Win.
Milwaukee brought Giannis's dominance, a reminder that some problems had no solutions.
Loss. But even in defeat, growth was evident.
The team was crystallizing into something harder, sharper, more resilient.
By December 19th, when All-Star voting opened, the basketball world had to reckon with what San Antonio was building. The Spurs sat at 21-11, fifth in the West but playing like contenders.
MARKUS REINHART 2024-25 (Through 32 Games)
26.7 PPG (48.2 FG%, 39.1 3P%, 86.3 FT%)
10.8 APG (3rd in NBA)
4.2 RPG
1.7 SPG
3.1 TO
Top 10 in: Plus/Minus, Offensive Rating, Assist-to-Turnover Ratio
TEAM SUCCESS
21-11 Record (5th in West)
Top 5 in: Defensive Rating, Assist Percentage, Net Rating
11-3 at home, 10-8 on road
4-2 vs. teams above .500
—
"We need to talk about your marketing future," Ryan said, sliding a folder across the table at their downtown San Antonio meeting spot.
The restaurant was upscale but discreet.
Markus opened the folder to find a stack of endorsement proposals, each tagged with sticky notes containing Ryan's annotations.
Nike. Adidas. Under Armour. Puma. New Balance.
The numbers made him blink.
"These are real?" Markus asked, looking at offers that started at eight figures.
"Welcome to being must-see TV," Ryan smiled. "You're not just a good rookie anymore. You're averaging 26 and 11. Every brand wants in before your price goes astronomical."
"Which it will," Markus noted, not a question.
"Significantly. Nike's offering $20 million over four years. Adidas is at $23 million. But look at this one."
Ryan pulled out another folder, thicker than the rest. Inside was a proposal from New Balance, the Boston-based company that had been aggressively expanding their basketball division.
"fourty million over five years," Ryan said, letting the number sink in. "Eight million base per year, incentives that could push it to fifty-two million total. Signature shoe by year two. Equity stake in the company. Creative control over your line."
Markus stared at the numbers. "That's more than Wembanyama got."
"Different structure. Wemby got more guaranteed up front from Nike. But New Balance is betting on your trajectory. They want to make you their flagship basketball athlete."
"Why would they offer this much?"
"Because they've done their homework. Their analytics team projects you as a perennial All-Star by year three. Their marketing research shows you test off the charts with both traditional basketball fans and younger demographics. You're the perfect combination—elite performance and marketable personality."
Markus flipped through the proposal, reading the fine print. The incentives were aggressive but achievable: All-Star selections, playoff appearances, statistical benchmarks he was already approaching.
"They want an answer by New Year's," Ryan added. "But honestly? I think we should take the meeting. When a company offers to build their entire basketball future around you, you at least hear them out."
"Set it up."
—
Three days later, Markus found himself on the top floor of the Frost Tower, San Antonio's skyline sprawling beneath floor-to-ceiling windows. The New Balance delegation had flown in from Boston—not just basketball division heads, but C-suite executives including CEO Joe Preston himself.
"Markus, thank you for meeting with us," Preston began after introductions. He was younger than Markus expected, maybe early forties, with the energy of someone building something rather than maintaining it. "I'll cut to the chase. We're not Nike. We're not Adidas. We can't offer you the same global infrastructure they have. What we can offer is partnership."
"I'm listening."
"Nike would make you one of fifty basketball athletes. Important, sure, but still one of many. We want to make you THE guy. Our Jordan. Our face of basketball for the next decade."
The head of design, Maria Rodriguez, pulled out an iPad. "We've already started conceptual work on your signature line. Not just shoes—full lifestyle brand. The theme is 'Precision in Motion.' Every product built around your playing style."
She showed him early sketches, color schemes, marketing concepts. It was thorough, thoughtful, clearly the product of serious investment in understanding his game.
"The money's substantial," Markus said. "But money's just money. What I want to know is—why should I bet on you instead of the established players?"
Preston leaned forward. "Fair question. Here's my answer: disruption. Nike owns basketball because they've always owned basketball. But markets hate monopolies. There's hunger for alternatives, especially among younger consumers who see Nike as their parents' brand."
"And you think I'm the disruption?"
"I think you're the perfect storm. Second-round pick who's outplaying lottery selections. Small market team competing with super-teams. Unconventional path to stardom. You represent everything that's changing about the NBA."
The room went quiet. Markus studied them, using the same instincts that let him read defenses. These weren't just executives trying to sign another athlete. They were believers, people who saw opportunity where others saw risk.
"There's one thing I need to know," Markus said finally. "When things get tough—because they always do in basketball—are you going to stick with me? Or is this just opportunism while I'm hot?"
Preston's expression turned serious. "We're offering you a five-year deal with a player option for three more. That's eight years of commitment. We're not just betting on current Markus. We're betting on the player you'll become."
Maria added, "We've built in protection for you too. Guaranteed money even if you get injured. No reduction in marketing spend based on team performance. Your signature shoe launches regardless of playoffs or awards."
"When would we start?"
"Tomorrow if you're ready," Preston smiled. "We've got a design team standing by in Boston. Marketing campaigns ready to launch. A documentary crew that's been following your journey since summer league."
"You've been planning this since summer league?"
"We took a interest in you when we saw your game against the Pelicans. We've truly started planning the moment you dropped thirty-eight on Miami in pre-season. Sometimes you see the future before everyone else does."
—
The signing happened on December 29th, in the same conference room where they'd first met. Lawyers from both sides, Ryan orchestrating details, photographers capturing the moment. Forty million guaranteed over five years, incentives that could push it to fifty-five million, equity participation that could be worth far more.
"Welcome to the family," Preston said, shaking hands as cameras clicked. "We're going to build something special together."
That night, Markus called his mother to share the news. She didn't even try to hold back tears this time.
"Forty million?" she kept repeating. "Markus, that's... that's generational money…"
"I'm so proud of you." she managed.
"Your father... he would have been amazed."
Markus let that sink in. His father, who'd walked away when things got hard, who'd missed everything that came after. Part of him wondered what the man would think, seeing his son sign a deal worth more money than entire neighborhoods in Detroit would see in lifetimes. Wondered if he was out there, watching right now.
"We did this without him," Markus said quietly. "You and me."
"You did this," Lisa corrected. "I just loved you."
"That was everything."
The games kept coming. Chicago again, this time with something to prove after the 37-point embarrassment. They played more physically, tried to punk the young Spurs. Didn't matter. Win.
Dallas brought Luka's brilliance, a reminder that greatness came in levels. The Mavericks' star put on a clinic, finishing with a 35-point triple-double that felt effortless. Loss, but educational.
Portland twice, both wins, Markus dissecting their drop coverage like a professor teaching a class. The Blazers were rebuilding, but NBA wins were never given, always earned.
As December wound down, as the calendar prepared to flip to 2025, Markus stood at his apartment window looking out over San Antonio's skyline. Six months ago, he'd been preparing for the draft, hoping someone would take a chance on him.
Now he had a shoe deal worth millions, and was helping lead a team that had shocked everyone by being good right now instead of eventually.