The basketball clanged off the rim, and DeShawn, Markus's sixteen-year-old cousin, actually looked surprised that he'd gotten a shot off at all. The driveway court was packed with family members sitting on folding chairs, leaning against cars, kids running between legs with sparklers even though the sun hadn't set yet.
New Year's Day in San Antonio, seventy-two degrees, this type of weather made winters in Detroit seem like punishment.
"Lucky bounce," DeShawn said, retrieving the ball. At 6'3", he had an inch on Markus and rangy athleticism that made coaches drool. "Run it back."
Markus wiped sweat from his forehead with his shirt, a simple Nike tee, nothing fancy despite the shoe deal sitting in his bank account. "You sure? That's 11-3."
"Man, you going easy on me. I can tell."
Which was true. Markus had been playing at maybe thirty percent, letting DeShawn work on his moves, only really defending when the kid got too comfortable. But even at thirty percent, the gap was enormous.
NBA conditioning, Chip's torture sessions, the accumulated knowledge of playing against the best guards in the world—it all added up to something DeShawn couldn't touch yet.
"Aight," Markus said, checking the ball. "Your ball."
DeShawn came at him harder this time, trying a crossover he'd definitely been practicing. It was good—quick, low, change of pace on point. Against high school competition, it probably destroyed kids.
Against Markus, even casual Markus, it barely created a sliver of space.
But Markus let him think he had something, sliding his feet just a beat slow, letting DeShawn get to his spot. He pulled up from fifteen feet, decent form, rotation clean. The ball hit back rim and bounced straight up, a shot that goes in when you're hot, rims out when you're not.
"Damn!" DeShawn slapped his thigh. "I had that."
"You did," Markus agreed. "Form's nice. Just rushed it a little."
"Can you show me that hesi-pull you did against Golden State?"
Before Markus could answer, two small bodies crashed into his legs, Aisha's younger brothers, eight-year-old Jaylen and six-year-old Cameron, had escaped from whatever adult was supposed to be watching them.
"Markus! Play with us!" Jaylen demanded, trying to steal the ball from DeShawn, who held it above his head laughing.
"We wanna dunk!" Cameron added, attaching himself to Markus's leg like a barnacle.
"Y'all trying to end my career before the All-Star break?" Markus asked, but he was already smiling. Something about kids just hit different. No agendas, no calculations, just pure enthusiasm.
"Please please please please—"
"Aight, aight." He grabbed the ball from DeShawn. "But we're gonna do this right. Jaylen, you guard DeShawn. Cam, you're with me. First team to five wins."
What followed was controlled chaos. Markus lifted Cameron for dunks that had the kid screaming with joy. DeShawn played along perfectly, letting Jaylen steal the ball with exaggerated reactions. Other kids materialized from somewhere—cousins, neighbors, family friends—until the driveway game had turned into a full circus.
Through the living room window, Markus caught sight of the adults inside, his mom talking with Diana Johnson, Aisha's mother, both women laughing about something.
After letting the kids win their third straight game, Markus noticed Ryan stepping onto the patio, phone in hand, that look that meant business even on a holiday.
"Y'all keep playing," Markus said, ruffling Jaylen's head. "DeShawn's in charge."
"Bet," DeShawn said, already organizing the next game. Kid was a natural leader, Markus noted. Had that same quality Marcus had shown back in Detroit, ability to get people to follow without forcing it.
Inside, the house smelled like Lisa's cooking mixed with whatever Diana had brought from Philly. Tanka weaved between legs, having learned that family gatherings meant dropped food and endless head scratches.
"Kitchen," Ryan said quietly, and they slipped away from the main gathering to the relative quiet near the coffee maker.
"On New Year's?" Markus asked, though he was already focused.
"Big stuff doesn't wait," Ryan said, pulling up his phone. "Three things. First, All-Star voting update."
He showed Markus the screen. Western Conference guards, first returns. Curry and Luka locked in the starting spots, but Markus sat fifth, ahead of established stars like Booker and Fox.
"You'd need to get higher but..." Ryan let the implication hang.
An All-Star as a rookie. It happened, but rarely. And almost never for second-round picks who weren't supposed to be here.
"Second," Ryan continued, "the Swiss are serious. Two companies want meetings next week."
"The Swiss?"
"Your father's nationality opened doors. Rolex wants to talk about an ambassadorship. Lindt—yes, the chocolate company—wants you for their new lifestyle campaign. We're talking seven figures each, minimum."
Markus processed that. His father, who'd walked away when things got hard, inadvertently creating opportunities through genetics and paperwork. The irony wasn't lost on him.
"And third?"
"New Balance wants to accelerate everything. They're talking signature shoe by next season, not year two. The Christmas games did crazy numbers. The market's responding."
When he'd allowed himself to dream about the NBA, he'd imagined maybe twelve and five as a rookie, solid contributor numbers. This was something else entirely.
"Welcome to being must-see TV. Speaking of which, when do you want to handle these meetings?"
"Mom's birthday is on the seventh. I'm not missing that for any amount of Swiss money."
Ryan smiled. "The car?"
"Getting delivered to the dealership tomorrow."
"She's going to cry."
"That's the plan."
They rejoined the party to find it had evolved. Music played from speakers Aisha had somehow configured, old school R&B that had the older generation nodding along.
On the couch, Marcus held court with younger cousins, telling exaggerated stories about Markus as a kid that were probably only half true.
Markus found Aisha in the kitchen, helping his mother organize desserts—pies, cakes, cookies, enough sugar to put the whole neighborhood in a coma.
"The boys wear you out?" she asked, glancing at his slightly disheveled appearance.
"They've got energy for days. DeShawn's nice though. Real nice. Someone should be looking at him."
"Already playing scout?" Aisha teased. "Can't turn it off even on holidays?"
"You're analyzing behavioral patterns in my family room right now," he countered. "We're both broken."
"Productively broken," she corrected, then softer, "You look happy."
He considered that. Was he happy? The season was exceeding every expectation. Money wasn't a concern anymore, might never be again. His family was safe, provided for, gathered in a house he could afford to rent without checking the price. Aisha was here, their relationship solid despite the distance.
But there was also the tournament loss. AD's block. The knowledge that for all his success, there were still levels to climb, games that mattered where he'd come up short.
"I'm... content," he said finally. "Like, this is good. All of this. But I want more too. Does that make sense?"
"Perfect sense." She understood, because of course she did. "That's what drives you. The gap between where you are and where you want to be."
"Speaking of gaps," Lisa interrupted, appearing with a tray, "there's a gap in my dessert table. Markus, baby, help me carry these out?"
The next hour passed in a blur of sugar and conversation. Markus found himself pulled into different groups—talking basketball with DeShawn and the teenagers, listening to his aunts gossip about family members who weren't there, watching Hiroshi somehow teach Aisha's brothers meditation techniques that actually had them sitting still.
"This is nice," Marcus said, appearing beside him with two beers, offering one. "The whole family thing. Been a while since we all got together like this."
"Yeah," Markus agreed, accepting the beer even though he'd probably only sip it. Professional athlete nutrition was real, even on holidays.
"You know I'm proud of you, right?" Marcus continued, unusually sincere. "I gave you shit about leaving Alliance, but... you were right. Ryan's good people. And you're killing it out there."
"Thanks, man."
"DeShawn's been watching all your games. Kid's got notebooks full of your plays, trying to figure out how you see stuff before it happens."
"He's got potential. Needs to tighten his handle, work on his left, but the tools are there."
"Maybe you could work with him this summer? If you got time?"
"Yeah, of course. Family first."
As the sun started setting, people migrated outside. The Texas evening was perfect—warm enough for t-shirts, cool enough to be comfortable. Someone had started a fire in the pit Markus had installed last month. Kids ran around with sparklers, their light trails creating patterns in the growing dusk.
Markus found himself standing apart for a moment, observing. This was what he'd played for, really. Not the stats or the money or the fame, but this—family safe and happy, girlfriend beside him, future spread out with possibility.
"You're doing that thing," Aisha said, sliding her arm through his.
"What thing?"
"That watching thing. Like you're memorizing it."
"Maybe I am."
The fireworks started early—neighbors had apparently stocked up, and the suburban arms race was on. Explosions of color lit up the sky, kids shrieking with delight, adults pretending they weren't equally impressed.
"Markus!" A voice from over the fence. Ms. Henderson from next door, ancient and unstoppable, the kind of neighbor who knew everyone's business and shared it freely. "That was you on TV against Chicago? Thirty-seven points?"
"Yes ma'am," he called back.
"My grandson says you're gonna be an All-Star. That true?"
"Working on it!"
"Well work harder! I got money on it!"
Other neighbors appeared, word had spread that the NBA player was home, hosting a party. But it was natural, easy. These were people who'd watched him move in six months ago as an unknown rookie. Now they wanted photos with their kids, sure, but they also brought potato salad and asked about his mother's health.
The night wound on, perfect in its imperfection. Too much food, kids up too late, stories told with increasing elaboration.
And through it all, Markus felt something settling in his chest. Not satisfaction—he was too driven for that. Not contentment—the tournament loss still stung, still motivated. But maybe something like peace. The understanding that you could want more while still appreciating what you had.
Tonight was this. Family laughing in his backyard. Girlfriend stealing sips of his barely touched beer. Dog passed out from too much attention. Cousin getting buckets in the driveway, dreaming NBA dreams that didn't seem impossible anymore.
The fireworks reached a crescendo, neighbors apparently coordinating for maximum effect. In the flashing light, Markus caught glimpses of faces—his mother's joy, Hiroshi's rare smile, Aisha's hand finding his in the darkness between explosions.
Twenty-seven and ten. Third in All-Star voting. Forty million dollars in shoe money.
None of it meant as much as this moment, surrounded by everyone who'd believed before there was anything to believe in.
The numbers would keep climbing. The pressure would keep building. The expectations would keep growing.
But this—family, love, connection—this was the real prize.