The bedroom was dark except for the TV's blue glow, some Netflix show neither of them were really watching playing at low volume. Aisha lay curled against Markus's side, her head on his chest, one hand tracing absent patterns on his stomach through his t-shirt.
January 2nd, 8 PM.
"Your cousin's in the kitchen again," she murmured, not opening her eyes. "I can hear him making another protein shake."
"Third one today," Markus confirmed. His cousin was serious about his development, maybe too serious. "He's got my mom's old Magic Bullet going overtime."
"He reminds me of you."
DeShawn had somehow convinced his mother—Markus's aunt Sheila—to let him miss the first week of school after winter break.
The argument involved something about "once in a lifetime opportunity" and "educational experience" and probably some tears. So now DeShawn was staying in the guest room down the hall, waking up at 5 AM to shadow Markus's morning routines.
"He's got it," Markus said, thinking about the afternoon session they'd done. "The tools, the drive. Just needs polish."
"And you're going to give it to him?"
"Might as well. Someone did it for me."
Aisha shifted, looking up at him in the TV light. "Hiroshi's really leaving so soon?"
"After my mom's birthday."
"Very him."
"Yeah."
They lay quiet for a moment. Down the hall, they could hear DeShawn's door close, heading to bed early like Markus had suggested. His cousin actually listened, which was refreshing.
"I should sleep too," Markus said eventually. "Memphis tomorrow."
"Mmm." Aisha didn't move. "Five more minutes."
"You said that twenty minutes ago."
"And I'll say it twenty minutes from now."
He smiled, running his hand through her hair.
He had a brutal January schedule, fifteen games in thirty days, West Coast trips, back-to-backs.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, probably feeling him tense slightly.
"All-Star voting closes soon."
"You're going to make it."
"Maybe. Guards are stacked in the West. Steph, Luka, SGA all locks. Then you got Dame, Fox, me, Booker all fighting for those last spots."
She propped herself up on an elbow. "You're having one of the best rookie point guard seasons ever. If they don't vote you in, that's on them, not you."
He knew she was right. Still, the wanting was there. That recognition, that validation from peers and fans. Proof that the tournament run wasn't a fluke.
—
The Memphis game felt different from the jump.
FedEx Forum had a loud, aggressive energy.
This crowd took Grizzlies' "Grit and Grind" personally even though this version of the team was younger, faster, more finesse than force.
During warmups, Markus noticed Ja "Guns and Glocks" Morant going through his routine.
Memphis star guard had missed time earlier in the season. Another suspension, another controversy, but he was back now, something to prove evident in every movement.
"He's gonna come at you," Vassell mentioned during their final shots. "Ja always goes hardest against other young guards."
"I'm not worried," Markus waved it off. Sure Ja would play intensely, this game was sure to include endless trashtalk. But his the competitive edge that had been sharpening all season present in his voice.
The game started with Memphis trying to establish hierarchy. Ja pressured full court from the opening possession, hands active.
"Ay, you think you nice," Ja said, bodying up as Markus brought the ball across halfcourt. "Bout to show you what nice really look like."
Markus said nothing, just called for a screen from Wembanyama. The seven-footer's presence created immediate problems. Memphis had to respect the roll, opening driving lanes. Markus attacked, but instead of challenging the rotating help, he whipped a pass to Collins in the corner. The forward's three rattled home.
"What's up with you?" Ja chirped. "Pass-first? Where that scoring at?"
Markus just smiled at him while jogging backwards. But the answer to that question came two possessions later. Markus sized up Ja at the top of the key, everyone else cleared out. The crowd sensed the moment, noise rising. Markus started left, crossed right, then hit Ja with the hesi-pull Chip had beaten into him through countless reps.
The space created was minimal but enough. Markus rose up from twenty-three feet, Ja's contest late. The rotation was perfect, the arc beautiful, the result inevitable.
Swish.
"That's where it's at." Markus said quietly as they ran back, allowing himself the smallest response.
The game turned into exactly what everyone wanted, a duel between ascending guards, each trying to outdo the other. Ja attacked relentlessly, using his nuclear athleticism to create impossible finishes. Markus countered with precision, picking apart defensive schemes, finding teammates when Memphis loaded up to stop him.
By halftime, the Spurs led by eight, Markus with 19 and 7, efficient and controlled.
The third quarter Memphis started grabbing, holding, doing all the veteran things that don't show up in box scores but affect rhythm. Ja got away with a clear push-off, scoring and screaming toward his bench. The crowd fed off it, noise becoming weaponized.
But something had shifted in Markus over the past month. The physical stuff didn't bother him anymore. His body had filled out, Troy's program adding functional strength. When defenders bumped him, he bumped back. When they grabbed, he played through it.
With three minutes left in the third, he decided to make a statement. Ja had been hounding him, trying to force a turnover. Markus surveyed, saw nothing immediate, then did something he rarely did—waved everyone clear.
"Oh, you trying to get busy now?" Ja crouched lower. "Come on then."
"You bet I will."
Markus started his dribble slow, almost casual. Left, right, between the legs, all while reading Ja's positioning. Then he accelerated—not with elite speed but with perfect timing. Ja, expecting the drive, slid his feet to cut off the angle.
That's when Markus planted and stepped back. Not just any stepback, the one he'd been perfecting, the one that created just enough space against any defender. Ja flew past, unable to recover. Markus rose up, twenty-five feet from the basket, the entire arena holding its breath.
The ball hit nothing but net.
The Spurs bench erupted.
"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!"
The final score—San Antonio 118, Memphis 103—didn't capture the individual brilliance. Markus finished with 38 points on 14-23 shooting, adding 11 assists and 5 rebounds. Wembanyama dominated with 30 and 14, their two-man game reaching new levels.
In the postgame interview, Markus sat at the podium still in his uniform, ice bags on both knees, endorphins still flowing.
"Hi everyone," he started, unusually cheerful for postgame media. "How's everybody doing tonight?"
The assembled reporters perked up at the energy.
"Markus, 38 points tonight, your second-highest output of the season. What was working so well?"
"Just rhythm, really. Ja's an incredible defender, had me working for everything. But my teammates set great screens, made shots when I found them. When everyone's clicking like that, individual numbers happen naturally."
"As a second-round pick, did you envision this kind of success this quickly?"
Markus considered the question. "You know, the draft position stuff... I get why people bring it up. But honestly? Yeah, I expected this. Maybe that sounds arrogant, but I've been preparing for this level for years. My mentor Hiroshi he always said the game doesn't care where you're picked, only how you're prepared."
"Pop made the decision to trust you early, trading Tre Jones before the season. Did you know that was coming?"
A small smile crossed Markus's face. "Pop kept telling me to 'be ready' during preseason. I didn't know exactly what he meant then. But looking back... yeah, I think he was preparing me. He saw something, believed in it before maybe I fully believed in it myself. I'm eternally grateful for that trust."
"Your development has been remarkably fast. What's been the key?"
"Foundation," Markus said without hesitation. "I spent three years doing technical work with Hiroshi, footwork, angles, vision training, all the subtle stuff. So when I got here, Chip and the staff could focus on NBA-specific things. Physicality, specific moves, conditioning. It's like... if your foundation is solid, you can build faster on top of it."
—
Two hours later, Markus stood in a pristine white studio space, New Balance's logo prominent on every wall. He'd changed into the carefully selected outfit—black athletic wear with subtle red accents, the brand's signature "N" visible but not overwhelming. The photographer, some big name from New York, circled with expensive cameras, calling out directions.
"Chin down slightly. Perfect. Now give me that look you had when you hit the stepback three."
Markus cycled through poses, some holding the ball, others just standing with quiet confidence. It felt weird, performative in a way basketball never did. But this was part of it now, the business beyond the game.
In the corner, Ryan watched everything with sharp eyes. He'd negotiated specific image approvals, creative input clauses, all the protections that mattered. His phone buzzed constantly, other clients, other deals, building his boutique agency one careful decision at a time.
Who knew, Ryan thought, watching Markus naturally find his angles despite claiming to hate photos. Marcus' cousin, the kid whose dad flamed out after one season.
Ryan remembered looking up Markus' father once, curious about the genetics. Stefan Reinhart, Swiss national who'd played professionally in Europe before one NBA season with the Nuggets. Averaged 7.3 points in limited minutes before injuries and rumors of substance issues ended things. Disappeared from basketball, from his family, from everything.
Stefan sniffed. Look at his son now. Genetics were funny like that, passing on the talent but not the demons, sometimes.
"Ryan, we need him for the interview segment." a New Balance exec called out.
"Five minutes," Ryan replied, but his mind had shifted to DeShawn, the cousin staying at Markus's house. Kid was 6'3" at sixteen, moved like a guard despite the size. Ryan had watched him during New Year's, seen the hunger, the mimicry of Markus' movements.
Might be another one, he thought. Basketball in the bloodline.
The photo shoot wrapped, Markus moving to a comfortable setup for the interview portion. Ryan half-listened to the standard questions, journey to the NBA, partnership excitement, future goals. Markus handled it smoothly, personality showing through without being forced.
Later that night, the announcement went live. Markus' Twitter, managed by a social media team now but still with his voice, posted the simple graphic. Him in New Balance gear, ball in hand, looking directly at camera with quiet confidence.
"Excited to officially join the @newbalance family. Building something special together. #NowWeRise"
—
The games came fast after Memphis. Milwaukee arrived at AT&T Center talking about respect, about young teams needing to learn their place.
Giannis was Giannis.
Impossible to stop, only contain. But Markus had entered a zone where everything felt possible.
Third quarter, Spurs down five, crucial possession. Markus brought the ball up, saw Giannis switched onto him after a scrambled defensive possession. The Greek crouched low, long limbs creating a wall of defense.
Markus didn't hesitate.
Jab step right, crossover left, then the move he'd been perfecting, a lightning-quick spin that used Giannis's own momentum against him. For a split second, the MVP was off balance, still recovering. Markus rose up for the mid-range jumper, picture-perfect form.
The ball dropped through as Giannis's late contest arrived. His first forty-point game, 42 by the final buzzer, adding 12 assists in a statement win.
Cleveland came next, their defense designed to make everything difficult. Didn't matter. Markus had reached that level where schemes became puzzles to solve rather than obstacles. 28 and 9, methodical dissection.
Then Detroit. The return home.
Little Caesars Arena felt different than he remembered. Smaller somehow, less intimidating. The kid who'd dreamed of playing here was gone, replaced by someone who belonged on any court. His family packed several rows, cousins, aunts, uncles, people who'd known him since diapers.
"Detroit, what's good!" the PA announcer boomed. "Welcome home number 37, Detroit's own, MARKUS REINHART!"
The crowd response was mixed—proud locals supporting their own, Pistons fans who needed to root against him. Markus soaked it in, understanding the complexity. This was Detroit. Nothing came easy, not even love.
He torched them for 33 and 13, every basket feeling like a message to every court that had shaped him, every player who'd tested him, every moment of doubt conquered.
Chicago, Charlotte, the wins piling up. San Antonio had won eight straight to start January, Markus's numbers climbing with each game. Twenty-nine and ten for the month, efficiency off the charts, leading a team nobody expected to compete playing like legitimate contenders.
Then Atlanta. The Hawks came in hot, Trae Young with something to prove against the rookie getting All-Star buzz. It was one of those games, everything that could go wrong did.
Shots that usually fell clanged out. Passes that normally connected sailed into the third row. Atlanta won by 12, snapping the streak.
"It happens," Pop said postgame, no panic in his voice. "Learn and move forward."
Boston came to San Antonio three nights later. The Celtics' switching defense, their length at every position, the kind of test that revealed truth. Markus started hot—15 in the first quarter, picking apart their scheme. Then midway through the second, disaster.
Jaylen Brown's knee caught Markus's ankle on a drive. Not malicious, just basketball, but the pain shot up his leg like electricity. He stayed down for a moment, arena suddenly quiet, before limping to the locker room with trainers supporting him.
The diagnosis: mild ankle sprain. One week minimum, possibly two. The Spurs won without him—Wembanyama taking over, Vassell stepping up—but the injury's timing stung.
Charlotte without Markus: Loss.
Washington: Tre Jones (He got traded again) played well in the win, the former Spur showing he still had game. Each result updating playoff positioning, individual statistics, award races.
Then the news dropped.
"All-Star starters and reserves have been announced..."
Markus sat on his couch, ankle elevated, ice pack numbing the swelling that had finally started to subside. He'd done the math—his numbers were undeniable.
Twenty-nine and tenLeading a surprise team. The narrative was perfect.
Western Conference Guards:
Stephen Curry (starter)
Luka Dončić (starter)
Shai Gilgeous-Alexander (reserve)
Anthony Edwards (reserve)
Devin Booker (reserve)
No Markus Reinhart.
He stared at his phone, reading the list again.
Booker made it averaging 26 and 5.
"It's the rookie thing," Ryan said when he called moments later. "Plus you missed those two games at the end. Coaches and media probably dropped you down their ballots."
"Yeah," Markus said, voice neutral.
"You good?"
"I'm good."
But after hanging up, he sat in the dark living room for a long time. Not devastated—he'd learned to handle disappointment. Not angry exactly, the guards ahead of him were all incredible players.
The tournament run hadn't been enough. Being arguably the best rookie since LeBron hadn't been enough.
Fine.
He'd show them what enough looked like. Show them what happened when you overlooked someone who'd spent their whole life proving doubters wrong. The second-round pick who shouldn't be here. The rookie who shouldn't be starting. The point guard who shouldn't be averaging MVP numbers.
He was built different. Built in Detroit gyms at 5 AM. Built through Hiroshi's impossible training. Built for moments exactly like this.
The All-Star game would happen without him. Players he was outperforming would get the recognition, the bonuses, the legacy points.
But after the break, when games mattered most, when playoff positioning was decided, when legacies were actually forged?
That's when they'd understand their mistake.
The ankle would heal. The motivation would remain. And the numbers—already historic—would reach levels that made future snubs impossible.
He wasn't just going to show them he belonged at All-Star weekend.
He was going to show them he belonged in conversations they weren't ready to have yet.
MVP conversations.
All-NBA conversations.
Best point guard….
No.
Best player in the league conversations.
They wanted more?
They had no idea what more looked like.