The Philadelphia crowd had that specific East Coast energy, harder edged than Texas, more personal with their hatred.
Wells Fargo Center packed to the rafters, twenty thousand people who'd spent the hour before tip debating whether "The Process" had been worth it, whether Embiid would ever stay healthy, whether this young Spurs team was for real or just another Western Conference mirage.
Markus emerged from the tunnel with his earbuds still in. His ankle had healed ahead of schedule, two weeks of pent-up basketball energy coiled in his muscles.
During warmups, he moved simply. No extra dribbles, no flashy dunks for the crowd, just methodical preparation. His shots fell with metronomic consistency, catch, rise, release, swish. At some point learning transformed, no longer learning.
"Ayo, Texas boy think he nice!"
Markus glanced over to see Meek Mill himself, in a vintage Iverson jersey, holding court in premium seats just off the Spurs bench. He was standing, hands cupped around his mouth. "This Philly! We don't play that soft shit here!"
The game itself was filled with pure offense.
First possession: Markus brought the ball up against Tyrese Maxey's pressure, feeling out the defensive approach. Maxey played him tight, using his speed to cut off driving angles. But speed meant nothing if you couldn't stay balanced.
Markus shifted his weight left, selling the drive with his shoulders and hips. Maxey bit, sliding his feet to cut off the angle. That's when Markus planted hard on his left foot and spun back right, not just a basic spin, but one where his body stayed low, almost sitting on the turn. The change of direction was so sharp Maxey's momentum carried him past.
With the lane open, Markus accelerated. Embiid rotated over, all seven feet of him rising to challenge. Markus saw Wembanyama trailing the play, Tobias Harris a step slow in transition.
Without looking, Markus flipped the ball over his shoulder. The behind-the-back pass hit Wembanyama in perfect stride for a thunderous dunk that temporarily silenced the Philly crowd.
"Lucky pass!" Meek shouted, back on his feet. "Do that shit again!"
The floodgates opened from there. Markus hunted mismatches, using screens to get smaller guards on him. When they switched a big onto him, he'd rock them to sleep with dribble moves before exploding past. His handle had tightened during the injury layoff, hours spent in the practice facility just working on ball control while his ankle healed.
Second quarter, Philly trying to make it ugly.
They pressed, grabbed, did all the things that usually disrupted rhythm. But the shots kept falling. Pull-ups in transition. Contested threes that had no business going in. A lefty floater that kissed off glass so softly the Philly fans groaned in appreciation. By halftime he had 27 points on 11-15 shooting.
With five minutes left, Markus brought the ball up with 44 points, three away from his career high. The Philly crowd had gone from hostile to reluctantly appreciative, that basketball respect overriding hometown loyalty. except for Meek, who was still standing, still talking.
"You ain't Iverson! You ain't Philly! Sit your ass down!"
The play developed in slow motion. Screen from Robinson, Maxey fighting over. Help rotating from the weak side. Markus saw it all, processed it, made his decision. He rejected the screen at the last second, keeping Maxey on him, backing up toward the corner where Meek Mill sat courtside.
From thirty feet, directly in front of Meek's seats, Markus rose up. The arena held its breath. Even the Sixers bench watched with anticipation. The rotation was perfect, the arc beautiful, the result inevitable.
The ball splashed through as the crowd erupted despite themselves. Forty-seven points. Markus held eye contact with Meek for a beat, the rapper's jaw clenched in frustration, before jogging back on defense.
"Man, get up outta here," Meek muttered, finally sitting down as his entourage tried not to laugh.
Final: Spurs 128, Sixers 114.
Markus with 47 and 14, a career night in hostile territory.
—
Two nights later in Oklahoma City, the Thunder tried a different approach. They switched everything, kept multiple bodies around Markus, dared other Spurs to beat them. It didn't matter. When defenses took away his scoring, he became a surgeon with his passing. When they played off him, he punished them with his jumper.
The movement patterns were different now, more explosive off his plants, more deceptive with his shoulders. That ankle injury had forced him to refine the small things, the micro-movements.
Third quarter, he got Luguentz Dort on a switch. The defensive specialist crouched low, ready for anything. Markus started his dribble casual, almost lazy. Left, right, between the legs, all while reading Dort's weight distribution. Then came the combo—a quick in-and-out dribble followed immediately by a behind-the-back. Not for flash, but because the angle it created was geometrically perfect.
Dort stumbled, just for a second. Enough. Markus rose up from twenty-three feet, the fadeaway keeping him balanced despite Dort's desperate recovery. Nothing but net.
Final in OKC: Spurs 119, Thunder 108.
—
The Swiss deals happened over a long weekend. First Lindt, a chocolate company wanting to expand into sports marketing. The meeting was straightforward, professional, the Swiss executives appreciating Markus' business approach. Two years, good money.
The Rolex meeting carried more weight. They'd flown in their head of North American partnerships, presenting a deal that included not just money but a custom piece, ambassador status, inclusion in global campaigns.
"Why an NBA player?" Markus asked during negotiations. "Tennis, golf, Formula 1, those are your traditional sports."
"Because you represent precision under pressure," the executive explained. "Every possession timed, every decision calculated. That aligns with our brand values."
Three years, significant money, a partnership that felt substantive and transactional.
—
January 7th came with Austin's typical winter clarity, sunny and sixty-five degrees.
Markus had been up since dawn, nervous energy making sleep impossible. The Mercedes GLC sat in the dealership's detailing bay, pearl white paint gleaming under the lights, red bow almost comically large on the hood.
"You sure about the color?" Ryan asked, reviewing the paperwork one final time.
"She's always loved white cars. Used to say they looked clean even when dirty." Markus smiled at the memory. "We couldn't afford to be picky about car colors back then."
The surprise went perfectly. Lisa's tears, the repeated "this is too much," the embrace that said everything words couldn't.
—
The next morning, DeShawn stood in the driveway balancing on a wooden plank, basketball in his hands, sweat already pouring despite the early hour. Markus had set up a circuit that would have made Hiroshi proud, balance work, ball handling, conditioning, all integrated into basketball-specific torture.
"How long?" DeShawn gasped, his legs shaking from the effort of maintaining balance while dribbling.
"Until you stop thinking about it," Markus replied, demonstrating on his own plank. His dribble never wavered despite standing on one foot. "Your body needs to handle the ball independent of whatever else is happening. Defense, fatigue, pressure, none of it matters if the ball handling is automatic."
They worked for two hours, Markus sharing drills Hiroshi had designed specifically for him. The figure-eight dribbles while walking on a balance beam. The tennis ball tosses while maintaining a pound dribble. The blindfolded ball handling that forced reliance on feel over sight.
"This is just Tuesday?" DeShawn asked during a water break, his shirt completely soaked.
"This is just the morning session," Markus corrected. "Afternoon is strength work."
"Man, no wonder you're averaging 30."
"I'm averaging 30 because I did this when nobody was watching. You want it or not?"
DeShawn's response was to get back on the plank without being asked.
—
January 25th, Markus was reviewing film when Ryan burst through his door without knocking, phone extended.
"Check the NBA announcements. Now."
Markus pulled up the release, scanning quickly. Rising Stars Challenge rosters... there. His name, selected for the new format's Team Breakout alongside Alperen Şengün and Franz Wagner.
"Fourth team is new this year," Ryan explained. "For players who broke out beyond expectations. You're literally the poster child for that category."
The games kept coming. Portland fell easily, Minnesota couldn't match their intensity, Washington and Orlando provided good tests but ultimately fell short.
By the end of January, his averages had climbed to 30.1 and 10.8, video game numbers that had the basketball world recalibrating expectations.
New Orleans handed them a loss, their defensive scheme disrupting rhythm. But Cleveland felt the response, not just from Markus but the whole team. Vassell exploded for 37, Anunoby dropped 29. Proof that the Spurs were more than a one-man show.
—
February 6th arrived with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for the draft itself. The Rising Stars selection process would be streamed live, four team managers choosing from the pool of talent. The NBA had turned even this into content, into drama.
Markus watched from his couch, genuinely curious how it would unfold. The format was new—28 players total, mixed between rookies, sophomores, and G-League prospects. The managers were legends: Pau Gasol, Tamika Catchings, Jalen Rose, and Detlef Schrempf.
"Before we begin," the host explained, "let's remember how we got here. The 21 NBA players were selected by assistant coaches from around the league. Each team submitted one ballot, voting for four frontcourt players, four guards, and two additional players at either position. Coaches couldn't vote for their own players."
The camera panned to the four managers, each studying their notes. This wasn't random—they'd prepared, strategized, built theoretical rosters in their heads.
"With the first pick in the 2024 Rising Stars Draft," the host announced with appropriate drama, "Pau Gasol is on the clock."
Pau smiled slightly. "This is easy. With the first pick, I select Victor Wembanyama."
No surprise there. You didn't pass on a 7'4" unicorn who was already changing how basketball was played.
The graphics showed Victor's stats, his highlights, the obvious choice validated.
"With the second pick," the host continued, "Tamika Catchings is on the clock."
Markus leaned forward slightly. This was where it got interesting. Chet Holmgren was the obvious choice, another unicorn, Rookie of the Year candidate. Or Paolo Banchero, last year's number one pick who was putting up All-Star numbers in his second season.
Tamika looked directly at the camera. "I need a floor general. Someone who makes everyone better. Someone who's been overlooked and is playing with a chip on his shoulder."
Markus felt his heart rate increase. No way she was talking about—
"With the second pick, I select Markus Reinhart."
He sat back, genuinely stunned. Second overall? Ahead of Chet? Ahead of Paolo? The phone immediately started buzzing, texts, calls, Twitter notifications exploding.
"Wow," the host reacted. "The second-round pick. Tamika, explain that choice."
"Simple," she said confidently. "I watched what he did in the In-Season Tournament. I see what he's doing now after the All-Star snub. This young man is on a mission. Give me the player with something to prove."
"With the third pick," things continued, "Jalen Rose selects..."
"I gotta go Chet Holmgren. Can't pass on that combination of size and skill."
The draft continued, each pick building more intrigue:
TEAM PAU GASOL:
Victor Wembanyama (Spurs) - #1 pick
Brandon Miller (Hornets) - #2 pick
Bilal Coulibaly (Wizards) - #7 pick
Jaime Jaquez Jr. (Heat) - #18 pick
Dereck Lively II (Mavericks) - #12 pick
Gradey Dick (Raptors) - #13 pick
Anthony Black (Magic) - #15 pick
TEAM TAMIKA CATCHINGS:
Markus Reinhart (Spurs) - #44 pick
Paolo Banchero (Magic) - 2022 #1 pick
Jaden Ivey (Pistons) - 2022 #5 pick
Keegan Murray (Kings) - 2022 #4 pick
Bennedict Mathurin (Pacers) - 2022 #6 pick
Walker Kessler (Jazz) - 2022 #22 pick
Jabari Smith Jr. (Rockets) - 2022 #3 pick
TEAM JALEN ROSE:
Chet Holmgren (Thunder) - 2022 #2 pick
Jalen Williams (Thunder) - 2022 #12 pick
Ausar Thompson (Pistons) - #5 pick
Cam Whitmore (Rockets) - #20 pick
Jordan Hawkins (Pelicans) - #14 pick
Keyonte George (Jazz) - #16 pick
Vince Williams Jr. (Grizzlies) - undrafted
TEAM DETLEF SCHREMPF (G-LEAGUE):
Ron Holland (G League Ignite)
Izan Almansa (G League Ignite)
London Johnson (G League Ignite)
Matas Buzelis (G League Ignite)
Alex Sarr (Perth Wildcats)
Tidjane Salaün (Cholet)
Zaccharie Risacher (JL Bourg)
As the draft concluded, analysts immediately began breaking down the teams. Tamika had built a squad of versatile players who could all handle and shoot. Pau went young and athletic. Jalen prioritized length and defense. Detlef... nobody quite knew what Detlef was doing, but the G-League kids could all score.
"Going second is crazy," DeShawn said from the doorway, having watched the whole thing. "Ahead of all those lottery picks?"
"It's motivation," Markus replied, still processing. "Tamika gets it. She knows I'm playing angry."
His phone rang—Pop calling.
"Congrats on going second," the coach said without preamble. "Now Victor's going to try to destroy you in Indianapolis. Should be fun to watch."
"Let him try."
"That's what I want to hear. By the way, we play Portland tomorrow. Try not to let this go to your head."
"Never that."
But as Markus hung up, as the texts kept pouring in, as February stretched ahead with its challenges and opportunities, he felt something shifting again. The All-Star snub had lit a fire. Going second in Rising Stars—ahead of established stars and lottery darlings—had poured gasoline on it.
Indianapolis was going to be a massacre.