Monday morning didn't feel like the start of a normal week.
Dante could feel it the moment he stepped onto campus. People weren't just looking at him; They were watching him and studying him. Whispers followed every step he took.
"That's him."
"City Showcase MVP."
"Bro, did you see that dunk?"
Some students tried to dap him up in the hall. Others just stared, half in awe, half in curiosity. Teachers smiled at him with an unfamiliar kind of pride, the kind reserved for someone who had stepped beyond student and into symbol.
Dante kept his head down and his hoodie up.
It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the respect. He just didn't trust it.
Because attention always came with a price.
At lunch, Rico slid into the seat across from him, balancing a tray stacked with pizza and chocolate milk.
"You'd think you dropped 40 with the way everyone acting."
Dante poked at his sandwich. "Feels weird."
Rico laughed. "Weird? You lit the whole gym up, man. Now they finally woke up to what I've always known."
Dante cracked a small smile. "Still got work to do."
"Facts," Rico said. "But yo, Coach Hale said some college recruiter asked about you."
Dante looked up. "Who?"
"Don't know. Just heard a couple cats say someone in a polo shirt with a clipboard was asking your name and number."
Dante froze for a second. Not from fear, but from realization.
It was starting.
After school, practice wasn't just intense, it was personal.
Coach Hale ran drills with a sharpness that cut through the air. Every mistake was pointed out. Every lazy screen or late rotation earned a whistle and a glare.
But Dante noticed something else, too.
Some of the older players, especially Andre, weren't as welcoming anymore.
During a fast break drill, Dante threw a perfect lob to Andre, who could've slammed it home, but instead let the ball slip through his hands.
"My bad," Andre muttered, walking off.
Coach barely raised an eyebrow.
Later, in a scrimmage, Dante called out for a switch on defense, and Andre ignored it, resulting in a wide-open three.
"Talk louder, freshman," Andre said, walking away.
It wasn't blatant. Not yet.
But the message was clear.
The crown had weight, and not everyone liked seeing it on a new head.
In the locker room after practice, Dante sat in silence, towel over his head.
He wasn't mad. He wasn't even surprised.
He'd seen it before, back when he was 14, playing against older guys in street tournaments. The moment you became the threat, the love changed. The cheers turned colder. The support faded. You weren't the underdog anymore.
You were the target.
Coach Hale walked by and gave his shoulder a quick squeeze. "You good?"
Dante nodded. "Just adjusting."
Coach looked around the locker room. "Keep your circle tight. They'll test you more off the court than on it."
Dante looked up. "You think they're coming for me?"
Coach smiled slightly. "I hope they are. Means you're doing something right."
That evening, back home, Alicia was standing at the stove, stirring a pot of stew, when Dante walked in.
"You're late," she said, without turning around.
"Coach kept us an extra half hour."
"Because of the showcase?"
Dante shrugged. "Maybe. Practice was… tense."
She turned and gave him a look only a mother could, half concerned, half challenged. "Tense because you played well, or tense because others didn't?"
He dropped his bag by the kitchen door. "A bit of both."
Alicia lowered the flame and leaned on the counter. "You know, I always wanted you to shine. But I also knew that when you did, the world would get loud. Some of it good. Some of it ugly."
He nodded. "I'm ready."
She smiled. "I know. But ready or not, you still gotta wash up before dinner."
Later that night, Dante sat on the edge of his bed, scrolling through his phone. The clip of his showcase dunk had already hit over 12,000 views on Instagram. Someone had slowed it down, added trap drums underneath, and titled it:
"DANTE KING GOT BOUNCE"
"#NextUp"
He didn't post it. He didn't even like it. But he watched it three times, eyes narrowed, not admiring it, but analyzing every detail. The footwork. The angle. The timing.
Then he did what most kids his age wouldn't.
He put the phone down.
And picked up his notebook.
At the top of a clean page, he wrote:
What I Did Right – Showcase as the topic.
* Picked up full-court pressure early
* Didn't let missed calls affect tempo
* Found shooters in transition
* Stayed composed when they trapped
What Needs Work
* Slow release on catch-and-shoot
* Took two bad pull-ups in the 2nd
* Need a stronger left-hand finish.
* He stared at that last line for a while.
Then he underlined it twice.
Tuesday morning, there was an unfamiliar car parked outside the Lincoln gym, a black Chevy Malibu with tinted windows and a university sticker on the back.
Inside, Coach Hale stood by the door with two men in navy wind breakers and khakis. One wore a lanyard that said Western Illinois. The other was a scout for a JUCO powerhouse.
Dante walked in, bag over his shoulder, and felt their eyes on him.
Hale called him over.
"Dante, meet Coach Rainey and Coach Chen. They came to say hello."
Dante shook both their hands. Firm grip. Eye contact.
"You looked composed out there, young man," Rainey said. "We've seen a lot of guards panic when the lights come on."
"I don't panic, sir," Dante replied.
Coach Chen chuckled. "We noticed."
They didn't stay long, but their presence made ripples.
Word spread through the school like wildfire.
"Bro, D got college scouts coming to the gym?"
"He's not even a senior yet."
The stares got longer. The whispers got louder.
At practice, things snapped.
Dante called for a screen up top, ran the play, and dished a bounce pass to Andre cutting baseline.
Andre bobbled it again.
Ball out of bounds.
Coach Hale blew his whistle. "Run it back!"
They reset.
Same action. This time, Dante went for a lob, but Andre never jumped.
The ball sailed over his head and hit the backboard.
"Yo, what are you doing?" Dante said, finally breaking his silence.
Andre turned, arms spread. "You're trying too hard, King. Every play ain't gotta be ESPN."
"It's called running the offense."
"Nah," Andre said, stepping closer. "It's called you think this is your team now."
Coach Hale barked, "That's enough! Get to the line. Everyone."
They ran suicides until the sun went down.
After practice, while the others filtered out, Dante stayed behind, shooting free throws alone.
Coach Hale approached, arms crossed.
"You keep playing like you did at the showcase, they'll keep coming. Coaches. Reporters. Haters. All of them."
"I can handle that."
"You sure?" Coach asked. "Because that crown you're chasing, it gets real heavy, real fast."
Dante picked up the ball again. "Then I'll lift more."
Back at home, Alicia noticed the quiet.
"You don't usually bring the gym home with you," she said.
"Just tension. Some teammates think I'm trying to show off."
"Well," she said, stirring a pot, "are you?"
He thought about that.
"No. I'm just trying to win."
She set the spoon down. "Then stay grounded. Let your game talk. But don't lose your head trying to prove what's already obvious."
As the lights went out that night, Dante lay staring at the ceiling again.
The scouts had come. The team was shifting. The whispers were growing.
And still… something deep inside him whispered louder:
This is only the beginning.