Dante leaned against the locker room wall, the noise from the gym still echoing in his head, the crowd's cheers, the squeak of sneakers, the roar after his final dunk. He should've been flying high. But Coach Hale's words were stuck on repeat in his mind.
"Every time you take the court, people are watching. So what are you showing them?"
He glanced down at his hands, still trembling with adrenaline. Rico slapped him on the back.
"Bro, we cooked out there. That fourth quarter?" Rico grinned widely. "Tell me that wasn't the most fun we've had all season."
Dante nodded, offering a tight smile. "Yeah, it was."
But Rico saw it. The weight behind his boy's eyes.
"You good?"
Dante took a breath. "Just thinking."
Before Rico could press, the locker room door swung open. Janelle stepped in, camera slung over her shoulder. "I know I'm not supposed to be back here," she said quickly, "but Coach gave me two minutes for postgame footage. Don't worry, I'm not filming the showers."
The team chuckled as Dante stood straighter. "All good," he said, brushing his curls back. "What's up?"
She smiled and raised the camera. "Just wanted a few close-ups of the man who lit up the gym tonight."
Dante relaxed, his smirk creeping in.
"Oh, I already did," she teased, snapping shots as he turned. "But seriously, big game. And it looked like scouts were in the crowd. A couple of guys in USN jackets. Also saw someone with a University of Raleigh clipboard."
Dante froze slightly. He had seen the same thing from the corner of his eye during warmups, those eyes watching him, jotting notes every time he touched the ball.
"They didn't speak to me," he said, voice lower.
"They probably will. Soon." Janelle lowered her camera. "Lincoln's not just making noise. You are."
She gave him one last look and slipped out of the room. Rico whistled. "Bro. You baggin' scholarships and media girls now?"
Dante shook his head, half-laughing. "Nah, she's just doing her job."
"You sure she ain't trying to do you, too?"
The room erupted in laughter, and Dante shoved him. "Chill."
As the team got dressed and the buzz died down, Coach Hale stepped in. "Quick word."
The room quieted.
"Proud of y'all. That's a ranked team we just beat, and we did it the Lincoln way, tough, gritty, together." He looked around. "But we're not done. Districts are coming. State playoffs ain't just a dream, it's ours to lose."
Eyes locked in. Nobody blinked.
"You boys gave everything tonight. Now go home, rest. Monday, we work."
As the players filed out, Dante pulled out his phone. Missed texts from his mom, Alicia:
So proud of you, baby!!
ESPN had your dunk on replay. You're going places.
And another one, from an unsaved number:
"#3 is the real deal. Hope he stays healthy. We're watching.", USN scout.
Dante's pulse jumped.
They were watching.
Coach drained them the next Monday they met.
As the night air hit his face outside the gym, he took a long breath. The city felt different tonight. Same cracked sidewalks. Same cold streetlights. But he was changing, and the world was finally noticing.
The whistle blew for halftime, and Dante walked off the court drenched in sweat, breathing hard but steady. The scoreboard read Lincoln 41 – Southern Nevada 39, and the whole gym pulsed with energy. The crowd was electric, half of them on their feet. Every possession had turned into a war. There were no easy buckets, no lazy transitions, just relentless hustle from both sides.
Coach Hale didn't wait for everyone to sit before he started barking instructions.
"Good job holding the lead," he began, pacing like a lion. "But that second quarter? That's not our basketball. We let them dictate tempo, let them get too comfortable."
Dante leaned over, gulping from his water bottle, but his eyes never left the whiteboard Coach Hale was now scribbling on.
"Southern Nevada is running high ball screens because they know our rotations are late. Number 22, Preston Darnell, has hit three floaters on y'all. We're icing the screens the rest of the way; force him to the baseline. Make him make a decision."
Dante raised his hand. "Coach, if they adjust and start skipping to the opposite wing, should we switch or fight through?"
Coach looked at him, nodding approvingly. "You stay glued. You fight through. Rico, hedge harder. I want pressure on that release pass. Make 'em think twice before swinging it."
Rico gave a thumbs up, still breathing heavy but energized.
"And Dante," Coach Hale added, voice firm but proud, "keep doing you. We go as you go."
As the team huddled tighter, arms over each other's shoulders, Dante closed his eyes and focused. The lights, the crowd, the pressure, it was all white noise now. All that mattered was the court. The game. The win.
Second half.
Southern Nevada came out aggressively. Full-court press. Trying to rattle Dante early. The first possession, he drew a trap on the right sideline, spun through it, and rifled a no-look pass to Jordan Wade under the basket for a quick two.
The crowd roared, Lincoln's bench leapt to its feet, and Coach Hale clapped fiercely from the sideline.
But Southern Nevada wouldn't let up.
On their next possession, Preston sliced through the lane again, using a tight behind-the-back dribble to shake Rico and finish with a slick euro-step over Lincoln's big man. Tie game.
Possession after possession, the two teams traded blows.
Dante took control.
One moment, he was slicing through defenders like a knife through paper. Next, he was dishing alley-oops to Rico or pulling up for deep jumpers off the bounce.
Still, it wasn't enough to break Southern Nevada. The game remained in a state of balance well into the fourth quarter.
With two minutes left, the score was tied 66–66.
Dante stood at the top of the key, dribbling calmly as the shot clock ticked under 12. He scanned the defense. Southern Nevada had switched to a 2–3 zone, trying to slow the tempo. But Dante had seen enough zones in his life to dissect them blindfolded.
He motioned for Rico to cut baseline, pulling the weak-side defender down with him. Jordan Wade popped to the high post. That was the crack Dante needed.
A skip pass. A jab step. A spin back into the lane.
He rose.
Two defenders converged.
And still, he floated.
The ball kissed the glass and dropped in. And-1.
The crowd exploded.
As Dante stood at the free throw line, bouncing the ball twice, he looked into the crowd and saw Janelle, camera slung around her neck, already snapping away with a bright smile on her face.
He sank the free throw.
Final minute.
Lincoln up by three.
Southern Nevada pushed the pace. Preston launched a step-back three, missed. Long rebound. Dante snagged it. Coach Hale yelled, "Hold! Hold!"
But Dante had other plans.
He sprinted.
Past one defender. Then another.
One-on-one with the final man at the rim. No hesitation.
Dante exploded off his left foot and dunked through the contact.
Foul.
The entire bench erupted as Lincoln took a five-point lead with 32 seconds left.
The final seconds drained slowly.
Southern Nevada heaved desperation threes. Missed.
Dante hit two more free throws to ice the game.
Final score: Lincoln 78 – Southern Nevada 70.
The buzzer sounded, and Lincoln's players mobbed Dante at center court. It wasn't just a win. It was a statement.
Lincoln was no fluke.
Dante King wasn't just hype.
He was real.
As the gym slowly emptied, Coach Hale clapped Dante on the shoulder. "That's how to play. That's how you lead a program."
Dante nodded, drenched in sweat, adrenaline still pumping. "We're not done yet, Coach."
"No," Hale grinned. "Not even close."