It was a quiet Monday morning when Marcus got the call. He was sitting by the window, sipping tea, the streets outside still damp from the night's rain.
"Hello?" he answered, not recognizing the number.
"Marcus Reed?" the voice on the other end asked.
"Yeah."
"This is Coach Hammond from the City League. I saw you play last weekend against Eastside. You've still got it."
Marcus frowned. "City League? I haven't played there in years."
"Well, we've got a spot open for the regional tournament next month. We're pulling together a mixed team of young talent and experienced players. You interested?"
Marcus leaned back in his chair. His heart thudded. The City League was no joke. It was where scouts sometimes came to watch.
"I… I don't know," he said slowly.
"Think about it," Hammond replied. "But I'll be honest we need an answer in two days."
When Marcus hung up, he sat there for a long time. The last time he'd played in the City League was the night of the big final, the night everything fell apart. He could still hear the buzzer, see the other team celebrating, feel the crushing weight of the loss.
He had sworn he'd never step on that kind of stage again.
At practice that evening, Walt noticed something was off.
"You're quiet," Walt said.
"Got a call," Marcus told him. "City League. They want me for the tournament."
Walt's eyes lit up. "That's a big deal."
"Yeah, but… last time I played there…" Marcus trailed off.
Walt placed a hand on his shoulder. "The past doesn't own you unless you let it. This could be your chance to rewrite that chapter."
Marcus didn't answer.
The news didn't stay private for long. By the end of practice, the rest of the team knew.
"City League?" Daryl said with a raised eyebrow. "That's huge."
"Yeah," Marcus said.
"So you're going, right?"
Marcus shrugged. "Not sure yet."
"Man," Daryl shook his head. "You'd be crazy to say no."
That night, Marcus walked past the bar on his way home. The smell drifted out, just like always, but this time he didn't slow down. His mind wasn't on the drink it was on the court, the lights, the roar of the crowd.
He thought about the boys in the amateur team, how they'd looked at him differently after the last game. He thought about Walt, who had believed in him when no one else did.
And he thought about the Marcus who had walked away from it all, drowning his pain in glass after glass.
The next morning, Marcus called Hammond.
"I'll do it," he said.
"Good. We've got our first practice Friday night. You'll meet the rest of the team then."
When Marcus hung up, he felt something he hadn't in years a rush of nervous excitement.
Friday came fast. The City League practice was held in a big, polished gym, the kind with shiny floors and high bleachers. The other players were already there when Marcus walked in. Some were young, fresh out of high school, all speed and energy. Others were veterans with years of game in their eyes.
One of them, a tall guy with a shaved head, looked Marcus up and down. "You the guy Hammond was talking about?"
"Guess so," Marcus said.
"I remember you," the man said. "That final, a few years back. Rough night."
Marcus's stomach tightened. "Yeah. Rough night."
Practice was intense. The pace was faster than anything Marcus had played in years. The plays were sharper, the competition fiercer. At first, he struggled to keep up. His passes came a fraction too late, his shots just off the mark.
But then something clicked. The rhythm came back, the old instincts woke up. By the end of the scrimmage, he was running the floor like he belonged.
After practice, Hammond pulled him aside. "You've still got it. But you'll need to be sharper for the tournament. No slip-ups. And I mean off the court too."
Marcus knew what that meant. "Understood."
Walking out of the gym, Marcus realized the real challenge wasn't just winning games. It was proving to himself and to everyone else that he wasn't the man who had quit before.
And this time, he wasn't planning to run.