Marcus woke up the next morning with a dull ache in his legs and shoulders, the kind of soreness that reminded him he had given everything on the court the night before. It wasn't the pain that made him smile though. It was the memory of the crowd, the sound of the ball swishing through the net, and that rush he hadn't felt in years. He lay there for a moment, staring at the cracked paint on his ceiling, letting the feeling linger.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached over, expecting maybe a couple of messages, but the screen lit up with more notifications than he could count. He scrolled through them, still half in disbelief. Walt had called three times. His teammates from Hammond's squad had sent congratulations. Even players from the opposing team had messaged him with a quick "well played." But the one that made him pause came from someone unexpected.
It was from Hammond.
Meet me at Joe's Diner. 10 a.m. Don't be late.
Marcus stared at the message, the words pulling him out of bed faster than any alarm could. Hammond didn't waste time on small talk, and he definitely didn't set up meetings without a reason.
He pulled on a hoodie, old joggers, and his beat-up sneakers. On the way out, he grabbed his keys and stuffed his phone into his pocket. The streets were already alive with morning traffic, the sun still low but bright enough to make him squint. The walk to Joe's took about fifteen minutes, just enough time for his mind to run through all the possibilities of why Hammond wanted to see him.
Joe's Diner sat near the train station, a small place with peeling red paint and a neon "Open" sign that flickered every few seconds. As soon as Marcus pushed the door open, the smell of frying bacon and strong coffee wrapped around him. The sound of plates clinking and a low hum of conversation filled the air. It was the kind of place where the waitresses knew your order before you sat down.
Hammond was already there, sitting in a corner booth, a half-empty cup of coffee in front of him. A folded newspaper rested on the table beside his plate. He looked up as Marcus walked in, gave a short nod, and motioned to the seat across from him.
"Hello," Marcus said as he slid into the booth.
Hammond didn't smile, but there was a spark in his eyes. "You played well last night," he said. "Better than I've seen you in years."
Marcus shrugged, though the compliment warmed him more than the coffee he was about to order. "Felt good."
"That's why I asked you here," Hammond said, leaning forward slightly. "I've got something for you. Not just a spot on my team. Something bigger."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Bigger? What do you mean?"
"There's a semi-pro league starting next month," Hammond said, his voice steady. "Scouts are going to be there. I know the coach, and I can get you in… if you're ready."
Marcus blinked. "Semi-pro? You're serious?"
"As serious as I've ever been," Hammond replied. "But here's the catch they don't want anyone who isn't committed. That means no drinking. No missed practices. No excuses."
The words landed heavy in Marcus's chest. He thought about the cold beer waiting in his fridge at home, about the long nights when a drink was the only thing that shut off the noise in his head. He rubbed the back of his neck, stalling for time.
"I've been cutting back," Marcus said, almost as if trying to convince himself.
Hammond didn't look impressed. "Cutting back isn't enough," he said firmly. "This is your shot. I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe you could take it. But I can't want it more than you do."
The waitress came by, poured Marcus a cup of coffee, and refilled Hammond's without asking. She gave them a polite smile and moved on. The two men sat in silence for a moment, the sound of the diner filling the gap between them.
Marcus thought about the game against Northside. He could still hear the roar of the crowd when his shot dropped. He could still feel the way his pulse had surged as his teammates slapped him on the back. It was the first time in years he had felt truly alive. But then, like a shadow creeping in, he remembered the mornings he had woken up with a pounding head and a phone full of messages he didn't remember sending. He thought about how many opportunities had slipped away because of those nights.
Finally, Marcus looked up. "If I say yes, I'm all in."
Hammond studied him carefully, as if weighing the truth in his words. "No half measures?"
"No half measures," Marcus repeated, his voice steady.
Hammond nodded slowly, then allowed a small smile to break through. "Good. I'll call the coach tonight. First practice is in two weeks. That gives you fourteen days to get yourself ready."
They finished their coffee without much more talk. Hammond left cash on the table and walked out, giving Marcus a short wave before disappearing into the morning crowd.
Marcus didn't go home. Instead, he turned toward the park. The basketball court there was mostly empty except for two kids shooting at the far end. The sound of the ball hitting the rim echoed across the concrete. Marcus dropped his bag on the bench, pulled out his sneakers, and laced them up tight. The familiar feel of the laces biting into his hands made something inside him settle.
He started with sprints, the kind that burned his lungs and made his calves ache. Sweat dripped down his back as he moved into shooting drills. Every jumper he took felt like a promise. Not to Hammond. Not to the scouts. To himself. A promise that this time, he would not waste what he had been given.
When the sun began to dip low in the sky, Marcus finally stopped. His shirt was soaked, and his legs felt heavy, but there was a lightness in his chest that he hadn't felt in a long time.
On the way home, he stopped at a convenience store. The cold air from the fridge section brushed against him as he passed the rows of beer and wine. His eyes caught the familiar labels, the ones that had called to him so many times before. But he kept walking. He grabbed a bottle of water instead, paid in cash, and left. The cashier didn't notice the choice he had made, but Marcus did. It was small, but it mattered.
Later that evening, his phone buzzed again. It was Walt.
"Hear you got some good news," Walt said when Marcus answered.
"Yeah," Marcus replied. "Big chance. But I've got to quit drinking for real this time."
"Then do it," Walt said simply. "We've both seen what happens when you don't."
Marcus smiled faintly into the phone. "You're right."
"You've got fourteen days," Walt reminded him. "Make them count."
That night, Marcus lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Fourteen days. It didn't sound like much, but it felt like the start of something big. He let the thought sink in, let it take root. This was more than just another game or another team. It was a way back to the person he used to be and maybe, if he worked hard enough, someone even better.
This time, he told himself, he wasn't going to let it slip