Marcus woke up earlier than usual the next morning. The sun had barely started to rise, and the faint orange light slipped through the thin curtains of his bedroom. His body still felt the weight of yesterday's drills, but his mind was alert. For the first time in years, he had a reason to jump out of bed.
He sat on the edge of the mattress for a moment, rubbing his eyes. Fourteen days. That number kept circling in his head. It wasn't just a countdown to the first practice it was a test. Could he really leave his old habits behind? Could he be the player Hammond believed he could be?
The cold air hit him as soon as he stepped outside. He zipped his hoodie, slipped on his headphones, and jogged toward the park. His breath came out in little clouds. The streets were quiet, only a few early risers moving about. He liked it this way. No distractions. No noise. Just him and the road ahead.
When he reached the court, it was completely empty. The surface was wet from last night's rain, and small puddles reflected the pale morning sky. Marcus put down his bag, wiped his shoes on the edge of the court, and started shooting. The ball was heavy with moisture, but he kept at it corner shots, free throws, quick drives to the hoop.
Every time the ball hit the net, he felt something shift inside him. The weight of his failures was still there, but it was lighter now. Each shot was like a small piece of himself being put back together.
By the time the sun was fully up, he was sweating hard, his legs burning. A man walking his dog passed by and stopped to watch for a moment. Marcus noticed but didn't say anything. The dog barked once, then they moved on.
He sat on the bench to catch his breath, sipping water from his bottle. His phone buzzed. It was a text from Walt.
Walt: "Don't forget, no excuses. You training?"
Marcus: "Already done with my first set."
Walt: "Good. Keep pushing."
Marcus smiled. It felt good to have someone in his corner.
Later that day, he walked into a small gym near his apartment. He hadn't been inside in years. The place smelled of rubber mats and metal weights. The guy at the front desk looked up.
"Need a membership?" the man asked.
"Yeah," Marcus said. "Two weeks, for now."
The man tapped on his computer and slid a card across the counter. "You know the drill."
Marcus didn't waste time. He headed straight to the free weights. He started slow, careful not to strain himself, but pushed enough to feel the muscles work. He knew that if he was going to step onto that semi-pro court, it wouldn't just be about shooting it would be about strength, speed, and endurance.
When he left the gym, his arms were sore, but there was a strange satisfaction in it. A good kind of pain.
That evening, he found himself walking past his old favorite bar. The music and laughter spilling out onto the street felt like a pull. For a moment, he stood there, looking at the glowing sign, remembering the comfort of a cold drink and the familiar faces inside.
But then he thought of Hammond's face at the diner, the serious look in his eyes when he said, "No excuses."
Marcus turned away and kept walking.
At home, he cooked himself a simple meal grilled chicken and rice. No greasy takeout, no quick fixes. As he ate, he wrote down a plan in an old notebook: morning court drills, afternoon gym, evening runs. Every day, for fourteen days.
Before bed, he sat on the edge of his mattress again. The old Marcus might have gone out tonight. He might have made promises to train tomorrow and then broken them. But this new Marcus the one who had said "no half measures" was already different.
Still, he knew the real test hadn't come yet. The court was one thing. But life had a way of throwing distractions in your face, and some of them were harder to walk away from than a bar door.
As he lay back and closed his eyes, he wondered what the next two weeks would bring.
Somewhere deep down, he had a feeling that basketball wasn't going to be the only thing he'd have to fight for.