Chapter 2: Smells Like Smoke
The next morning smelled like smoke.
Not fire smoke—more like the singed edge of something once clean. Cleveland's practice gym was half-lit, empty but humming. I got there at 6:10. LeBron beat me by five minutes.
He was already in rhythm, headphones on, snapping corner threes like he had something to prove. Maybe he did. He wasn't supposed to be a shooter yet.
"New ball?" I asked.
He grinned. "Nike's testing one for rookies. Supposed to break in quicker."
I took it from him. Lighter grip. Softer feel. Not standard issue—something new. Different.
"You see the roster sheet?" he asked, rebounding his own miss.
"Jackson's gone," I said. "Already."
LeBron nodded. "Didn't even unpack. Coach said they're looking to move fast."
That was new. Jackson wasn't supposed to get cut before camp ended. But this wasn't the same timeline. Not exactly.
I shot a couple from the wing. Made two. Missed one. Legs still springy. My touch was coming back.
Coach Lucas walked in with Silas. Wagner limped behind them, knee wrapped tight.
That wasn't right either. Wagner didn't get hurt in '03. Not this early.
But he looked rough. Short steps. No lift. That changed things.
We ran half-court drills first. I got matched with J.R. Bremer. Solid handle, but loose decisions. Thought he was better than he was.
Coach Lucas gave us one instruction.
"Communicate. Read early. Cut off options."
That was my lane.
First rep, Bremer tried to go baseline. I shaded high, snapped my hips, called it loud.
"Base! Base!"
He hesitated. Lost the handle. I pounced.
Steal.
Second rep, he used a high screen. I ducked, chased, beat him to the spot. Contested his pull-up.
Miss.
Lucas clapped. "That's how we talk!"
By the third rep, I'd forced a switch and drew a charge.
Small wins. But they stack.
Afternoon scrimmage. Vets showed up.
Smush Parker, Ricky Davis, Milt Palacio.
Energy shifted. Ball didn't move the same. Voices got quiet.
First play, I called for a brush screen. Caught it off the curl. Hit the short jumper.
Next time down, I drove middle, dumped it off. Assist.
Then Davis checked in.
He made a point of guarding me. Bodyed me up at halfcourt.
"Bron's little buddy," he muttered.
I didn't bite. Just called the set. Ran it clean.
Next possession, he posted me.
First one, he scored.
Second one, I beat him to the spot, took the charge.
Third one, he threw an elbow into my ribs.
"Soft call," he barked.
"You elbowed me."
"You'll know when I elbow you."
Coach Silas said nothing. Just stared.
Later, in film, Lucas paused the tape.
"You see this?" he said. "Marcello rotates early. Bron cheats middle. Davis adjusts late. That's smart ball."
Nobody spoke.
But I saw LeBron nod.
I left the facility sore but steady. Outside, leaning on a Civic with Cavs tags, was Jim Paxson.
"Walk with me," he said.
I didn't ask where.
Just followed.
END OF CHAPTER 2
STAT SNAPSHOT
Marcello Wyatt - Undrafted Rookie Invitee
SP Total: 15
Trust Meters:
Coaching Staff: Warm (3)
LeBron James: Warm+ (5)
Ricky Davis: Cold (-3)
Badge Progress:
Floater Fade: 2/10
On-Ball Hound: 2/10
Communication Vision: UNLOCKED
MEDIA ECHO:
"Wyatt turns heads again. Some love him. Some don't. One thing's clear — he's not here to blend in." — Cleveland Plain Dealer