The Civic's interior smelled like fast food and fresh leather. Jim Paxson drove like he wasn't in charge of anything, like we weren't riding into something.
He didn't speak for the first five minutes. Just turned up the static-heavy AM station until it spat out sports radio.
"Ricky Davis not showing for interviews again—doesn't want to talk Bron, they say. But maybe he should be worried about Wyatt instead."
He turned it down.
"You got their attention," Paxson said.
I didn't answer. I wasn't sure it was a compliment.
"You're not just a camp body. We see that. The question is, what are you beyond that?"
He pulled into the facility lot. But didn't park. Just idled.
"LeBron's got the keys. But this roster's full of guys still thinking it's their car. You're either helping us drive—or you're in the way."
Then he parked.
They brought in a new group of invitees that afternoon. Late additions. Bodies for contact, maybe competition. One of them was Eddie Basden—a 6'5" defensive specialist who, in my timeline, wouldn't hit the league until '05.
Here, he was already sniffing a roster.
We were matched up immediately.
Basden didn't talk. Just locked in. Long arms, quick feet. Real challenge.
Coach Silas blew the whistle. "Three stops, one-on-one, alternating possessions. Go."
First set, I tried the Floater Fade. He read it. Blocked it clean.
Next play, I mirrored his drive, cut off baseline. Forced a pick-up. No shot.
Third play, I used a shoulder fake, cross-step into a hard dribble pull-up. Made it.
Two plays later, I hit him with a reverse step-through off the pivot. Bucket.
Basden nodded. Just once. No words.
I respected it.
After drills, Lucas tossed me a towel. "He'll be in the league. So will you. If you stay sharp."
Weight room session was heavier than usual. Veterans filtering through. Smush glaring. Davis not even pretending to hide his mood.
LeBron lifted alone. Didn't speak much. Just focused.
I caught him between sets.
"You good?"
He wiped his face. "They're coming at you now. Means you're close."
I nodded. "You ever feel like they want you to choose a side?"
He grinned. "I already chose. But I don't need anyone speaking for me."
That was as much of a warning as it was reassurance.
The coaches gave us partial playbooks that evening. Installations started with spacing sets: Horns, Delay, Slot Action. Nothing I hadn't seen before—but the Cavs' terminology was different. Heavier on physical reads than language.
We ran half-speed. I called out switches, echoed corner tags. Silas watched close.
At the end, he called me over.
"Tomorrow's a media day," he said. "You talk like you play. Direct. Keep it that way."
I nodded.
Then he added, "And don't say anything about Ricky. Let us handle the vets."
Which meant there was something to say.
That night, the locker room stayed late. Davis left early. Smush too. The rest of us? We stayed. Played cards. Talked.
LeBron finally laughed. Real laugh.
"You ever notice we got six dudes from the Big Ten and nobody from the SEC?"
Someone groaned. "That's why we keep getting boxed out."
I leaned back. Watched the room.
We weren't a team yet. But we weren't strangers either.
And I was still here.
END OF CHAPTER 3
STAT SNAPSHOT
Marcello Wyatt - Undrafted Rookie Invitee
SP Total: 20.5
Trust Meters:
Coaching Staff: Warm+ (4)
LeBron James: Warm+ (5)
Ricky Davis: Cold (-4)
Badge Progress:
Floater Fade: 3/10
On-Ball Hound: 3/10
Communication Vision: Active
Playbook Familiarity: 2/10
MEDIA ECHO:
"Wyatt goes toe-to-toe with defensive specialist Basden. Coaches like the fire. Vets... less so." — Cleveland Plain Dealer