The coworking smelled faintly of lavender and something metallic, probably the fancy high-tech air conditioner humming in the corner. It filtered, purified, "enhanced" the air, whatever that meant – though to him it just made the place feel like a hotel lobby that was trying too hard. The room is new. New furniture. A long table, white and too smooth. Chairs that fold back easily. There's a coffee machine they never taught me how to use. A flat screen on the wall. The windows look out on a parking lot and a row of palm trees. Temporary, Michiko had explained, just a base camp. After a month or two here they will move into their permanent office in Japan. But for now, they will stay here in the US.
Daniel Weiss had always thought he'd be the one taking the calls. Coaches, scouts, agents – he used to picture his phone buzzing with offers, voices telling him he belonged somewhere bigger than Pasadena. Not long ago, he'd been him – the reckless forward, too fast, too fearless, the kind of player who dove into traffic for a loose ball and thought injuries were something that happened to other people. Until they happened to him. The knee gave out, and with it went the offers. Oregon State had been watching. Even Saint Mary's had a scout come out once. He liked to think they'd been serious. But after the surgery, the calls stopped.
He stayed in college, got his degree, drifted. A sales gig at some tech-coworking startup, "theywork" or something like that. Those weirdos fired me for nothing. A stint at Planet Fitness, pink shirt and all. Failed dropshipping business. All of that, until Coach Kuhlmann reached out.
It had been surreal – seeing his old coach, the man whose sideline bark could snap a player in two, call him by his first name, ask him what he was doing with his life. He didn't have much of an answer. And then Coach said the thing he didn't expect: "You always had the eye. The game moved too fast for your body, but not for your head. I need that. You in?"
That was it. No interview, no tests, just trust. The kind of trust that still made him sit up straighter whenever Coach was in the room.
Now here he was, on his first day.
The room wasn't empty. Michiko was there, typing quick messages back and forth on a sleek tablet, her tone clipped but polite whenever she looked up. She was the bridge to Goro, the money, the reason they even had a shot at this. She carried herself like someone who answered to no one except the person signing the checks.
Coach K sat across the table, silent, vaping, eyes locked on the blank whiteboard like it was a puzzle only he could solve. He muttered something in German under his breath – "Verdammte Stille," – damned silence – and then went back to glaring at the board. Sixty now. The glare still worked, but up close you could see the weight of all those years dragging underfunded teams uphill.
And then there's Dr. Lang. The "physiotherapist." Mid-forties, but looks like she didn't age a day after she hit 25. Pretty, long black hair, sharp eyes, sharp cheekbones, skin pale from years in cold morgues. Michiko said she recruited her on Coach's orders, but the way she stares at bodies when people move makes me shiver. She was a forensic pathologist once, before switching tracks. She said the balm and the freezer rooms preserved her. I believe it. She looks preserved. Coach only said, "Sehr gut. A doctor who knows what bodies can endure."
Finally, there's Marcus – the strength and conditioning coach. Daniel remembered him from college football, a 6'8'' offensive lineman built like a wall. Now he clapped backs hard enough to knock the air out of you, shadowboxed in the corner whenever he got bored. Loud, but the kind of loud that kept the room alive.
Me? I'm supposed to be the skills coach. That's what they wrote on the little card Michiko gave me. Skills Coach, Onitsuka Athletic High. Sounds too clean, too official, for what I really feel like. I was the player who flew too close to the rim and crashed before the game was over. Now I'm supposed to teach kids how not to end up like me.
Suddenly, Coach K's phone pinged. His eyes left the blank whiteboard at last, narrowing with the kind of satisfaction I'd seen only after buzzer-beaters.
"Michiko," he said, "the full list just came through. Had to pull some old strings to get it this extended. I've forwarded it to you already – print it and get it to Daniel and Marcus."
"Will be done in a second, Mr. Kuhlmann."
Half a minute later, we were huddled around the printer's warm sheets like conspirators. This wasn't a scouting report. It was a dossier – names, birthdates, heights, wingspans, social media handles, parent contacts, highlight reels, even comparisons to NBA pros.
I'd always known scouts worked hard. I just hadn't realized they worked like federal agents.
Coach took a marker and began striking out names. Simmons, Ingram, Brown, Murray, Tatum, Fox. Black lines slashed across the page like executions.
"Seniors are done," Coach said. "Juniors too. Waste of time. They already have their tracks laid."
Marcus grinned. "Damn, this feels like CIA paperwork."
I didn't laugh. My hands itched as I stared at the survivors of the purge: fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds who already had the basketball world sniffing at their doorsteps.
Coach's eyes drilled into us. "Sophomores for you, Marcus. Freshmen for you, Daniel. Sell the opportunity, use my name however you like. Scholarships. Stipends. Exposure. We're not just making calls – we're building a legacy. Move. Schneller!"
He clapped his hands once, sharp as a starter's pistol.
I stared down at my sheet. Freshmen. Names I already recognized from message boards and mixtapes. Kids who thought the world owed them the sky.
And I was supposed to convince them to chase something that didn't even exist yet.