The days leading up to the draft passed slowly, like time deliberately stretching itself just to test patience.
Radios buzzed nonstop with speculation. Morning shows debated mock drafts. Afternoon segments replayed college highlights on loop. Late-night analysts argued with practiced certainty, their voices confident as they predicted futures that had not yet happened.
Televisions dissected statistics and potential until numbers felt more important than people. Vertical leaps. Shooting percentages. Age curves. Risk charts.
Names of young players echoed everywhere—nineteen, twenty, twenty-two.
The future, everyone said, was bright.
And loud.
The North Gate Buffalo sat at the center of every conversation.
The weakest team in the league.
Bottom of the standings.
First overall pick.
A franchise desperate for a rebuild.
Commentators spoke about them with a mix of pity and urgency, as if the team were a broken machine in need of a miracle part. Analysts argued endlessly about which young star could save them—who had the size, the speed, the upside to turn failure into hope.
"Height wins championships," one expert insisted.
"You need youth," another countered.
"Development takes time."
No one mentioned experience.
No one mentioned patience.
And certainly, no one mentioned a thirty-eight-year-old man with a healed knee and an old, stubborn dream.
Elias listened to none of it directly, yet he felt its weight everywhere—on buses, in break rooms, in the background noise of daily life. The world spoke loudly about the future, and he quietly existed outside of it.
Draft day arrived dressed in spectacle.
The venue was transformed into a celebration—lights, banners, massive screens looping league highlights from decades past. Well-known artists were scheduled to perform between selections, their names printed boldly on the program. Music rehearsals echoed through the halls long before the doors opened.
Fans lined up early, wearing jerseys of stars past and hopes future. Cameras rolled from every angle. Interviews happened everywhere.
Inside, playing legends of the league took their seats—former champions, retired icons, men whose names once filled arenas. Some laughed and reminisced. Others watched silently, remembering what it felt like to sit where these young prospects sat now.
History was present. So was expectation.
Elias arrived quietly.
He wore his simplest formal coat—not new, not expensive, but clean, pressed, and respectful. He hadn't tried to impress. He didn't want to look like someone pretending to belong. He just wanted to show up as himself.
He took a modest seat near the back of the hall.
Around him sat families clutching each other tightly, parents whispering prayers, agents leaning in with calculated confidence. Young men in tailored suits checked their phones, smiled for cameras, rehearsed reactions in case their names were called early.
Futures burst from their faces.
Cameras floated through the room like curious birds, hungry for emotion.
Elias felt invisible.
And for once, he was grateful.
The lights dimmed. Music swelled. A well-known artist took the stage first, sending energy rippling through the crowd. Cheers rose. Phones lifted. The draft was not just a selection—it was a show, a promise, a spectacle.
When the broadcast officially began, the anchor's voice filled the hall, confident and dramatic.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the National Open Basketball League Draft…"
Elias listened, his heart unexpectedly calm. He folded his hands together, grounding himself in the moment. Whatever happened tonight, he told himself, he had already crossed a line he never thought he would again.
He had tried.
He had dared to hope.
On stage stood Mr. Oligario, the league commissioner—dignified, composed, a man who had announced hundreds of names and shaped countless careers. Beside him were the representatives of the North Gate Buffalo.
Eliza Northgate stood tall, young, poised, her expression unreadable to the crowd. She carried the weight of a franchise with practiced control.
Head coach Fran Delgado stood slightly behind her, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked like a man who had spent too many nights watching film and too many seasons losing games he believed they should have won.
The anchor's voice returned.
"With the first pick of the draft, belonging to the North Gate Buffalo…"
A pause.
The music softened. The screens froze on the Buffalo logo.
Cameras zoomed in. The room leaned forward.
Elias barely breathed.
Mr. Oligario stepped to the microphone. His voice was steady, practiced—the sound of authority shaped by decades.
"The North Gate Buffalo select…"
Another pause.
Time thinned.
"…Elias Moreno."
For a heartbeat, the world didn't react.
Sound existed, but meaning didn't.
Elias felt something shift inside his chest, like air rushing into a space that had been sealed for years—an old room reopened without warning.
Me?
The screens flashed, bold and undeniable.
1st Pick – North Gate Buffalo
ELIAS MORENO
38 years old
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Whispers burst into confusion.
"Who?"
"Did he say thirty-eight?"
"Is this a mistake?"
Legends in the audience leaned forward. Analysts froze mid-sentence. Social media feeds exploded in real time.
Elias remained seated for half a second longer than he should have, unsure if standing would make it real—or make it disappear. His hands trembled as he pushed himself up, knees steady, heart racing.
Applause followed.
Not loud.
Not unified.
Confused, scattered claps.
But it was applause all the same.
Elias walked toward the stage, each step both heavy and weightless. Faces blurred past him—open mouths, raised eyebrows, stunned disbelief. He felt his knee hold firm beneath him, steady, faithful, as if reminding him it had survived for this moment.
At the top of the stage, Coach Fran shook his hand first. The grip was strong, testing, searching. Eliza followed, her expression composed but curious—eyes studying the man everyone was questioning. Mr. Oligario smiled warmly, as if he understood more than the room realized.
The camera lights were blinding now.
The announcer stepped closer. "Elias Moreno… first overall pick. What's going through your mind right now?"
Elias opened his mouth.
Years rushed forward—mornings testing his knee, meals chosen carefully, quiet courts under broken lights, Sofia's voice telling him to go for it, the word almost echoing behind every step.
He swallowed.
"Dream come true," he said simply.
His voice cracked—just enough to make it real.
The hall buzzed louder now. Analysts scrambled for explanations. Legends nodded slowly. A name no one had prepared for was suddenly everywhere.
Elias stood there holding a jersey that felt heavier than fabric. Thirty-eight years of life—discipline, loss, patience, belief—rested in its weight.
For the first time in a very long time, the future wasn't closed.
It was open.
And it had called his name.