Looking back before the actual draft day, the conference room at North Gate Arena was never this quiet.
The walls were glass, but the blinds had been drawn tight, sealing the people inside from the rest of the building—as if secrecy alone could protect them from another losing season. A long oval table occupied the center of the room, its polished surface cluttered with tablets, printed scouting reports, half-empty coffee cups, and stress.
On the far wall, a massive screen displayed the words that haunted everyone present:
2025 NOBL Draft — First Overall Pick: North Gate Buffalo
Eliza Northgate stood at the head of the table.
She was young for her position, but no one in the room doubted her authority. She had earned it—through discipline, intelligence, and the quiet pressure of carrying her family name. Her hair was tied neatly behind her head. Her blazer was crisp. Her expression unreadable.
Inside, however, she felt the weight of every failed season pressing against her ribs.
She cleared her throat.
"Alright," Eliza said, her voice steady. "We've reviewed the analytics. We've watched the tape. We've debated this for weeks."
She tapped the tablet in her hand, and the screen shifted to a grid of draft prospects—faces frozen mid-game, numbers stamped beside them.
"This is the first pick," she continued. "There's no room for mistakes. So let's hear it. One by one."
She looked directly at Head Coach Fran Delgado.
"Fran. Start."
Fran leaned forward, forearms on the table. His eyes were tired—the eyes of a man who had watched too many fourth-quarter collapses and answered too many questions about rebuilding.
"We need a cornerstone," Fran said. "Someone young. Someone who can grow with the system."
He gestured to the screen. "Jared Kline. Twenty-one. Six-foot-nine. Athletic. Raw, yes—but he gives us length, rim protection, and upside. We don't need quick fixes. We need a future."
Assistant Coach Ben nodded immediately. "I agree with Fran," he said. "Kline's motor is inconsistent, but that's coachable. You don't teach size. You invest in it."
Eliza made a note.
"Coach King?" she asked.
King adjusted his glasses. "If we're talking impact, I'd argue for Marcus Hale. Guard. Twenty-two. High basketball IQ. He's not flashy, but he controls tempo. We've been bleeding turnovers for years. Hale stabilizes us."
Another assistant chimed in. "Hale's ceiling isn't high enough for a first pick."
"Ceiling doesn't matter if you never get off the floor," King shot back.
A scout raised his hand slightly. "There's also Leo Fernandez. International prospect. Tremendous footwork. Could be a steal if developed properly."
Fran shook his head. "We don't have time for projects. The fans are done waiting."
Eliza listened without interrupting, her pen moving steadily. Every argument was familiar. Every name had been discussed, dissected, and replayed endlessly.
Youth.
Upside.
Potential.
The door at the back of the room remained closed.
"Anyone else?" Eliza asked.
There was a pause.
Then, from the far end of the table, a voice—quiet, uncertain—broke the silence.
"What about… Elias Moreno?"
The room stilled.
Assistant Coach King frowned. "Who said that?"
No one answered.
Ben scrolled instinctively through the database again. "Elias Moreno?" he muttered. "That can't be—"
A sound interrupted him.
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured.
Outside the conference room, just beyond the frosted glass, a silhouette appeared.
Then the door opened.
Charles Northgate stepped inside.
The room shifted instantly.
Conversations died. Postures straightened. Even Fran leaned back slightly.
Charles did not rush. He closed the door behind him with deliberate calm, as if sealing a verdict. He wore no jacket, just a simple dress shirt with sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. His hair was silver now, his face marked by age—but his presence carried the quiet gravity of someone who owned not just the room, but the future discussed within it.
"I said it," Charles repeated. "Elias Moreno."
Eliza turned sharply. "Dad—"
She crossed the room and kissed his cheek instinctively, the gesture both affectionate and protective.
"Who is that?" she asked quietly.
Ben cleared his throat again, suddenly nervous. "Elias Moreno," he read. "Thirty-eight years old. Former semi-pro. Undrafted. History of left knee injury. No recent league experience."
Fran stared at Charles, disbelief creeping into his voice. "You want a thirty-eight-year-old rookie… as our first overall pick?"
"Yes," Charles said.
Fran let out a breath, sharp and incredulous. "Charles, we are the weakest team in the league. This pick is supposed to save us."
Charles walked to the table and placed his hands flat against it.
"Save you from what?" he asked calmly. "Another year of potential?"
Eliza frowned. "Dad," she said carefully, "this team needs youth. Longevity. Someone who can grow with us."
Charles looked at her then—really looked at her. Not as an executive. Not as a manager.
As his daughter.
"My dear," he said, "this team has been growing for years."
No one spoke.
"And yet," Charles continued, "it keeps losing."
Fran shook his head. "With respect, this is reckless. Fans will riot."
Charles' eyes flicked to him. "Fans already left, Fran."
That landed harder than shouting ever could.
He straightened. "Elias Moreno isn't a gamble," Charles said. "He's a mirror. He knows failure. He knows patience. He knows what it costs to keep going when doors close."
Ben hesitated. "Sir… even if he's healthy—"
"He is," Charles said firmly.
Silence followed.
Charles turned slowly, addressing everyone.
"I am the team owner," he said. "And Elias Moreno is my personal pick."
His voice remained calm—but final.
"Is anyone here against it?"
No one answered.
Charles waited.
Then he nodded once. "Good."
He looked directly at Fran. "Choose him. Or find another team to coach."
Heads lowered. Nods followed.
The decision was made.
As discussions resumed—now hollow, procedural—Eliza stayed behind. When the room finally emptied, she faced her father alone.
"Dad," she asked softly, "why him?"
Charles kissed her forehead gently.
"Trust me," he said. "Sometimes the strongest rebuild doesn't start with youth."
He smiled faintly.
"It starts with someone who refuses to quit."
And with that, he walked out—leaving behind a decision that would rewrite the league.