"Jeff, can we have a word in private?"
Austin nodded, turning to his players with a calm smile. "You two go ahead and take a tour of the facility. Get a feel for the place—it might just be your new home. Mike and I have some business to discuss."
There was no point in keeping the prospects around while the grown-ups talked numbers. As the players walked off, D'Antoni signaled his assistant. "Kenny, show these two around. Give them the grand tour."
"Understood," Atkinson replied. He turned to Luke and Steph. "Our facility might be a hike from the city, but I promise you, the tech we have here is top-of-the-line."
Once the three of them were out of earshot, Austin didn't waste time. "So, Mike. I assume you're happy with what you saw from Steph today?"
"Satisfied? That's an understatement," D'Antoni admitted.
"Then you'll be taking him at number eight?" Austin pushed. "You have to understand, Steph turned down workout invites from the Grizzlies at number two and the Timberwolves at five and six just to be here. He wants to be a Knick."
D'Antoni raised an eyebrow. He knew the game. Austin was laying it on thick, reminding him that Curry had already shown loyalty by snubbing teams with higher picks.
"Relax, Jeff. Like I said, even if he hadn't shown up today, he'd be our pick. But now," D'Antoni leaned in, his voice dropping an octave, "I want to talk about Luke Thorne."
"Luke?" Austin felt a surge of triumph, but his face remained a mask of polite regret. "Ah, that's a tough one. The Spurs have already fallen in love with him."
He paused for effect, watching D'Antoni's reaction. "You know how it is. Luke is the perfect heir to Bruce Bowen. San Antonio has the 37th pick—one spot ahead of yours—and they've already told me they're looking to trade up to lock him in. If you wait until 38, he's gone."
It was a total bluff. The Spurs hadn't mentioned trading up once. But Austin had seen D'Antoni's eyes light up during the scrimmage. He knew he held the cards. By sending the boys away, he had ensured they wouldn't accidentally ruin his leverage with a stray comment.
Austin's goal was simple: get Luke into the first round. A first-round contract meant more guaranteed money, more years, and—most importantly—a bigger commission check.
D'Antoni didn't doubt him for a second. He knew the Spurs' roster was aging and desperate for a perimeter defender. He paced the floor for a moment, then looked at Austin. "We can trade up too. I want Luke. In my system, a kid with that vision and those defensive instincts will be a monster."
D'Antoni wasn't exaggerating. He was a certified star-maker. Before coming to New York, he'd turned role players into household names. Take Chris Duhon—a journeyman who had never averaged double digits. Under D'Antoni last season, Duhon put up 11 points and 7 assists while shooting nearly 40% from deep.
"If you want to be safe, you need to grab him in the late first round," Austin advised, his tone shifting to one of helpful analysis. "The Spurs are capped out on trade assets. They won't move the Big Three, and the rest of their roster is just role players. If you move into the top twenty-five, you win."
D'Antoni nodded. He saw the logic. After a year of tanking and "stat-padding," the Knicks actually had several tradable pieces.
"Consider it done," D'Antoni said firmly. "I'll do everything in my power to move our pick into the top twenty-five. Luke Thorne isn't just an option—he's the partner Steph needs."
Meanwhile, on the other side of the facility, Luke and Steph were witnessing the pinnacle of sports science. The place was a temple of professional basketball.
Beyond the four full-sized courts, they toured a weight room that made Davidson's gym look like a garage setup. There were machines Luke didn't even recognize—cutting-edge tech designed for elite recovery and explosive power.
There was a massive pool for hydrotherapy, a medical wing for professional-grade massage and physical therapy, and a high-tech film room. Finally, they reached the "Honors Room."
Luke noticed a thin layer of dust on the trophy cases. The Knicks hadn't made a serious run out of the East in a decade. The history was there, but it was fading.
"Luke, this is insane," Steph whispered, looking at a state-of-the-art recovery pod. At Davidson—a school that hadn't won a tournament game since the 60s before they arrived—they were lucky if the ice machines worked.
"Get used to it, Steph," Luke said, his voice steady. "You're going to be spending a lot of time in rooms like this."
Atkinson beamed with pride. "He's right. I have a feeling you're going to look great in orange and blue."
Luke just smiled and kept walking.
Everyone thinks they know how this story ends, Luke thought. But the NBA is a cold business. And draft night... draft night is where plans go to die.