The final horn sounded, and it took a second for the Scottrade Center crowd to process what had just concluded before the noise surged to its absolute peak.
64-49 Kentucky.
Aaron stood in the center circle with his hands resting on his hips, his eyes fixed on the ceiling of the Scottrade Center as he caught his breath. He had logged 37 of the game's forty minutes—the kind of workload that hits differently in the tournament than in the regular season, because in March, every single possession carries a distinct gravity missing from standard games. His lungs registered it with that post-game clarity that has nothing to do with conditioning drills or practice fatigue. His legs felt it too. Yet it was the ideal kind of fatigue—the kind born from executing for forty minutes at the exact level the game demanded, ending with more points on the scoreboard than the opposition.
Julius walked up beside him and tapped his shoulder with a light fist, wearing the expression of someone who had just witnessed something he wouldn't soon forget. Andrew passed behind them, raising his arms toward the Kentucky section, which responded with a deafening roar. The Kansas State players crossed mid-court for the handshakes with the reserved demeanor of a team that had competed hard, only to lose by fifteen to an opponent that was superior in nearly every facet for almost every minute played. Gipson was the last to cross the center line. When he met Aaron face-to-face, he said nothing. He extended his hand. Aaron shook it firm and silent.
In the CBS broadcast booth, Jim Nantz waited for the arena noise to dip slightly before opening his microphone for the game wrap-up—an instinct honed after calling hundreds of tournament finishes and knowing the precise tone every moment required.
"Final from the Scottrade Center in St. Louis: Kentucky 64, Kansas State 49. The Kentucky Wildcats advance to the next round of March Madness with a decisive victory that leaves no debate on the scoreboard, delivering the exact brand of basketball this team has put on display all season long."
"To be precise," Bill Raftery said from beside Nantz, "Kentucky didn't just win this game. They controlled it. There's a fundamental difference. Kansas State competed, found a brief rhythm in the second half, but never really had the feeling they could pull this out because Aaron Reed refused to allow it at any point."
"Let's look at the numbers," Nantz said. "27 points, 12 rebounds, 4 assists, 4 blocks in 37 minutes played. Those are the numbers that will lead tomorrow morning's headlines, and they are staggering. But what doesn't register on the box score is the ripple effect of his presence on every single possession where he didn't even touch the ball—which is precisely where players of his caliber shift a game in ways statistics can never truly capture."
"What impresses me most about that box score," Raftery added, "isn't just the point total. The points are simply the visible end product of everything else. What blows me away is the complete package: 12 rebounds, 4 blocks, 4 assists in the exact same game. An 18-year-old center putting up numbers like that in his March Madness debut isn't something you see every year. It's not something you see every tournament. That completely transcends any generational comparison you want to throw out there."
Down on the floor, as both teams completed post-game handshakes and arena personnel began clearing the benches, CBS reporter Tracy Wolfson approached Aaron with a microphone in hand, a camera crew trailing a step behind. Aaron saw her approaching the moment she crossed the sideline—it was inevitable, the standard reality of finishing a game on college basketball's biggest stage. He wiped his face once with a towel and stepped up to the microphone with his usual calm.
"Aaron, congratulations on the win. 37 minutes, 27 points. How do you evaluate tonight's performance?"
"Good," Aaron said. "The team executed what we prepared all week. Kansas State is a tough squad; they tested us in the second half, and we responded. That's what you have to do in the tournament."
"In the second half, Kansas State managed to cut the lead to seven. Was there any moment where you felt the game might get more complicated than expected?"
"There are always moments like that in March," Aaron said. "What matters is how the team responds. We responded well."
"The cameras caught a moment during the game where you exchanged a few words with Thomas Gipson. What did you say to him?"
Aaron offered a subtle smile. It wasn't a broad, camera-ready grin, but something far more specific—the slight smile of someone recalling a detail from the floor that felt genuinely funny for reasons entirely his own, with zero obligation to explain it to anyone else.
"I was telling him what I was going to do," Aaron said. "Before I did it."
Tracy Wolfson paused a second to see if Aaron would elaborate. He didn't. It was a complete answer delivered in two sentences—the defining trait of Aaron's public responses in any media context.
"Good luck in the next round," Tracy said.
"Thank you," Aaron said, and that was that.
He turned and headed down the tunnel toward the locker room without waiting for anything further. The locker room first, showers second, the next round on Sunday. In that exact order. Towel draped over his shoulder, walking with the steady stride of a player who came to execute a job, with twenty minutes of recovery ahead before the next phase began.
The Kentucky locker room carried the distinct energy of a team that had secured the opening win, yet knew full well it was merely the first step. Joy and focus coexisted naturally—the trademark environment of a roster that understood this performance was a necessary milestone, not the ultimate destination. Julius stood in the center of the room, recounting a play with animated gestures. Andrew Harrison and James Young listened intently. Calipari stood beside the whiteboard when Aaron walked in, delivering his post-game debrief with his usual economy of words: what worked, what needed to stay consistent, and what lay directly ahead.
Aaron took his seat at his locker and listened.
Once Calipari wrapped up and the players began moving toward the shower area, Aaron unlocked his locker, pulled his phone from his pants pocket, and turned on the screen. It displayed a string of notifications accumulated since pre-game warmups. Julius walked past behind him, saying something Aaron didn't fully register because his eyes were already locked on the screen.
The first message was from his mother. Aaron read it completely before drafting a response—his standing rule for messages from his mother.
"So proud of you, my love. Mía fell asleep during the second half, but she watched every minute before that. Call me when you get a chance."
Aaron replied with three short words and an emoji he knew she would appreciate more than a long paragraph. She had always been like that: valuing a brief, genuine touchpoint over an elaborate text that could wait. The actual phone call would come after the showers, from the quiet of his hotel room, away from the locker room noise.
The second message was from Drew. Fully expected. Drew was statistically the most likely person to text him within five minutes of a final horn over the past few years of his life, regardless of the game's outcome, the time zone, or whether Drew had his own game the following day.
Aaron saw the name on the screen and knew the general tone before opening the thread—the natural result of reading texts from the exact same person after every game for years.
His expression shifted slightly, that subtle change that occurs when something genuinely meaningful pops up, requiring zero effort to recognize as such.
"Bro. 27-12-4-4. Stop doing that, you're making the rest of us look bad. We won yesterday against Milwaukee, btw. UConn tomorrow. It's gonna be a good one."
Aaron paused for a moment before typing a reply. There was no clean way to explain to Drew what he knew about UConn, what he remembered about that specific matchup, or how it had unfolded in the timeline Aaron remembered. There was no way to state it without sounding absurd—something Drew couldn't comprehend or believe even if he tried. That was one of the persistent dilemmas of this second life that Aaron had never quite figured out how to navigate: the gap between what he remembered and what he could actually do with those memories.
"Congrats on the Milwaukee win," Aaron wrote. "UConn is tough. Watch out for their perimeter play."
Drew's reply popped back up in less than a minute—Drew's standard speed whenever he was awake and near a big matchup, which meant practically every hour of the day during the tournament.
"Bro, relax. We got the game under control. You focus on your end; you've got a whole tournament ahead of you."
Aaron read Drew's message and picked up on the tone with the precision of long acquaintance. It was the exact tone Drew had always put on before a grueling matchup: projecting confidence as a shield, the composure of someone who secretly knew the game wouldn't be easy and chose to handle it by acting as if it were. Aaron had been reading that exact tone in Drew's texts since their high school days. He typed a quick response.
"Good luck."
He stashed the phone with the text threads from Drew and his mother still visible, only to spot a third message that had arrived while he was reading the others.
It was from Zoe.
Aaron saw it. His posture shifted slightly before even reading the text—that natural reaction when a specific name on the screen triggers a response prior to reading the actual content.
He read the name, then scanned the text.
"Watched the game. 27 points, and you were still telling the guy what you were going to do before doing it. That's way too calm for this world."
Aaron read Zoe's text twice. It was the kind of message that carried more in its underlying tone than in the literal words—classic Zoe, saying something without outright spelling it out. Aaron paused for a second before composing a response, not to figure out the phrasing, but to confirm what he wanted to say.
"Thanks for watching."
Zoe's reply landed before Aaron could even set the phone down on the locker shelf, telling him everything about how she had been anticipating the end of the game, even if she hadn't said so explicitly.
"Wouldn't miss it. Next round whenever it is, let me know if there are any more plays you call out to the opponent beforehand."
Aaron typed a single letter and a period. Then he set the phone down on the locker shelf and grabbed his towel from the hook on the right.
Aaron walked toward the showers at an unhurried pace, taking the calm steps of someone who knew the next challenge was two days away and tonight's work was officially wrapped up.
The locker room hummed with the precise noise level of a team that had won their tournament opener and already had their minds set on the second—the exact mindset a head coach needed on March 21st to keep his team alive for Sunday. The hot water in the showers was running from the far end of the room. Julius was speaking loudly about something Aaron couldn't quite catch. Someone had turned on background music that no one was truly listening to, but which filled the space regardless.
The next round was on Sunday—two days from this exact moment.
Enough time for Calipari and Antigua to review the film on their next opponent and construct the game plan the team would break down tomorrow morning. Enough time for his body to process tonight's physical toll and be ready to deliver another high-minute performance on Sunday. And enough time for Aaron to clear his head from everything that had transpired over the past week, entering the next game with the exact same clarity he had brought to this one.
Aaron walked into the shower area. The hot water took a few seconds to reach the right temperature—the exact amount of time his mind needed to transition out of game mode and shift toward the hotel room, the phone call to his mother, and Sunday. The water turned warm. Aaron let it do its work, giving himself the time needed to rest after a night like this.
Authors thought
What did you think of today's chapter? Give me your opinions and thoughts.
For football fans, check out my other fanfic, *The Golden Standard*, and discover the story of Wyatt Sterling.
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