The Las Vegas sun had long set, but the lights inside a small private training facility near the Strip stayed on well past midnight. Arjun Reddy wiped sweat from his brow, the rhythmic thud of the basketball echoing off the empty walls. Summer League Game 1 was over—twelve points, eight assists, seven rebounds, five combined stocks. A complete, winning performance. Yet the silence from the media still rang louder than any cheer.
He didn't care. Or rather, he refused to let it matter. The Allrounder role had delivered exactly what it promised, and the system had already logged the game as another step toward the thirty-win upgrade threshold. But Arjun wasn't playing for system notifications tonight. He was playing for survival.
"Again," he muttered to himself, resetting at the three-point line. Catch, jab step, pull-up jumper. Swish. Catch, hesitation, drive and kick-out simulation. Swish. He attacked the glass next—offensive rebound put-backs, defensive rotations, full-court sprints until his lungs burned. Every rep was sharper than the last. The extra weight training from the previous weeks showed in his explosive first step and the way he absorbed contact without flinching. At 208 pounds now, he felt stronger, more grounded—the kind of body that could bang with second-year forwards and still facilitate.
The system panel flickered once during a water break:
Post-Game Recovery Training Logged.
Attribute Gains Provisional: +1 Strength, +1 Agility.
"Silence the Doubters" Quest Progress: 3/5
Arjun nodded, breathing hard. He had no idea what was happening two states away in El Segundo. No clue that his name had already been floated in hushed conversations. He only knew the fire in his chest—the same fire that had carried him from Hyderabad's cracked courts to this second chance. If the world wanted to ignore him tonight, fine. He would make them unable to look away tomorrow.
Across the country, in the sleek, dimly lit conference room on the second floor of the Lakers' training facility, the atmosphere was far more clinical.
Rob Pelinka sat at the head of the polished oak table, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty coffee mug beside a stack of printed spreadsheets. Frank Vogel leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, while the salary-cap analyst and two assistant GMs tapped quietly on laptops. The wall-mounted screen displayed the current roster with projected luxury-tax numbers glowing in red.
Pelinka rubbed his temples. "Alright, let's cut through it. We're already thirty-eight million into the tax before the season even starts. LeBron and AD are locked in, and we still need depth that can actually defend and space the floor. The second apron is a death sentence if we don't create flexibility now."
One of the assistants pulled up a trade simulator. "We've had soft interest from a couple teams on the back-end minimums. The two-way guys are easy to move. The real conversation is the last-pick rookie—Reddy. Summer League line was solid—twelve and eight and seven—but it's one game against other young kids. No tape that screams 'keeper.'"
Vogel nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "Kid played smart tonight. Moved the ball, defended, didn't force anything. Phil liked what he saw. But we're not in the business of keeping roster spots for potential. We need certainty."
The salary-cap specialist slid a sheet across the table. "Exactly. Reddy's deal is tiny—minimum convertible next year—but it's still a body and a slot. Oklahoma City or Houston would take him as filler in a larger salary dump. We attach him, clear two million in space, and suddenly we're in the mix for a buyout wing or a defensive big at the deadline. Low risk, decent upside for them. For us? Breathing room."
Pelinka leaned forward, tapping the roster graphic where Arjun's name sat at the very bottom. "Look, the story is nice—Indian kid, rags-to-rookie, all that. Marketing in Asia could be a bonus. But we're trying to win a title while LeBron's window is still open. We're not a developmental charity. Let's be real: he's a last-pick guy. Nice Summer League stats don't change that."
One of the assistants chuckled dryly. "Kid had a good game, sure. But tell us when he gives us a top-draft-pick performance and we'll talk about keeping him long-term. Until then, he's trade bait. Simple as that."
Vogel shrugged. "Agreed. We monitor the next couple Summer League games, but if a deal comes that clears cap, we move fast. No emotional attachments. This is business."
The conversation shifted seamlessly to bigger targets—potential buyout targets, wing defenders who could guard multiple positions, and how the tax bill would look if they kept the current group. Arjun Reddy's name was mentioned once more, almost as an afterthought, before it disappeared beneath discussions of veteran minimums and second-round picks. The meeting wrapped twenty minutes later with handshakes and quiet determination. No one lingered on the 60th pick. He was simply a number on a spreadsheet—one that could be erased for the greater good of the roster.
Back in Vegas, Arjun finished his final set of 300 three-pointers, legs screaming, but mind clear. He grabbed his bag, the cool night air hitting him as he stepped outside. His phone buzzed with a text from his agent: Solid debut, kid. Keep stacking. Lakers brass is watching. Nothing more.
He had no idea the "brass" had already shrugged him off in a boardroom two thousand miles away. No clue that his name was already attached to quiet trade conversations. No hint that the very team he was fighting for might ship him out before he ever wore a regular-season jersey.
Arjun looked up at the neon glow of the Strip, jaw set. Tomorrow was Game 2. He would train again at dawn. He would play the same way—complete, efficient, winning.
The system panel pulsed once in his vision:
Team Win Counter: 0/30
External Variables Shifting…
He closed the panel and started the walk back to the hotel, unaware of the storm brewing in Los Angeles.
But deep down, something felt… off.