The hour passed slower than any he could remember. Darius sat at the kitchen table, phone face‑up in front of him, while his mother moved around the stove. The smell of garlic and vinegar filled the apartment.
"You're quiet today," Tala said, stirring a pot of sinigang. "Nervous about school?"
"Something like that."
She glanced at him, a knowing look. "I saw your tweets."
Darius's hand froze over the phone. "You did?"
"Your father showed me. He thinks it's bold." She added more tamarind to the pot. "I think it's a lot of pressure for a boy who hasn't played a varsity game yet."
"I can handle it."
"I know you can." She turned to face him, wiping her hands on a towel. "Just remember, no matter what happens on Monday, you're still my son. Win or lose, I'm proud of you."
Darius nodded. In his old life, he'd heard those words a hundred times. He'd never really listened. Now they landed differently.
"Thanks, Ma."
She smiled, then turned back to the stove. "Now eat. You'll need your strength."
He was halfway through his bowl when the phone buzzed. A call from a number with a 404 area code. He wiped his mouth, stood up, and walked to his bedroom.
He answered on the third ring.
"Darius? It's Marcus Webb." The voice was deep, measured. A professional.
"Yeah, thanks for calling."
"No problem. I'm doing a piece on under‑the‑radar players in the Atlanta area. Someone sent me your tweets, and I figured I'd reach out. You're at Southside, right?"
Darius hesitated. In his old life, Southside was the school he'd attended. But in this timeline, he'd been at a different school—one that didn't exist anymore. The system had changed things.
"Actually, I'm transferring to Westlake," he said. "Tryouts are Monday."
A pause on the line. "Westlake? That's a big jump. They've got a solid program."
"I know."
"And you think you can walk in and earn a spot?"
Darius leaned against the wall. He could hear the reporter's skepticism. It was fair. He'd earned nothing yet.
"I don't think," he said. "I know."
Another pause. Then a low chuckle. "All right. I like the confidence. Tell me about your game. What do you bring that Westlake doesn't already have?"
He thought about his answer. Not too flashy. Not too humble.
"I see the floor better than anyone in this city," he said. "I know where the ball needs to go before the defense does. And I can shoot. Really shoot."
"So you're a point guard?"
"I'm a basketball player. Put me anywhere, I'll make it work."
Webb laughed. "You sound like an NBA vet."
If only you knew, Darius thought.
They talked for another ten minutes. Webb asked about his background, his training, his goals. Darius kept his answers short, confident, never bragging. He mentioned his grandfather's influence, the footwork drills, the European fundamentals. He talked about his work ethic without sounding like he was performing.
When the call ended, Webb said, "I'll run the piece tomorrow. Keep an eye on the website."
"I will. Thanks, Coach."
"I'm a reporter, not a coach."
"Still. Thanks."
He hung up, exhaled. The system flickered.
[New HP from media engagement: +45]
[Total Hype Points: 248]
Almost halfway.
He walked back to the kitchen, sat down, finished his food. His mother was watching him.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just an interview."
Her eyebrows rose. "Interview? For what?"
"A reporter. Local guy. Doing a piece on players to watch."
She looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head. "You've changed, Darius."
He stopped chewing. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know. You're more… sure of yourself." She sat across from him. "Before the accident, you were quieter. You'd never talk to a reporter. You'd never post things like that online."
Darius set his spoon down. He couldn't tell her the truth. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"Maybe the accident made me realize I've been wasting time," he said. "I don't want to look back and wonder what if."
She reached across the table, touched his hand. "Then go get it."
He smiled. "I will."
That night, he couldn't sleep. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, running through the system menus again. The Skill Mall was still out of reach, but there were other things he could do.
He opened the Training Log and studied his stats. His shooting was at 64. His ball handling at 61. His speed at 62.
In the old life, at his peak, he'd been a 75 shooter, 80 ball handler, 70 speed. Not elite, but solid. Enough to survive in the league. Enough to be a role player.
He needed to be more than that this time.
He focused on the Attribute Upgrade section. The costs were high, but there might be another way.
"System," he whispered. "Is there a way to earn TP faster? Something more efficient than just shooting drills?"
A new menu appeared.
[Efficiency Recommendations]
Skill‑Specific Drills: Practicing skills that are currently lowest yields bonus TP. (Current lowest: Finishing – 56. Recommended: Mikan drills, floaters, contact finishes.)
Film Study: Breaking down game footage of high‑level players yields TP for IQ and related skills. (Unlock at 200 TP? Not yet available.)
Competitive Play: Scrimmages against higher‑level competition yield TP bonuses. (No opportunities currently available.)
System Combos: Pairing certain drills yields synergy bonus. (Example: Dribbling + finishing drills consecutively gives +10% TP.)
Darius read the list. Competitive play was out—he had no games until tryouts. Film study wasn't available yet. But he could focus on his lowest skill: finishing at the rim.
He made a mental note for tomorrow's workout.
Then he checked the HP log again. The interview had given him 45 points, but the real surge came from people sharing the news. A few more retweets, a mention from a local blog. He was at 262 now.
Three days until tryouts, he thought. If I can get to 500 by then…
He closed his eyes, let the numbers drift away.
Sunday morning, he was at the gym before dawn. The lights hadn't come on yet, so he worked in the half‑dark, the only sound the bounce of the ball and his own breathing.
He started with Mikan drills—layups with the right hand, then the left, spinning under the basket. His grandfather had made him do these until his arms felt like they'd fall off. Now he understood why.
[Drill: Mikan – 15 minutes]
[Finishing progress: +3 TP]
He moved to floaters, to runners, to contact finishes with an imaginary defender. Each rep was a small deposit in the TP bank.
[Drill: Finishing Package – 30 minutes]
[TP Gained: +25]
By the time the sun was up, his legs were heavy, but his finishing rating had ticked up one point. Fifty‑seven now. Still low, but moving.
He checked his total TP: 148.
Not enough for an attribute upgrade yet. But he was building.
He spent the rest of the morning on ball handling—two‑ball dribbling, crossover combinations, behind‑the‑back drills. The system rewarded the variety.
[Drill: Advanced Handles – 45 minutes]
[TP Gained: +35]
[Ball Handling: 61 → 62]
Small gains. But gains.
At noon, he sat on the bleachers, checking his phone. The article from Marcus Webb was up.
"Under the Radar: Five Atlanta Players Ready to Break Out"
His name was third on the list. The write‑up was short but favorable:
Darius Cruz, a transfer to Westlake, has been generating buzz on social media with his bold claims and slick handles. Whether he can back it up remains to be seen, but his basketball IQ and shooting touch are legit. Don't be surprised if he earns a starting spot by mid‑season.
[HP Gain: +87]
[Total Hype Points: 349]
Darius read the article twice. Then he opened Twitter and retweeted it with a caption:
"Thanks for the write‑up. Now watch."
The notifications started almost immediately. Likes, retweets, comments. Most were still skeptical, but a few were curious. A local recruiting account tagged him in a post: "This kid's confident. Anyone seen him play?"
[HP: +12]
[HP: +8]
[HP: +5]
By evening, his HP had climbed to 398. Just over a hundred away from the bronze skill.
He was close.
He was packing his bag for tomorrow's tryout when his father knocked on the door.
Marcus Cruz stood in the doorway, still in his coaching clothes, a towel around his neck. He was a big man, broad‑shouldered, with the same intense eyes Darius had inherited.
"You ready for tomorrow?" his father asked.
"I think so."
"Think or know?"
Darius looked up. "I know."
His father nodded slowly. He stepped into the room, closed the door behind him. For a moment, he didn't say anything. Just looked at the posters on the wall, the jersey hanging on the closet door.
"I read the article," he said. "You're getting attention. That's good. But attention cuts both ways."
"I know."
"Do you?" His father leaned against the dresser. "Westlake has good players. Some of them have been in that program since middle school. They're not going to hand you anything because you posted a few tweets."
Darius set his bag down. "I'm not asking them to hand me anything."
"Then what are you asking?"
He thought about the answer. In his old life, he'd never asked for anything. He'd worked, he'd waited, he'd hoped someone would notice. No one did. Not until it was too late.
"I'm asking for a chance," he said. "And when I get it, I'm not letting go."
His father studied him for a long moment. Then he smiled—a rare thing.
"Good." He pushed off the dresser, walked to the door. Paused. "Your grandfather would have been proud of you, you know. The way you're carrying yourself."
Darius's throat tightened. "You think?"
"I know." His father opened the door. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be long."
He left. Darius sat on the bed, staring at the closed door.
His grandfather's Serbian flag hung on the wall, faded and frayed at the edges. Milan Petrović had taught him footwork, had drilled into him the importance of spacing, had told him that basketball was a game of inches and seconds. He'd died when Darius was fifteen, before any of the old‑life successes. Before the college scholarship. Before the NBA. Before the crash.
Tomorrow, Darius thought, I play for you.
He pulled up the system one last time.
[Current Status]
Training Points: 148
Hype Points: 398
[Objectives]
Primary: Establish a public identity. (Progress: 60%)
Secondary: Dominate tryouts. (Tomorrow)
Active: Validate your claim. First game: 20+ points, 5+ assists. (Not yet started)
[Skill Mall]
"Catch & Shoot" (Bronze): 500 HP + 200 TP
Current HP: 398 – 102 remaining
He was close. One good performance tomorrow could push him over the edge.
He closed the system, turned off the light, and lay in the dark.
Tomorrow, the noise would become real. The tweets, the article, the expectations—none of it would matter if he couldn't back it up.
He thought about the system's warning: hype without substance will backfire.
Then I'll give them substance, he thought.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time in days, he slept without dreaming.