No Shortcuts (2in1)
The morning sun hung higher in the sky now, casting long shadows over Harrison Park's concrete courts. The air was warming up, but Lucas barely felt it. He was still in the zone.
He had already played a tough one-on-one, shaking off some of the frustration from last night's loss. But one game wasn't enough. Not even close. The anger in his chest had cooled, but the fire was still burning. He needed more.
A couple of guys were messing around on the main court—mostly high schoolers, older than Lucas, but they weren't playing seriously. The smaller side court had a few kids his age, running three-on-three. Lucas bounced his ball against the pavement, thinking. Work now, or run another game?
A voice snapped him out of it.
"Ay, Lincoln Park! You tryna run?"
Lucas turned. The voice belonged to a stocky kid in a Bulls hoodie, probably 13 or 14, sitting on the edge of the court, tying his sneakers. Next to him was a lanky kid, tall for his age, stretching out his arms.
Lucas smirked. "Y'all picking teams or what?"
The kid in the Bulls hoodie grinned. "Nah, we got our three. You find two, and let's get it."
Lucas glanced around. A couple of younger kids were watching, but no one else was stepping up. Fine. Guess I'll make do.
He waved at two kids from the other side court—one short but quick, the other solidly built, probably played football too.
"You two wanna run?"
They exchanged glances, then jogged over.
"You any good?" the shorter kid asked.
Lucas grinned. "Good enough."
They shot for ball first, and Lucas's team won the tip.
Lucas started slow, testing his matchup. The kid in the Bulls hoodie was stronger, probably played physical, so Lucas didn't try to overpower him. Instead, he made him move.
A quick jab step right. A hesitation dribble.
The defender shifted slightly. Lucas saw the weight shift and attacked.
He pushed forward with a hard first step, then immediately pulled the ball back between his legs. His defender reacted late, stumbling just enough—Lucas took the opening and stepped into a smooth jumper.
Splash.
"Damn," one of the older kids on the sideline muttered. "He got that step-back quick."
The game picked up fast.
The tall kid on the other team was grabbing boards and finishing inside, while Lucas's squad played quick and scrappy. The short kid on his team had speed, sneaking into passing lanes, while the bigger one set some solid screens to free up space.
Lucas wasn't dominating, but he didn't have to. He was controlling everything.
A slick bounce pass through traffic for an easy layup.A fast-break dime to his teammate for a corner shot.A perfectly timed give-and-go for a floater over the taller defender.
They went back and forth, trading buckets, until the score sat at 10-10. Game point.
The other team had the ball.
Lucas locked in on his man, reading the play. The Bulls hoodie kid was trying to create space, but Lucas didn't bite on the fakes. He stayed patient.
Then, right when the kid made his move, Lucas struck.
A quick hand swipe—steal.
He didn't hesitate.
Lucas immediately pushed the ball up, his defender scrambling to recover.
He had a lane to the basket but saw the help defense closing in.
No need to force it.
Instead, he hit his teammate with a behind-the-back pass, setting him up for a wide-open shot.
The ball arced high—
And dropped in.
Game.
Lucas grinned as he jogged back. The best plays weren't always about scoring yourself.
The Bulls hoodie kid clapped his hands. "Man, you really see everything on the court."
Lucas shrugged, still catching his breath. "Gotta stay two steps ahead."
The tall kid shook his head. "Y'all tryna run it back?"
Lucas exhaled, grabbing his water bottle. "Not today. Gotta train."
Bulls hoodie kid raised an eyebrow. "You serious? You just played two games."
Lucas smirked. "And?"
He dribbled his ball once, letting the sound echo off the pavement.
"You don't get better by stopping when you're tired."
He found an empty half-court and started his solo drills.
Everything in his head boiled down to one goal—fixing his weaknesses.
He ran through tight handle work, pounding the ball low and fast. Left hand, right hand, alternating speeds, throwing in misdirections.
Hyde Park's press had exposed him. His handle was good, but not elite. That had to change.
After fifteen minutes of dribbling, he shifted into footwork drills.
He worked on explosive first steps, changing speeds and directions. He repped step-backs, snatch-backs, and hesitation dribbles, making sure every move was sharp.
Then came shooting.
Lucas stepped to the three-point line and locked in.
Catch. Shoot. Swish.
Catch. Shoot. Rim out.
Reset. Focus. Swish.
Every shot had to be game-speed. He imagined real defenders closing in, forcing him to adjust his rhythm.
100 makes before he left.
No excuses.
By the time he finished, his arms were burning, and sweat dripped down his face.
But when he looked at the rim, he knew.
This is how you get better.
He packed up as the sun started dipping lower in the sky. His phone buzzed—Miguel.
Miguel: Bro, you still mad about the game? You out there training like Kobe or some sh*t?
Lucas chuckled, shaking his head as he typed back.
Lucas: Nah, I'm just built different.
Miguel: Aight, MJ. Just don't be dead before practice on Monday.
Lucas smirked, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
The morning sun hung higher in the sky now, casting long shadows over Harrison Park's concrete courts. The air was warming up, but Lucas barely felt it. He was still in the zone.
He had already played a tough one-on-one, shaking off some of the frustration from last night's loss. But one game wasn't enough. Not even close. The anger in his chest had cooled, but the fire was still burning. He needed more.
A couple of guys were messing around on the main court—mostly high schoolers, older than Lucas, but they weren't playing seriously. The smaller side court had a few kids his age, running three-on-three. Lucas bounced his ball against the pavement, thinking. Work now, or run another game?
A voice snapped him out of it.
"Ay, Lincoln Park! You tryna run?"
Lucas turned. The voice belonged to a stocky kid in a Bulls hoodie, probably 13 or 14, sitting on the edge of the court, tying his sneakers. Next to him was a lanky kid, tall for his age, stretching out his arms.
Lucas smirked. "Y'all picking teams or what?"
The kid in the Bulls hoodie grinned. "Nah, we got our three. You find two, and let's get it."
Lucas glanced around. A couple of younger kids were watching, but no one else was stepping up. Fine. Guess I'll make do.
He waved at two kids from the other side court—one short but quick, the other solidly built, probably played football too.
"You two wanna run?"
They exchanged glances, then jogged over.
"You any good?" the shorter kid asked.
Lucas grinned. "Good enough."
They shot for ball first, and Lucas's team won the tip.
Lucas started slow, testing his matchup. The kid in the Bulls hoodie was stronger, probably played physical, so Lucas didn't try to overpower him. Instead, he made him move.
A quick jab step right. A hesitation dribble.
The defender shifted slightly. Lucas saw the weight shift and attacked.
He pushed forward with a hard first step, then immediately pulled the ball back between his legs. His defender reacted late, stumbling just enough—Lucas took the opening and stepped into a smooth jumper.
Splash.
"Damn," one of the older kids on the sideline muttered. "He got that step-back quick."
The game picked up fast.
The tall kid on the other team was grabbing boards and finishing inside, while Lucas's squad played quick and scrappy. The short kid on his team had speed, sneaking into passing lanes, while the bigger one set some solid screens to free up space.
Lucas wasn't dominating, but he didn't have to. He was controlling everything.
A slick bounce pass through traffic for an easy layup.
A fast-break dime to his teammate for a corner shot.
A perfectly timed give-and-go for a floater over the taller defender.
They went back and forth, trading buckets, until the score sat at 10-10. Game point.
The other team had the ball.
Lucas locked in on his man, reading the play. The Bulls hoodie kid was trying to create space, but Lucas didn't bite on the fakes. He stayed patient.
Then, right when the kid made his move, Lucas struck.
A quick hand swipe—steal.
He didn't hesitate.
Lucas immediately pushed the ball up, his defender scrambling to recover.
He had a lane to the basket but saw the help defense closing in.
No need to force it.
Instead, he hit his teammate with a behind-the-back pass, setting him up for a wide-open shot.
The ball arced high—
And dropped in.
Game.
Lucas grinned as he jogged back. The best plays weren't always about scoring yourself.
The Bulls hoodie kid clapped his hands. "Man, you really see everything on the court."
Lucas shrugged, still catching his breath. "Gotta stay two steps ahead."
The tall kid shook his head. "Y'all tryna run it back?"
Lucas exhaled, grabbing his water bottle. "Not today. Gotta train."
Bulls hoodie kid raised an eyebrow. "You serious? You just played two games."
Lucas smirked. "And?"
He dribbled his ball once, letting the sound echo off the pavement.
"You don't get better by stopping when you're tired."
He found an empty half-court and started his solo drills.
Everything in his head boiled down to one goal—fixing his weaknesses.
He ran through tight handle work, pounding the ball low and fast. Left hand, right hand, alternating speeds, throwing in misdirections.
Hyde Park's press had exposed him. His handle was good, but not elite. That had to change.
After fifteen minutes of dribbling, he shifted into footwork drills.
He worked on explosive first steps, changing speeds and directions. He repped step-backs, snatch-backs, and hesitation dribbles, making sure every move was sharp.
Then came shooting.
Lucas stepped to the three-point line and locked in.
Catch. Shoot. Swish.
Catch. Shoot. Rim out.
Reset. Focus. Swish.
Every shot had to be game-speed. He imagined real defenders closing in, forcing him to adjust his rhythm.
100 makes before he left.
No excuses.
By the time he finished, his arms were burning, and sweat dripped down his face.
But when he looked at the rim, he knew.
This is how you get better.
He packed up as the sun started dipping lower in the sky. His phone buzzed—Miguel.
Miguel: Bro, you still mad about the game? You out there training like Kobe or some sh*t?
Lucas chuckled, shaking his head as he typed back.
Lucas: Nah, I'm just built different.
Miguel: Aight, MJ. Just don't be dead before practice on Monday.
Lucas smirked, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
The sun was starting to set by the time Lucas finally left Harrison Park, his legs aching in the best way possible. He had put in work, ran games, drilled his weaknesses, and felt just a little bit sharper than he was when he first stepped onto the court that morning.
But now? It was time to go home.
The walk back was peaceful, the air cooler, a nice breeze rolling through the Chicago streets. The sound of distant car horns, passing conversations, and the rhythmic bounce of his basketball against the sidewalk kept him company.
As he turned the corner onto his block, he spotted a few neighborhood kids running around, playing on the grass outside their building. One of them, a little boy no older than six, stopped mid-run and pointed at him.
"Yo! That's the dude from Lincoln Park's basketball team!"
Lucas raised an eyebrow. Word was spreading, huh?
Another kid, maybe nine or ten, jogged up next to the first. "For real? I saw the highlights from the Lakeview game. He hit some crazy shots."
Lucas just smirked, shaking his head. "Man, y'all acting like I'm famous or something."
The first kid grinned. "You gonna play in the NBA?"
Lucas chuckled, spinning the ball in his hands. "That's the plan."
The second kid's eyes widened. "Yo, can you dunk yet?"
Lucas laughed. "Nah, man. You see how tall I am? Give me a couple years."
The kids laughed too, and Lucas bumped fists with them before heading inside.
As much as he loved getting respect, he knew it didn't mean anything if he didn't keep working for it.
The smell of home-cooked food hit him the second he walked through the door. He could hear the faint sound of a TV show playing in the background, mixed with the clinking of plates from the kitchen.
Maria peeked her head around the corner. "Mijo, you're just getting home?"
Lucas kicked off his sneakers, stretching his arms. "Yeah. Got some extra work in."
His mom shook her head, smiling softly. "You're gonna wear yourself out before the season's even halfway over."
Lucas grinned. "Gotta stay ready."
Maria sighed, setting down a plate of arroz con pollo on the table. "Then eat. I don't want you passing out from hunger."
Lucas didn't argue. He grabbed a plate and sat down, barely waiting before digging in. His body needed it. Every muscle felt tight, drained, and he could already tell tomorrow was going to bring soreness.
As he ate, his dad walked in, rolling his shoulders. Steven had just gotten home from work, still in his button-up and slacks. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped it open, then took a seat across from Lucas.
"So," Steven started, leaning back. "You gonna tell me why you were out all day?"
Lucas took another bite, chewing before answering. "Needed to get some work in. Had to shake off that loss."
Steven smirked. "Ahh. So you were hooping out the frustration."
Lucas nodded. "Something like that."
Maria sat down as well, taking a sip of her tea. "I get that you want to improve, but you have to rest too, mijo. Training is great, but your body needs time to recover."
Lucas wiped his mouth. "I know. I'm stretching before bed."
Steven nodded approvingly. "Smart. Recovery is just as important as the grind."
Lucas leaned back in his chair. That was the thing. In his past life, he didn't pay attention to recovery like he should have. He thought just playing more was enough, but burnout was real.
Not this time.
This time, he was going to do it right.
After finishing dinner, Lucas grabbed a bottle of water and a towel before heading to the living room. He set his phone down on the couch and started his stretching routine.
First, static stretching. He reached down, touching his toes, feeling the pull in his hamstrings. He held it for thirty seconds, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.
Next, quad stretches. He grabbed his right ankle, pulling it toward his glute, balancing on one foot. He switched sides, making sure to keep his posture straight.
Then, hip flexor stretches. He dropped into a lunge, pressing his hips forward. This was key—so much of basketball was about explosive movement, cutting, sprinting, stopping on a dime. If his hips were tight, he'd be slower.
Finally, he did some shoulder rolls, neck stretches, and wrist mobility drills. Everything had to be loose, ready.
As he held his last stretch, sitting on the floor with his legs out, reaching for his toes, he let his mind wander.
What now?
They had lost to Hyde Park. He had learned a lot from that game.
But how did he turn those lessons into wins?
They had Washington Middle next. Coach had said they were scrappy, physical.
Lucas had played against teams like that before. They weren't the fastest or the most skilled, but they made up for it with pure energy.
That meant fighting for every loose ball. Rebounding. Hustling.
It wasn't going to be about who had the better offense. It was about who wanted it more.
Lucas leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.
This was good. A different kind of challenge.
If Hyde Park had taught them not to get too comfortable, Washington Middle would teach them how to handle a dogfight.
After finishing his stretching routine, Lucas got up and checked his phone. A text from Miguel.
Miguel: Yo, you alive? Ain't heard from you all day.
Lucas smirked.
Lucas: Barely.
Miguel: Bet you was out training.
Lucas: You already know.
Miguel: Man, chill. You gonna end up looking like one of them gym rats who never leave the court.
Lucas chuckled.
Lucas: As long as I'm winning, I don't care.
Miguel: Aight, MJ. See you Monday.
Lucas set his phone down and crawled into bed. His body was tired, but his mind was clear.
Tomorrow was Sunday. A rest day.
Then Monday?
Back to business.