The Countdown Begins

The morning sun crept through the blinds like a thief, its faint golden fingers brushing the edges of Elijah's room, stirring the gray haze of dawn when his alarm erupted—a harsh, buzzing snarl that ripped him from a dreamless void. He groaned, rolling over, his body a heavy slab pinned to the mattress, still thick with the weight of last night's grind under the streetlight. His muscles sang a quiet dirge of ache—calves knotted, shoulders stiff, a dull burn threading through his core—proof of the hours he'd poured into the asphalt, a pain he cradled like a badge of honor. He squinted at the ceiling, the cracked plaster a constellation of old scars, and the memory of the system's update flared in his mind, sharp and electric, a jolt that rewired his world.

VC. Badges. Progress locked behind the crucible of real games.

It was a seismic shift, a new rhythm he'd have to dance to—no more XP dripping from every practice shot, no VC piling from late-night reps. His path was raw now, forged in the sweat and clash of competition, a truth that sank into his bones like cold steel. His chest tightened, a tangle of nerves and fire sparking beneath his ribs, and he hauled himself up, the bed springs creaking under his 5'5" frame—a scrappy ember of grit and hunger, too small for the giants but too fierce to fade. He snatched his planner from the nightstand, its edges frayed from restless hands, and flipped it open, the date glaring back: September 28, 1995. Five weeks and four days—thirty-nine ticks of the clock until the Lincoln Lions faced Oakwood High, a squad of towering brutes he'd have to outrun and outwit. Five weeks to claw his way off the bench, to carve a name from the shadows. He needed to be ready.

The shower was a quick reckoning, hot water cascading over his skin, steam rising like ghosts as it melted the night's sweat and eased the knots in his legs, a baptism for the day ahead. Breakfast was a hurried ritual—two eggs scrambled with a pat of butter, their yolks rich and golden, a slice of toast swiped from Martha's stash, the kitchen still humming with the faint echo of her morning coffee as she'd dashed off to her shift. He shoveled it down, the taste grounding him, fuel for the furnace he was stoking, then grabbed his backpack and bolted out the door. The walk to school was a plunge into autumn's crisp embrace, the air biting and cool, a breeze rattling the trees lining the street—leaves of rust and amber tumbling like confetti, whispering secrets as they fell.

Lincoln High rose ahead, its red-brick bulk weathered but unbowed, and Elijah threaded through the morning chaos—kids hollering, sneakers screeching, laughter bouncing off lockers like a ricochet of joy and noise. He spotted Malcolm Lewis by their usual locker haunt, his best friend already in full sermon mode, arms flailing like a windmill, his voice slicing through the clamor like a horn in traffic.

"Yo, Elijah, you see Ewing last night?" Malcolm said, leaning against the locker with a grin, his curls bouncing as he shook his head. "Preseason—Knicks versus Pacers, dude was a brick wall in the paint, swatting shots like flies. Dropped 22 and 10, easy."

Elijah smirked, spinning the dial on his locker with a flick, the metal clanking as it sprang open. "Ewing's a beast—those Knicks are gonna be a problem if he stays healthy."

Malcolm nodded, unwrapping a sandwich from his bag, crumbs spilling as he waved it like a prop. "Facts, bro—Starks was lighting it up too, hitting threes like it's nothing. You think they've got a shot this year?"

Elijah shrugged, slinging his bag inside and grabbing his gym shoes, the question lingering like a spark. He'd always tossed out predictions—Shaq to L.A., Jordan's 72 wins—but this time, he held back, letting the thought twist in his mind. He knew the Knicks wouldn't take it all—Chicago was a juggernaut in waiting—but what if he didn't just know it? What if he bet on it? A flicker of an idea ignited, sly and tempting—wagering on the Bulls for the '96 title, pocketing cash off what he knew was coming. He tucked it away, a seed to chew on later, and grinned at Malcolm. "Maybe—I'd put money on somebody, though. League's wide open 'til it ain't."

Malcolm's eyes widened, sandwich pausing midair. "Money? You're talking gambling now? Man, you're wild—gonna bet your lunch cash on Ewing?"

"Nah," Elijah laughed, slamming his locker shut with a clang, "something bigger—gotta play it smart, though."

They ambled toward the gym, the halls a whirlwind of noise and motion, Malcolm nudging him with an elbow as they dodged a gaggle of freshmen. "You hitting open gym tonight? Coach was on about extra reps—says we gotta be razor-sharp for tryouts."

Elijah nodded, his pulse kicking up at the thought, the system's new rules humming in his skull. "Yeah, I'm there—need every second I can steal. Five weeks 'til Oakwood, bro—gonna be a war."

"War?" Malcolm snorted, clapping him on the shoulder with a thud. "You're 5'5", man—gonna need a slingshot to take down those Goliath-ass dudes!"

"Speed's my slingshot," Elijah shot back, eyes glinting with a fire Malcolm couldn't trace. "I'll run circles 'til they're dizzy—watch me cook."

Inside the gym, the air thrummed—rubber and sweat weaving a familiar hymn, the echo of bouncing balls a heartbeat in Elijah's chest. A few guys were already at it: Jamal Thornton, the team's captain, casually sinking threes from the wing, his 6'2" frame gliding with a swagger that screamed untouchable, the net snapping like a whip. Tyrone Evans, the starting point guard, darted through dribble drills, his hands a flicker of lightning as he snaked between cones, quick and lethal. Elijah spotted Derrick Miles stretching near the baseline, his lanky frame folded in half, a fellow rotation grunt with a quiet steel Elijah respected.

"Yo, Derrick," Elijah called, dropping his bag with a soft thud and jogging over, "you ready to grind today?"

Derrick straightened, rolling his shoulders with a grimace, his voice low and steady like a bass note. "Man, I gotta be—we're out here scrapping for crumbs. Starters got the table set; we're just begging for a bite."

"Truth," Elijah said, stretching his calves, the ache flaring sharp and sweet, a reminder of the work ahead. "No handouts for us—gotta take those minutes, make 'em ours."

Derrick smirked, a rare glint breaking his usual calm. "Take 'em? You're dreaming, Reed—Jamal's out here like he's already got a college offer, and we're just the warm-up act."

"Let him strut," Elijah grinned, bouncing on his toes, shaking out his arms. "I'll slip him and hit a jumper right in his face—gonna make him choke on that 'Mini-Me' nonsense he's been spitting."

Derrick chuckled, dry and short. "Mini-Me? You're wild, man—better hope Coach clocks it before Jamal sends you to the bleachers."

The open gym session was a crucible—intensity crackling like a live wire in the air. The starters ran a tight scrimmage, Jamal barking orders as he drained fadeaways, Tyrone threading passes like silk through a needle. The reserves—Elijah, Derrick, a handful of others—worked the sidelines, a grind of sweat and focus, each rep a brick in the wall they were building. Elijah locked in on his shot selection, darting through imaginary cuts, practicing movement off the ball. His first bronze badge—Catch & Shoot—glowed in his mind: five assisted makes in a real game, a quest he'd chase when the stakes burned hot and the crowd's roar swallowed him whole.

Malcolm loped over, ball spinning on his finger like a top, and fired a chest pass his way, the leather smacking Elijah's hands with a satisfying pop. "Yo, catch and pop, hotshot—show me something!" he hollered, grinning wide as a jack-o'-lantern.

Elijah snagged it in rhythm, squared his feet on the wing, and let it fly—swish, the net snapping clean, a sound that rang in his ears like a bell tolling victory. Malcolm whooped, clapping his hands like a hype man at a rap battle. "That's it! One down—four more and you're a sniper, right?"

"Nah," Elijah laughed, grabbing the rebound and tossing it back, "just tryna be me—five of those in a game, and I'm eating."

Derrick jogged up, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve, his voice cutting through Malcolm's echo. "Five? You're dreaming big, man—Jamal's gonna swat that into the cheap seats."

"Bet he won't," Elijah said, eyes narrowing with a flicker of steel. "I'm too quick—he'll be flailing while I'm cashing out."

Malcolm cackled, bouncing the ball between his legs with a flourish. "Cashing out? Bro, you sound like a hustler—gonna bet on yourself next?"

The word snagged in Elijah's mind—bet. Not just on himself, but on the league, on what he knew was coming. The Bulls' run, the Rockets' fade, the Knicks' grit falling short. He could stack some cash, play the odds with a future no one else could see. He tucked the thought away, a sly ember to fan later, and grinned at Malcolm. "Maybe I will—gotta start somewhere, right?"

The session stretched on, a haze of drills and sweat, Elijah's legs growing heavy as lead with every cut, every shot. He darted for catches, fired mid-range jumpers, worked his footwork 'til his sneakers squeaked a protest against the hardwood. By the end, he was soaked, his shirt a sodden rag clinging to his back, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts—but his shots were crisper, his rhythm tighter. He checked the system as he toweled off—no VC gained, no badge progress, the screen silent as a held breath. He expected it—only real games would tick the meter now—but it stoked the fire in his gut, a hunger that gnawed deeper.

The walk home was a slow unraveling, the afternoon sun sinking low, painting the pavement in long shadows that stretched like fingers reaching for dusk. The crisp air nipped at his damp skin, a welcome sting as his mind churned—conditioning, shooting, defensive slides, every piece he'd need to weld together in five weeks. He replayed the session: Malcolm's pass, the swish, Derrick's jab—a taste of what he'd turn into gold when the season hit. Oakwood loomed in his thoughts, their 6'4" center a mountain he'd have to scale with guile, their guards a storm he'd have to outrun. Five assisted buckets for Catch & Shoot—he could feel it, the ball rolling off his fingers, the net snapping as the gym erupted, the system chiming with every make. And that betting idea flickered again—maybe not just pride on the line, but a few bucks, a hustle on the side. The Bulls were a lock, weren't they? He'd seen it play out once—why not cash in this time?

Back home, the house was a quiet haven, Martha still at the hospital, the kitchen a still life of her morning rush—coffee mug in the sink, a note scrawled on the counter: "Leftovers in the fridge—eat, baby." He grinned, her words a warm thread stitching through him, and heated up a plate of chicken and rice, the aroma rich and earthy as it filled the space, a balm to his frayed edges. He ate leaning against the counter, the food a lifeline to the body he was forging—stronger, faster, relentless—each bite a vow to keep pushing.

Five weeks. The countdown was a drumbeat in his chest, a rhythm he'd chase 'til his lungs burned and his legs buckled. He rinsed the plate, the water cool against his hands, and trudged upstairs, collapsing onto his bed with a groan that echoed in the springs. The system flared in his mind, stats glowing steady—Stamina at 42, Agility at 36, Midrange Shot at 34—but no new ticks, no VC, just the promise of what he'd earn when the whistle blew. Five weeks to sharpen, to rise, to claim his shot—and maybe a little extra on the side. He closed his eyes, the day's echoes fading into the hum of the night, but his heart thumped a defiant beat—a spark ready to ignite.