Chapter 102 – One Month of Grit

The gym was mostly empty when they started.

It was early—before school, before the sun had even climbed over the trees of Rosehill. The only sound was the bounce of a basketball echoing through the court and the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

Ryan sat in his wheelchair at center court, his arms folded as he watched Tyler run the basic dribbling drills he'd laid out.

"Again," Ryan called.

Tyler was already sweating, his breath coming fast. "That was already ten—"

"Then make it eleven."

The freshman groaned but bent low again and began weaving through the cones, pushing the ball with his fingertips, not slapping it like before. It was already better. Not good. But better.

That was Day One.

Week One: Breakdown

The first week was brutal. Not for Tyler—he was young and full of energy—but for Ryan. Sitting in the gym every day, unable to run beside the kid he was training, hurt more than he expected. His own body betrayed him every time he tried to do something simple—get out of bed, move without someone's help, even stretch the right way.

But he pushed past the pain. His voice became his power.

"Tyler! Ball on a string! Keep it tight!"

Tyler dribbled back and forth as fast as he could, sweat dripping down his nose.

Ryan had brought in cones, resistance bands, even borrowed a medicine ball from the school's weight room. He couldn't demonstrate physically, but his words hit hard.

"Basketball isn't about looking good. It's about knowing. You don't dribble to show off. You dribble because you need to move."

By the end of the first week, Tyler wasn't tripping over his own feet anymore.

Week Two: Build

"You're slow."

Ryan's words came bluntly on the second Monday.

Tyler blinked. "Uh—"

"I'm not trying to be mean," Ryan said, adjusting the wheels of his chair so he could move beside him. "You think faster than your body moves. We need to close that gap."

So they added conditioning.

Sprints. Cone suicides. Ladders taped to the court for agility. Ryan made a new plan each morning, had Tyler warm up, run, rest, then train again.

"You're not just trying to be good," Ryan told him during a water break. "You're trying to become great. That's a choice. Greatness isn't born. It's built."

Tyler didn't answer. He just nodded, wiped his sweat, and got back in line.

That day, Ryan wheeled to the baseline and tossed the ball to him again and again, demanding precision.

"Chest pass. Snap the wrists. No air under the ball."

"Again."

"Again."

By Thursday, Tyler's passes were crisp. Direct. On target.

The kid was learning.

Week Three: Vision

"Why did you try that pass?" Ryan asked, tossing the ball back from half-court.

Tyler jogged toward him, hands on his hips. "He was cutting across. I thought he'd keep going left."

"He didn't. And that's why you turned the ball over."

Tyler looked frustrated. "It's hard to read them. I'm not in their heads."

"You don't need to be in their heads," Ryan said. "You need to study them. Watch how they move. Their habits. Some players fake left but always cut right. Some look at the ball when they're nervous. Others bite when you hesitate. You gotta see it all."

They spent that week watching tapes after every practice. Games from last season. Other high schools. Even college-level ball.

Ryan paused the screen and pointed at little moments no one else would catch.

"See that foot shift? That's a tell. He's about to pass."

Tyler's eyes widened. "How do you even notice that?"

Ryan just smirked. "Because I've lived it."

Week Four: Trust

It was the hardest week yet.

Tyler was pushing himself more than ever, but Ryan could see the cracks forming. The kid was tired, sore, and mentally stretched.

One morning, Ryan rolled into the gym and found Tyler already there, sitting on the floor, holding his ankle.

"Sprain?" Ryan asked, moving over.

Tyler nodded, wincing. "Just a little."

"You wanna take today off?"

Tyler hesitated, then said, "No. I want to keep going."

Ryan gave him a long look. Then he nodded. "Alright. Today we work on passing vision. No footwork."

They adjusted. Sat side by side on the floor. Used just upper body movement to simulate passes, decision-making, play recognition.

It was in that moment Ryan realized: he wasn't just teaching. He was passing something on. A legacy. A part of himself he thought was gone.

He couldn't run plays anymore. Couldn't take the shot. But Tyler could.

And someday, he'd do it with fire in his eyes and control in his hands.

The Last Day of the Month

Four weeks later, Ryan watched Tyler go through every drill they'd run together. Faster. Cleaner. Sharper. Tyler wasn't just reacting anymore. He was reading the court.

When the drills ended, Ryan called him over.

"You're not the same player who walked in here a month ago."

Tyler looked down, a little proud, a little humble. "Thanks to you."

Ryan nodded, and this time, there was something lighter in his voice. "Next step is playing with the team. You ready?"

"I think so," Tyler said.

"Good," Ryan said. "Because they're gonna need you."

Tyler nodded, then hesitated. "Are you… ever gonna coach?"

Ryan wheeled back a little, glancing around the gym.

"Maybe. I'm not done with basketball. Just figuring out my new position."

Tyler grinned and offered his hand.

"Thanks, Coach."

Ryan took it, smiled faintly, and pulled him into a brief handshake.

"Let's get to work."