Chapter 1: Notes and Sightseeing The locker room smelled like sweat, deodorant, and that weird lemon cleaner the janitor used way too much of. Jim sat on the bench, lacing up his sneakers—black and red Kyrie 5s that matched the Warriors' colors—while his teammates shuffled around, some stretching, others checking their phones or adjusting their jerseys. The energy was weird. Tense but electric. Season opener jitters mixed with something heavier. "Yo, y'all look like you're about to take the SATs," Jim said, standing up. He clapped his hands once, loud enough to cut through the nervous chatter. "The hell's wrong with you?" Kenny looked up from re-tying his shoes for the third time. "There's like six scouts out there, man. Did you see them?" "Yeah, I saw them." Jim stretched his arms overhead, feeling his shoulders pop. "So what? They're just dudes in chairs. They don't play defense." "Easy for you to say," Eli muttered, fiddling with his headband. "They're here for *you*." Jim grinned, that cocky-ass smirk that made people want to punch him or laugh with him, depending on the day. "Nah, Torch. They're here to watch *us*. You think I'm dropping dimes to myself? Y'all are gonna eat tonight." Zion snorted from his locker. "Man, shut up." "I'm serious." Jim walked to the center of the room, hands on his hips. The rest of the team gradually turned their attention to him. "Lincoln Prep's gonna come out aggressive. Their point guard—what's his name, Marcus something—thinks he's nice. He's not. I'm gonna cook him in the first three possessions, and after that, they're gonna double me every time I cross half court." Mike leaned back against his locker, arms crossed. "And when they do?" "When they do, that's when y'all get yours." Jim pointed at Zion. "You're getting at least two lobs. Maybe three if you stop being lazy on the roll." "Man, I'm never lazy—" "Kenny." Jim cut Zion off without looking at him. "They don't have anyone who can guard you in the post. You're feasting down low. I'm feeding you." Kenny nodded slowly, some of that tension easing out of his shoulders. "Torch, you're gonna get your catch-and-shoots. Don't think. Just let it fly." Jim turned to Mike. "And Mike, you're our backbone, man. You know what to do." Mike gave a small nod, respect in his eyes. Jim let the silence hang for a second, then clapped again. "So here's what's gonna happen. We're gonna go out there, we're gonna run our shit, and we're gonna send Lincoln back to their boring-ass school with an L they'll remember all season. Scouts or no scouts, this is *our* house. We don't play for them. We play for us." Manny banged his locker. "Let's fucking go!" The rest of the team started hyping each other up, voices overlapping, energy shifting from nervous to ready. Coach Harper stepped into the locker room, clipboard in hand, eyebrows raised. "Y'all done with the motivational speeches, or should I come back later?" "We're good, Coach," Jim said, grinning. Harper looked at him, then at the rest of the team. "Alright. Five minutes. Stay locked in." He left, and Jim grabbed his warm-up jacket, throwing it on over his jersey. Sean came up beside him. "Yo, for real though. You nervous at all?" Jim thought about it for half a second. Nervous? Nah. Excited? Hell yeah. There was a difference. "Not even a little," he said. --- The gym was packed. Like, *packed* packed. Every seat filled, people standing along the walls, students crammed into the bleachers like sardines. The noise hit Jim the second he walked out of the tunnel—cheering, music blasting from the speakers, the squeak of sneakers on hardwood as Lincoln Prep finished their layup lines. Jim's eyes swept the crowd automatically. He spotted his family first—his mom Roxanne in a sleek black jacket, his dad Lenny in a Bucks hat (of course), Greg with his arm around Nancy, Keithie sitting next to Becky, who was waving like a maniac. Jim gave them a quick nod. Then he saw the scouts. Courtside. Six of them, all in button-ups and slacks, notepads or tablets in hand. Rich Paul sat with them, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place. Because, honestly, he kind of did. Rich caught Jim's eye and gave him a small nod. Jim returned it. One of the scouts was from the Lakers. Jim knew because he'd seen the guy at a game last month. Older dude, salt-and-pepper hair, expensive watch. *Taking notes already, huh?* Jim rolled his shoulders, shaking out his arms. He grabbed a ball from the rack and started his warm-up routine—dribbling between his legs, behind his back, crossovers, spin moves. Muscle memory. He wasn't even thinking about it. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out. **Valeria:** you look so good in that uniform baby **Valeria:** gonna let me take it off you later? Jim smirked, glancing up toward the stands. He found her easily—front row, wearing his away jersey, the white one with the red "10" on it. Her hair was down, lips glossed, looking at him with that teasing-ass expression she always had when she was being a menace. He typed back with one hand while dribbling with the other. **Jim:** if you're lucky **Jim:** might make you keep it on tho **Valeria:** mm you're nasty **Valeria:** i like it **Valeria:** gonna choke me again? **Jim:** you already know **Jim:** gonna have you forgetting your own name **Valeria:** promise? **Jim:** bet He pocketed his phone, still grinning. Valeria blew him a kiss from the stands. He mouthed "chill" at her, which just made her laugh. "Yo, Jim!" He turned. Demitra Kalogeras was standing near the baseline with her phone out, filming him. She had on a cropped Warriors hoodie and jeans, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. "What's good, Dem?" Jim called, jogging over. She lowered her phone, smiling. "Just getting some content. You mind?" "Nah, go ahead. Make me look good." "You always look good," she said, and there was something in the way she said it—soft, almost shy—that made Jim pause for half a second. But he just grinned. "Damn, you trying to hype me up before the game? I respect it." She laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Just calling it like I see it." "Appreciate you." He dribbled the ball between his legs, showing off a little. "Make sure you get my handles in there. Gotta show the people what they came for." "Oh, trust me. I got it." Jim winked at her, then jogged back toward his team. He didn't catch the way her smile lingered, or the way she bit her lip as she watched him go. --- The starting lineups were announced. Jim's name got the loudest cheer, and he jogged to center court, slapping hands with his teammates. Lincoln Prep's point guard, Marcus Hill, stood across from him. Decent height—maybe 6'1"—with long arms and a cocky tilt to his head. "Heard a lot about you," Marcus said. Jim looked him up and down. "That's cool. Won't matter in about five minutes." Marcus frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" "You'll see." The ref blew the whistle. Kenny won the tip, tapping it back to Jim. And just like that, it was on. Jim caught the ball at the top of the key, Marcus pressuring him immediately. Jim didn't even look at him. He dribbled casually, surveying the floor, letting the defense set. Then he exploded. A quick in-and-out dribble, a hesitation, and Marcus bit just enough. Jim crossed him over, left to right, and Marcus stumbled. The crowd erupted. Jim drove into the paint, drew Kenny's defender, and whipped a no-look pass to Kenny under the basket. Easy layup. 2-0. Jim backpedaled on defense, pointing at Kenny. "That's one!" Marcus brought the ball up, clearly trying to answer back. He called for a screen, got it, and tried to attack. But Jim stayed glued to him, feet moving, hands active. Marcus forced a contested floater that clanked off the rim. Zion grabbed the rebound and threw it to Jim. Showtime. Jim pushed the pace, dribbling full speed up the court. Lincoln's defense scrambled to get back, but they weren't fast enough. Jim crossed half court, split two defenders with a behind-the-back dribble, and threw an absurd wraparound pass to Zion trailing on the wing. Zion caught it in stride, took one dribble, and threw down a one-handed dunk that nearly brought the rim down with him. The gym lost its mind. Jim jogged back, grinning at the Lincoln bench. "Y'all gonna guard us, or just stand there?" One of their players said something back, but Jim couldn't hear it over the noise. The first quarter was a blur. Jim was in complete control, orchestrating everything. He wasn't even scoring much—didn't need to. He was picking Lincoln apart with passes, finding open teammates, breaking down their defense possession after possession. At one point, he threw a behind-the-back pass to Eli in the corner without even looking. Eli drained the three, and the crowd went berserk. "Jim, what the hell was that?" Coach Harper yelled from the sideline, but he was grinning. Jim just shrugged. Marcus was getting frustrated. Jim could see it in his face, the way he was clenching his jaw, trying too hard. With about a minute left in the quarter, Marcus tried to iso on Jim, calling everyone out of the way. Bad idea. Jim crouched low, hands ready. Marcus tried a hesitation move, then a crossover. Jim didn't bite. Marcus tried a step-back. Jim stayed right with him. Finally, Marcus forced a tough mid-range shot that missed. Mike grabbed the rebound and threw it ahead to Jim. Twenty seconds left. Jim brought it up slowly this time, milking the clock. Lincoln's defense was scrambling, trying to figure out what he was going to do. Ten seconds. Jim waved everyone to the corners, isolating Marcus at the top of the key. Five seconds. Jim gave him a little smirk. "This one's for the scouts." He crossed Marcus so hard the dude nearly fell over, stepped back to just inside half court, and let it fly. The ball arced through the air, spinning perfectly. *Swish.* The buzzer sounded at the exact same moment. The gym exploded. Jim's teammates mobbed him, yelling and laughing. The crowd was on its feet. Even some of Lincoln's players were shaking their heads in disbelief. Jim walked toward the bench, making sure to glance at the scouts on his way. Rich Paul was grinning, shaking his head like he couldn't believe what he just saw. Jim stopped, looked directly at the Lakers scout, and spread his arms. "Y'all taking notes," he called over the noise, "or just sightseeing?" The scout cracked a smile despite himself. Jim turned back to his teammates, adrenaline pumping, knowing this was just the beginning.