The early morning air inside Hangar 47 was cool, but Nash had already been out on the court for a good hour. His grey tank top was soaked through, clinging to his chest and highlighting the dense muscle underneath.
Under the halogen lights, he attacked the baseline, pulling a sharp, sudden crossover on an imaginary defender before exploding toward the rim with a brutal, mechanical vertical leap.
Clack. Fwop.
The reinforced steel rim groaned heavily under the impact of a ferocious, one-handed dunk. Nash dropped back down smoothly, catching the ball on the bounce and blocking it against his hip.
He was just about to wipe the sweat from his forehead with his forearm when a familiar voice, filled with a playful insolence, cut through the silence of the hangar.
"Sup, putting us to shame first thing in the morning?"
