The subway car shrieked against the tracks, a metallic scream that vibrated through the soles of Karl's sneakers. He leaned his head against the grimy window, the vibration rattling his teeth. Outside, the tunnel walls blurred into a streak of soot and graffiti.
Orly sat on the edge of the orange plastic seat, his knees bouncing like pistons. "Did you see his face? When you hit that no-look to the big man? Sterling looked like he just found a twenty in an old pair of jeans."
Karl didn't open his eyes. "He looked like a man watching a clock, Orly."
"Man, shut up. You're too humble. It's a sickness. You went in there with those cats—guys who probably have personal chefs and trainers who sleep at the foot of their beds—and you held the floor. You saw Perk? That kid shoots like he's got a cheat code, but he didn't want any part of you on the perimeter."
"He's fast," Karl muttered, his voice raspy. "And he doesn't miss. If I give him a breath of air, he burns the net."
"But you didn't," Orly pointed out, slapping Karl's knee. "You were on him like a bad rash. And that Dimbo guy? He's a mountain. A literal mountain with a fade. You made him look like a teammate, Karl. Not just a guy you were passing to, but a teammate."
Karl finally opened his eyes, staring at the flickering fluorescent light overhead. The adrenaline was receding, leaving a hollow ache in his joints. "It felt different. Not like the cage. On 4th Street, you move because you have to. If you don't, you get hit or you get skipped. In there… the space was so wide. The floor was so fast. It felt like I could see the lines before they were drawn."
"That's the vision, bro. That's what Miller saw." Orly leaned in closer, his voice dropping below the roar of the train. "You think you got it? The spot?"
Karl rubbed the tape on his ankle, feeling the grit of the gym floor still clinging to the adhesive. "Sterling said he'd call the coaches. He didn't promise me a jersey."
"He shook your hand, Karl. He didn't shake everyone's hand. I saw him through the glass before the guard blocked my view. He looked at you like you were a puzzle he finally finished."
"Or a piece that doesn't fit," Karl said.
The train slowed, the brakes hissing. They stepped out onto the platform, the air thick with the smell of damp concrete and old electricity. The ascent to the street was slow, Karl's legs protesting every step of the stairs. When they emerged, the sun was a harsh, white disc overhead. The neighborhood greeted them with its usual symphony: a car alarm three blocks over, the rhythmic thud of a distant bassline, and the shouts of kids weaving through traffic on bikes.
"I'm gonna go crash," Orly said, stopping at the corner of their block. "My brain is fried just from watching you. You okay to get upstairs?"
Karl nodded, adjusting the strap of his bag. "Yeah. I'm good, Orly. Thanks for the ride out there."
"Don't thank me. It's just my treat in this taxi. Just remember me when you're signing that multi-million dollar deal. I want a car with doors that open upwards. Like a bird."
"I'll buy you a bicycle with streamers," Karl joked.
"Cold-blooded," Orly laughed, turning away. "See you tonight, Champ."
Karl walked the final half-block to his building. The lobby smelled of Pine-Sol and boiled cabbage. The elevator was out of order again, the red light glowing like a mocking eye. He took the stairs, his breathing heavy by the third floor. He reached his door, fumbled with the key, and stepped inside.
The apartment was quiet, but the air held the faint, spicy scent of adobo. His mother, Marta, sat at the small kitchen table, a pile of medical billing envelopes spread before her. She didn't look up immediately, her pen scratching against a notepad.
"You're late," she said, her voice a steady anchor.
"Session ran long," Karl replied, dropping his bag by the door. He walked to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, the moisture shocking his senses.
Marta finally looked up, her dark eyes scanning him from head to toe. She paused at his ankles. "You used the tape."
Karl pulled a chair out and sank into it. "Yeah. Like I told you."
"And? Did you play like a boy with a future, or a boy with a hobby?"
Karl leaned back, the wood of the chair creaking. "I played. I don't know if it was enough. The other guys… they're different, Ma. They've been playing in gyms like that since they were ten. They know the plays before the coach says them."
"And you know the streets before the lights come on," she countered, closing her ledger. "Does that man, the one with the card, does he know what he's looking at?"
"Sterling. Yeah, he knows. He was watching everything. Even the way we breathed."
Marta reached across the table, her hand rough but warm as she placed it over his. "You look tired, Karl. Not just 'game' tired. You look like you're carrying the building on your shoulders."
"It's a big building, Ma."
"Then let it stand on its own for five minutes." She stood up, moving toward the stove. "Eat. I kept it warm. Then you sleep. No phones, no Orly, no basketball."
"I have to keep my phone on. If Sterling calls—"
"If he calls, he can wait an hour," she said, setting a plate of rice and chicken in front of him. "A man who wants you won't leave because you're resting. He wants a player, not a ghost."