"Then we have our three," Sterling said, clapping his hands together once. The sound echoed in the sterile room. "Perk for the perimeter. Blake for the rim. Shewish for the engine."
"What about Dimbo?" Miller asked. "The kid is a powerhouse."
"Dimbo is a bully," Sterling said. "In the league, everyone is a bully. He'll get exposed when he meets someone his own size who actually likes to hit back. Put him on the reserve list, but don't call him yet."
"I'll draft the offer letters," Sarah said, her fingers already flying across her keyboard. "Do we want to do the standard announcement?"
"No," Sterling said. "I want to do this personally. Especially with Shewish."
"You're going back to the city?" Miller looked surprised. "I can handle the paperwork, Bennett."
"No. I want to see his environment one more time. I want to see if the fire I saw today is a bonfire or a candle. If I'm going to invest this much in an outlier, I want to be the one who lights the fuse."
Sterling turned back to the window. The sun was beginning to dip, casting long, golden shadows over the city. Somewhere in that sprawl of brick and steel, Karl Shewish was probably asleep, unaware that his life had just been dissected and rearranged in a room of glass and mahogany.
***
Back in the apartment, the sun crept across Karl's mattress, a warm bar of light that eventually hit his eyes. He groaned, rolling over, his muscles feeling like they had been replaced by rusted iron. He reached for his phone on the floor.
Three missed calls from Orly. Two texts.
*ORLY: Yo, I heard something. A guy I know says Schemm's people are pissed. Something about him being cut.*
*ORLY: Karl, wake up. If Schemm is out, that means the door is wide open.*
Karl sat up, rubbing his face. He felt the phantom weight of the ball in his hands. He looked at his ankles, the skin red and irritated where the tape had been. He stood up, his legs shaking slightly, and walked to the window.
Down below, the neighborhood was in full swing. A group of teenagers were gathered around a milk crate nailed to a telephone pole, taking turns throwing a deflated ball. They moved with a jagged, desperate energy.
"Karl?"
He turned. His mother stood in the doorway, holding her purse. She was dressed for her night shift at the hospital.
"I'm going now," she said. She looked at him, her expression softening. "You look better. The ghost is gone."
"I'm just awake, Ma."
"There's a difference." She walked over and straightened the collar of his t-shirt. "I saw a black car downstairs. One of those ones with the tinted windows. It's been sitting there for twenty minutes."
Karl's heart did a slow, heavy roll in his chest. "A black car?"
"Fancy. Like the ones the politicians use." She kissed his cheek. "Maybe it's for you. Maybe it's not. But don't go down there looking like a beggar. Wash your face again."
She left, the door clicking shut behind her.
Karl stood in the center of the room, the silence of the apartment suddenly heavy. He walked to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and stared at his reflection. He didn't see a "prospect" or a "visionary." He saw a kid from the block who was tired of being tired.
He pulled on a clean hoodie, shoved his phone in his pocket, and headed for the door.
The stairs felt shorter this time. The adrenaline was back, a low hum in his blood. When he reached the lobby, he pushed through the heavy door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The car was there. A sleek, midnight-black SUV idling at the curb. The engine was a low, expensive purr that made the surrounding traffic sound like junk. The back window rolled down, a slow, mechanical slide.
Bennett Sterling sat in the back, his silhouette sharp against the leather interior. He wasn't smiling, but his eyes held a glimmer of something that looked like respect.
"Shewish," Sterling said, his voice cutting through the neighborhood noise.
Karl walked to the edge of the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets. "Mr. Sterling. You're a long way from 92nd Street."
"The city is only as big as you make it, Karl." Sterling gestured to the seat beside him. "Get in. We have things to discuss."
Karl looked back at his building, the peeling paint and the flickering hallway light visible through the entrance. Then he looked at the open door of the SUV. He felt the business card in his pocket, the one that had felt like a key.
"I have a game tonight," Karl said, his voice steady. "On 4th Street. My team is expecting me."
Sterling leaned back, a ghost of a smile appearing. "The cage can wait, Karl. The world can't. If you want to be the player I think you are, the game starts now. Not on a playground, but in a jersey."
Karl didn't hesitate. He stepped off the curb and into the car. The door closed with a solid, muffled thud, sealing out the sound of the sirens and the shouting.
"Where are we going?" Karl asked as the SUV pulled away from the curb.
Sterling looked out the window at the kids playing with the milk crate basket. "To change the map, Karl. To change the map."
As the car accelerated, weaving through the taxis and delivery trucks, Karl felt the city receding behind him. He wasn't leaving it—not really. He was just taking it with him. He thought of his mother's ledger, of Orly's bird-winged car, of the feeling of the hardwood under his feet.
The fire wasn't just in the gym anymore. It was in the car, in the seat, in the man sitting next to him. And for the first time in his life, Karl Shewish wasn't running toward a hoop. He was running toward a life.
The SUV turned onto the main drag, the lights of the skyline rising up to meet them, bright and unforgiving and full of promise. Karl leaned back into the leather, the smell of new car and old ambition filling his lungs. He was ready. He was finally ready.