Chapter 3

Marcus noticed him the moment he walked into the gym. He was sitting in the top row of the bleachers, far enough back that he could see the whole court, wearing a plain gray jacket and holding a small notebook. He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile. He just watched.

Coach Daniels gathered the team at half court.

“Ignore him,” he said, though his voice was tight. “Play your game. That’s all any scout wants to see.”

Marcus nodded, but ignoring Bill Hargrove was like ignoring a splinter in your shoe. Every time Marcus touched the ball, he felt those eyes on him. Every pass, every cut, every shot felt weighted, measured, judged.

The first few minutes were rough. Marcus forced a pass that Darius wasn’t expecting, and it sailed out of bounds. He missed a layup he normally made in his sleep. He heard Coach Daniels bark his name from the sideline.

Then he caught his breath.

He stopped thinking about the scout and started thinking about the game. The ball felt lighter. The court felt wider. He drove the lane, drew the defense, and kicked it to Darius for an open three. Darius hit it. Marcus found his rhythm.

By the end of the first half, he had twelve points and five assists. Bill Hargrove had written in his notebook twice.

At halftime, Coach Daniels pulled Marcus aside.

“He’s here for you,” Coach said. “You know that, right?”

“I figured.”

“Don’t let it get in your head. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

Marcus nodded. He wanted to ask what the scout had written. He wanted to ask if it was good. But he didn’t. He just drank water and waited for the second half.

The second half went better than the first. Marcus scored eighteen more points, including a three-pointer from the corner that made the crowd stand. When the final buzzer sounded, he had thirty points, nine assists, and a win.

Bill Hargrove folded his chair and walked down from the bleachers.

Coach Daniels met him at the edge of the court. They talked for a few minutes, their voices too low for Marcus to hear. Then Coach waved Marcus over.

“Marcus,” Coach said, “this is Bill Hargrove. He’s an assistant coach at Westbrook University.”

Westbrook. Marcus had seen them play on television. They were a Division I program with a packed arena and a history of sending players to the pros.

“Nice to meet you,” Marcus said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Hargrove nodded. He had a weathered face and steady eyes. “You’ve got good instincts, Reed. You see the floor well. You make your teammates better.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m not here to make promises. It’s early. But I’ve been watching high school ball for fifteen years, and I know what it looks like when a player has something special.” He paused. “You’ve got it.”

Marcus felt his chest swell.

“We’d like you to come visit the campus in the spring,” Hargrove continued. “Meet the team. See the facilities. Nothing official. Just get a feel for the place.”

“Yes, sir. I’d like that.”

Hargrove wrote something in his notebook, then looked up. “One more thing. You’re going to hear from a lot of people between now and then. Agents. Boosters. Guys who say they want to help you. Be careful who you listen to. Not everybody who smiles at you has your best interests in mind.”

Marcus felt the words land like a punch to the stomach. He thought about Mr. Thompson. He thought about the envelope under his mattress.

“I understand,” he said.

Hargrove studied him for a moment longer. Then he nodded, shook Coach Daniels’s hand, and walked out of the gym.

Marcus stood there, the echo of the crowd still in his ears, the scout’s warning still in his head.

Coach Daniels put a hand on his shoulder.

“You did good tonight, Reed. Real good.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Get some rest. We got practice tomorrow.”

Marcus nodded and headed toward the locker room. But instead of going inside, he stopped at the door and pulled out his phone.

He called Lena.

She picked up on the second ring.

“Marcus? It’s late. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I just… I need to talk to somebody.”

There was a pause. Then she said, “I’m listening.”

He told her about the scout. He told her about Westbrook. He told her about Hargrove’s warning.

He didn’t tell her about Mr. Thompson.

“That’s amazing, Marcus,” she said. “Westbrook. That’s huge.”

“Yeah. I guess it is.”

“But you don’t sound happy.”

Marcus leaned against the wall. The gym lights hummed above him.

“I am happy. I just… I don’t know. It’s happening fast. Everything’s happening fast.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“I know. But I want to make sure I’m doing it right. I don’t want to mess this up.”

Lena was quiet for a moment.

“You won’t mess it up. You’re the most careful person I know. You think everything through. That’s why you’re going to be fine.”

Marcus smiled.

“Thanks, Lena.”

“Anytime. Now go home and get some sleep. You’ve got practice tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I do.”

He hung up and walked out of the gym. The night air was cold, and he pulled his jacket tighter. As he crossed the parking lot, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

A text message from a number he didn’t recognize.

Heard you had a visitor tonight. Let’s talk soon. — R.T.

Marcus stared at the screen.

He hadn’t told Mr. Thompson about the scout. He hadn’t told anyone except Lena and Coach Daniels.

He typed a reply, then deleted it. He typed another, then deleted that too.

Finally, he put the phone back in his pocket and walked home.

When he got there, his mother was asleep on the couch, the television still on. He turned it off, covered her with a blanket, and went to his room.

He lifted his mattress and pulled out the envelope.

Five hundred dollars. Still there. Still heavy.

He looked at it for a long moment. Then he put it back and lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

The scout had said he had something special.

Mr. Thompson had said the same thing.

Marcus just wasn’t sure anymore which one he could trust.