Prologue

Prologue

Eli stood just beyond the three-point line, the ball in his left hand, dribbling in a steady rhythm. His defender hovered a foot back, waiting, eyes locked on Eli’s every move. The scoreboard flashed: 3rd Quarter, 10.3 seconds left. North Edgecombe 47, Oak Hill Academy 51.

Everything slowed when Eli was on the court. He could see the sweat bead and fall from his defender’s brow, landing on the polished hardwood. He waved off his teammate, who started toward him to set a screen. Eli didn’t need it. He could take this guy on his own—no extra defenders to force the ball out of his hands.

As the clock hit nine seconds, Eli shifted his right foot slightly, a quick feint. His defender reacted, sliding his left foot back just enough to open the smallest gap. The moment the heel touched the court, Eli struck.

He crossed hard to his right, his hips selling the move, then whipped the ball back to his left. The defender lunged, guarding air, as Eli blew past him with two strong dribbles. Near the free-throw line, he stopped on a dime, rising into a jump shot. The ball rolled off his fingertips, arching smoothly through the air.

The buzzer blared as the net snapped. End of the quarter. Oak Hill 51, North Edgecombe 49.

Jogging off the court, Eli glanced up into the stands. His parents were in their usual spot at the top of the bleachers. His mom, Emma, clapped with her trademark confident smile, while his dad, Arthur, sat next to her, nodding slowly. Eli winked up at them, and his dad broke into a wide grin.

As he sat down, he saw one of the scouts for Duke sitting a few rows from his parents. He knew everyone wanted to know where he was going to school next year. Everywhere he went, someone had an opinion about where he should go. Coaches pitching their programs, fans telling him what they’d do in his shoes, reporters asking for a decision. He didn’t want to let anyone down—but how could he make everyone happy?

His parents had been patient, but even he could see the weariness in their eyes during the last few trips. His dad’s half-suppressed sighs when another recruiter called. His mom’s polite but clipped responses when asked for the hundredth time if Eli was leaning toward UNC.

As the 4th quarter started, Eli knew he had to be perfect now. North Edgecombe didn’t get this kind of exposure often. ESPN cameras panned across the packed gym. They were there to watch Eli, the #1 recruit in the country against the #1 team in the country. But this wasn’t just for him. A win tonight could put his teammates on scouts’ radars, maybe get them offers they wouldn’t have otherwise. Losing wasn’t an option—not tonight.

The fourth quarter was a grind. Oak Hill never trailed, but their lead stayed tight—no more than six. With less than a minute left, Oak Hill had the ball and was bleeding the clock, up by four.

Eli crouched low, watching their point guard call the play. When the ball moved, Eli recognized it immediately. He’d seen it in film study. Timing his move perfectly, he darted into the passing lane and intercepted the ball. The gym erupted as Eli sprinted to the rim and threw down a thunderous dunk. North Edgecombe was within two.

The crowd roared as the timeout was called, Eli’s coach rallying the team into a press. When the ball was inbounded, Eli shadowed the flow of the play, waiting. His teammates trapped Oak Hill’s guard in the corner, forcing a rushed pass to the middle. Eli sprang into action, intercepting the pass—or rather forcing the guard to panic, chucking it into the stands. Another timeout.

Standing in the huddle, Eli watched his coach furiously draw up the final play. His eyes drifted to the stands, locking onto his parents. Emma stood, clapping with the crowd, while Arthur stayed seated, his eyes steady on Eli. A faint nod from his dad, and Eli returned it, their unspoken conversation spanning years.

You got this.
I got this.

Coach’s voice pulled him back. “Okay, Eli, you’re coming off a pick, top of the key. It’s your isolation. Take your man off the dribble. Let’s run the clock out and send this to overtime.”

Eli’s eyes locked on his coach’s. “We’re not going to overtime,” he said firmly. “I’m ending this now.”

The team erupted around him, shouting encouragement and slapping his back. His coach, half-grinning, shook his head. “Fine. When you hit this shot, I’m telling everyone I drew it up exactly like this.”

As Eli jogged to the court, one teammate whispered, “Bro, do you practice your one-liners?”

Eli shrugged. “Of course. Every night, motivational quote book in hand. Want to borrow it?”

The teammate squinted, unsure if Eli was joking. Eli just winked and took his position.

The ball was inbounded, and Eli sprinted along the baseline, weaving through two solid picks from his big men. He popped out at the top of the key, catching the ball on a crisp bounce pass.

The clock ticked down: 8 seconds. 7 seconds.

Eli jabbed hard with his right foot, ripping the ball to his left. His defender bit, chasing Eli’s right hip. Eli took two powerful dribbles and stepped back, just outside the arc. Everything around him slowed.

Rising for the shot, the world fell silent. The gym faded away, replaced by memories of the driveway. Hundreds, thousands of shots just like this—alone, with teammates, or one-on-one with his dad or mom.

The ball left his fingertips, spinning perfectly. Eli’s form stayed in the air a second longer, his arm extended as the buzzer sounded.

The crowd held its breath.

The ball hit the net cleanly, ripping through with a satisfying snap. For a split second, there was nothing—no noise, no movement. Then chaos erupted.

His teammates tackled him to the floor as the fans stormed the court. Hands pulled him up, slapping his back as they carried him off the hardwood. Eli’s gaze lifted to the stands, finding his parents once more.

Emma’s smile was radiant, clapping like she knew the ending all along. Arthur stood, hands on his hips, his grin wider than Eli had ever seen.

In that moment, Eli felt it deep in his chest. He was exactly where he belonged.