The gym was quiet except for the rhythmic bounce of the basketball against the hardwood. The sun had barely crept above the Los Angeles skyline, casting golden streaks through the high windows of UCLA's legendary training facility. Ryan wheeled himself into the gym, his eyes scanning the space with the same mix of awe and purpose he'd felt every day for the past week.
Coach Reilly stood at the far end, arms crossed, watching as Jordan, the sophomore guard with raw potential, took shot after shot. They weren't bad, but they weren't game-ready either. Not yet.
"You're early," Coach Reilly said without looking at Ryan.
"I'm always early," Ryan replied, parking himself near the bench. "You said I could take over today?"
Reilly nodded. "He's all yours. Show me what you've got, Whitmore."
Ryan turned his attention to Jordan. "Alright, let's start with those basics I showed you. Footwork first."
Jordan jogged over, sweat already glistening on his forehead. "Ready, Coach."
Ryan grinned faintly at the title. It still felt strange to hear it in a setting this big, this real. Back in Rosehill, he'd coached with heart and instinct. Here, he was surrounded by talent from across the country—players who had dominated high school leagues and dreamed of the NBA. But he wasn't intimidated.
He was built for this.
"Pivot drills," Ryan said. "Left foot as your anchor. Show me clean turns, both ways."
Jordan moved into position, repeating the drills they'd been working on all week. His footwork was getting tighter, his balance stronger. But there was still something missing—timing, maybe, or confidence.
Ryan didn't interrupt. He watched carefully, taking mental notes the way Coach Daniels had taught him to. When Jordan finished his third set, Ryan nodded.
"Better. But your center of gravity is too high. You're not grounded. Next drill—defense slides. Let's go."
For the next hour, they ran through a grueling routine—footwork, passing drills, court vision exercises, shooting under pressure. Ryan didn't go easy on him. He couldn't. Jordan had potential to be more than a benchwarmer, and Ryan refused to let it go to waste.
By the time the main team trickled in for the group session, Jordan was drenched in sweat, his legs trembling slightly. But there was fire in his eyes.
Coach Reilly walked over and clapped a hand on Ryan's shoulder. "You've got the kid working harder than I ever did."
Ryan smirked. "He's got it in him. Just needs someone to push him."
Reilly leaned in a bit. "Keep this up, and by next season, it won't just be your team in name."
Ryan looked down at his legs—still weak, still far from game-ready—but for the first time since the accident, he felt entirely in control.
—
Later that afternoon, Ryan rolled through the campus courtyard, his duffel bag resting across his lap. Ivy Carter, team manager and third-year student, waved at him from the shade of a wide oak tree. She wore a UCLA cap backward, her curls spilling out the sides, and a book open on her lap.
"Hey, Coach," she said playfully. "Steal any souls in the gym today?"
Ryan chuckled. "Just Jordan's. He'll thank me later."
She patted the bench beside her. "Sit with me?"
He parked next to her instead, enjoying the soft breeze that ruffled the pages of her notebook. "What are you working on?"
"Practice schedule for the month," she said. "Reilly gave me the green light to coordinate the off-day rotations. You up for helping with the shooting plan?"
Ryan nodded. "You know I am."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the campus humming softly around them. Students passed by in groups, laughing, calling out to one another. For Ryan, it was a world away from the quiet streets of Rosehill.
"I still can't believe you're here," Ivy said quietly. "Some guy from North Carolina with a comeback story better than half the movies I've seen."
Ryan looked at her, really looked. "I'm just trying to earn it. Every day."
"You already are," she said, and their eyes locked for a moment too long.
Before either could say something more, Ryan's phone buzzed. It was a text from Jordan:"Thanks for this morning. I'll be at the gym early again tomorrow. I won't let you down."
Ryan smiled, showing Ivy the message. "See? Worth it."
—
Week Two
The workouts got harder. Ryan pushed Jordan through advanced passing drills—no-look assists, fake-outs, reading defenses. He made Jordan watch film until his eyes burned, dissecting every move the pros made, explaining how instinct wasn't just talent—it was discipline.
They trained in the mornings, ran mental drills in the afternoons, and reviewed playbooks by evening. Jordan complained, joked, even groaned in exhaustion—but he never stopped.
During a break, Jordan finally asked what he'd been wondering all along. "Why me?"
Ryan wiped sweat from his brow. "Because you remind me of me. All heart, no polish."
Jordan blinked. "You mean—?"
"I wasn't the most talented on the court. But I had something to prove. You do too. And I'm gonna make sure you do."
Jordan didn't speak for a while. Then, quietly: "I'll make you proud."
Ryan didn't answer. He just nodded.
—
Week Three
Coach Reilly began letting Ryan lead drills with the full team. The other players respected him—some with admiration, some with curiosity. He wasn't their age, but he wasn't a typical coach either. His approach was different. Smarter. More connected.
Jordan was already improving—his confidence growing. He didn't second-guess himself on the court. He shouted switches. He read screens. He found open men no one else saw.
One afternoon, after a brutal scrimmage, Reilly handed Ryan a folder.
"Depth chart," he said. "Think he's ready to break into the rotation?"
Ryan flipped through it, eyes resting on the name "Jordan Miller."
"He will be. Give me another week."
Reilly nodded and walked away. Ivy came over seconds later, offering a bottle of water.
"I saw him fake out a junior today," she said, grinning. "Cleanest move I've seen all month."
"He's ready," Ryan said. "I just need to make sure I am."
She raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
"For stepping into this role. For real."
Ivy gave him a soft smile. "Ryan, you've already stepped in. You're not the same guy who rolled into campus three weeks ago."
"No," Ryan agreed. "That guy didn't believe in himself yet."
—
Week Four
The final week was a blur of final touches—sharpening movements, fine-tuning reactions, conditioning drills. Ryan's own therapy was going well too—he could stand now with help. It gave him hope. Maybe someday, he'd walk unassisted again. Maybe not. Either way, he was exactly where he needed to be.
On Friday, they scrimmaged the B-squad. Jordan led the floor like a seasoned vet, calling plays Ryan had taught him, making cuts and finding teammates with laser-precision.
Afterward, Reilly clapped once and shouted, "Miller—you're in the starting rotation next week."
The gym erupted.
Jordan ran straight to Ryan, pulling him into a half-hug. "We did it."
"No," Ryan said, a quiet pride in his voice. "You did."
—
That night, Ivy and Ryan sat on the bleachers alone. The gym lights were dim, casting soft shadows across the court.
"You ready for the season?" she asked.
Ryan looked around. At the banners. At the court. At her.
"More than ever."
She touched his hand gently. "And after the season?"
He looked at her, really looked this time.
"I'll still be here," he said. "If you are."
She smiled. "Then I guess we've got a season to win."