The air in the UCLA gym was heavy with competition. Sneakers squeaked against the polished hardwood, basketballs echoed as they hit the rim, and voices bounced off the walls—commands, cheers, frustration, laughter. Ryan stood at the edge of the court, his clipboard in hand, eyes scanning every movement. He wasn't a high school kid anymore. This was Division I basketball. Faster. Sharper. Louder.
Coach Reilly, gray-haired and intense, blew the whistle. "Time! Circle up!"
The players jogged over, sweat glistening on their arms and brows. Ryan took a slow step forward.
"You're gonna run the next drill, Whitmore," Coach Reilly said, offering a small nod. "Let's see what you've got."
Ryan blinked once, surprised but ready. He stepped into the center. "Alright, we're working on anticipation and zone defense. Split into two squads. No walking, no laziness. Let's move."
They followed without question, maybe out of curiosity, maybe respect. As the drill kicked off, Ryan was in his element. He shouted instructions, corrected footwork, pushed for precision. Every second was a dance of attention—his eyes catching little details, every pass, every hesitation, every breakdown. The players weren't used to being pushed like this during pre-season warmups.
But one stood out.
A sophomore named Jordan Banks—6'1", lean, quick. His energy was relentless, but his plays? Messy. His passes were wild, his spacing off. Yet, there was something in the way he moved—like he could see things before they happened. That instinct couldn't be taught.
After practice, while everyone was gathering their things, Ryan walked up to him.
"You're Jordan, right?"
Jordan looked up, chest still rising with heavy breaths. "Yeah."
"You've got vision," Ryan said. "But your body can't keep up with what you see."
Jordan raised an eyebrow, half laughing. "Yeah, I've heard that before."
"You ever work one-on-one with a coach?"
Jordan shook his head.
Ryan offered a small smile. "You're about to."
They sat down on the bench, going over plays with the clipboard. Ryan began breaking down the court like a chessboard, showing Jordan how to make space, time his decisions, and use angles that matched his intuition. Jordan leaned in, absorbing every word.
"Why're you helping me?" Jordan asked after a while.
Ryan shrugged. "Someone once believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. Time I paid it forward."
Later that evening, Ryan stepped out of the gym into the golden hue of a California sunset. Ivy was waiting for him near the steps of the student center, her curls pulled up in a messy bun, a paper cup of iced coffee in her hand.
"How was day two, Coach Whitmore?" she teased, handing him the drink.
Ryan smirked. "I didn't trip and embarrass myself, so... we're already winning."
They walked side by side through campus, the breeze soft, the hum of student life around them. Ivy pointed out buildings, cracked a few jokes about professors she called "ancient relics," and told him stories about her freshman year mistakes.
Ryan was more relaxed now. She had that effect on people—easygoing, thoughtful, but sharp. She noticed everything. Just like him.
As they reached a quiet bench near the sculpture garden, she nudged his shoulder. "You looked like you belonged out there today."
"I did?" he asked, looking away for a moment, caught off guard.
"Yeah," she said softly. "Like you were born to lead."
They sat in silence for a moment before Ivy added, "You ever think about what's next? After this year?"
Ryan nodded. "Every day. But I'm not in a rush. I just want to build something that lasts."
She looked at him, eyes lingering a second longer than before. "Well, you've already started."
And somehow, Ryan knew she wasn't just talking about basketball.