The gym echoed with the rhythmic bounce of basketballs and the sharp squeak of sneakers across the hardwood. Sunlight poured through the high windows of the UCLA practice facility, casting long, golden beams that danced across the floor as bodies moved in coordinated chaos.
Ryan stood by the sideline, clipboard in hand, his eyes scanning every movement on the court like a seasoned general surveying a battlefield. The first game of the season had been a win, but Ryan wasn't satisfied with just victories. He wanted evolution.
"Jordan, you're leading the break, not racing it," Ryan called out. "Control the tempo. Everyone else—spacing! Tighten up!"
Jordan nodded, slowing down slightly as he guided the second unit through a fast break drill. He was raw—athletic, driven, and full of heart—but sometimes too eager. Ryan knew that molding him would take patience and precision.
They ran through transition drills for twenty minutes straight, Ryan tweaking positions, pointing out missed reads, correcting footwork.
Then he clapped his hands loudly. "Alright, water break! Five minutes."
The players scattered to the benches, breathing heavy and wiping sweat from their foreheads. Ryan joined Coach Reilly near the scorer's table.
"Looks like they're gelling," Reilly said.
"Slowly. We're still overcommitting on defense and not reading passing lanes well enough, but they're listening. That's the most important part."
Ryan looked back at the group. Jordan was sitting with the other guards, talking through the previous drill. Tyler—another promising freshman—was taking notes in a small, battered notebook he always kept in his bag.
"They respect you," Reilly said. "Not bad for your first real coaching gig."
Ryan smirked. "Still feels like I'm one of them sometimes."
"Good. Don't lose that feeling. But also—don't forget you're in charge."
When the whistle blew again, Ryan stepped forward. "Let's run some half-court offense! First unit—on! Tyler, you're running point. I want to test a new motion set."
They spent the next forty-five minutes drilling a new offensive system Ryan had sketched out after the first game. It was built on versatility, movement, and reading mismatches. Players switched positions constantly—guards posting up, bigs handling the ball at the top of the key. It was messy at first, awkward. Passes missed targets, screens came too late or too early. But Ryan pushed through.
"Again," he said. "This time, Tyler, wait a beat before swinging. And Leo, read the switch—don't force the cut if you've got the mismatch."
They ran it again. And again. By the fifth repetition, the movement started to click. The ball zipped around the perimeter and landed in the hands of their power forward, who nailed the mid-range jumper off a curl screen.
Ryan clapped. "That's what I'm talking about! Do it again. Make it muscle memory."
The last hour of practice was all defense. Ryan led it himself, calling out rotations, stopping drills mid-possession to correct posture and spacing.
"You're not guarding your man," he told Jordan. "You're guarding the space. Think like a chess player, not a sprinter."
They worked on help defense, weak-side rotations, closing out on shooters without fouling. It was grueling, repetitive, and exact.
And Ryan loved every second of it.
By the time practice ended, the players were drenched in sweat and physically drained, but their energy was high. Ryan gathered them at center court.
"We won the first game. Good," he said. "But this—this is where champions are made. In here. Every mistake we fix now is a mistake we won't make in a tournament game. You keep bringing this kind of effort, and I promise you—we'll go far."
They broke out with their team chant, clapping hands and bumping fists. As the players trickled out of the gym, Ryan stayed behind, reviewing his notes and rewriting parts of the playbook based on what he saw.
Ivy walked in quietly, holding two smoothies.
"Thought you might need fuel," she said with a soft smile.
He looked up, exhausted but glowing. "You're the best."
She sat beside him on the bleachers, sipping her own drink. "You looked like a real coach today."
Ryan leaned back against the seat and smiled. "Felt like one too."