Part One: Building the Foundation
The practice gym was quieter than usual. The starters had been given a lighter load today — it was the bench players' turn to shine.
Ryan stood in the middle of the court, bouncing a ball gently as five players formed a semi-circle around him, sweat already forming on their brows.
"Alright," Ryan said, voice steady, "you want more minutes? It starts here. Right now."
Zay, Tony, Marcus, Darnell, and Wes — all second-stringers, all hungry. They listened closely.
"We're gonna run high-intensity drills," Ryan said. "Footwork, court vision, spacing, off-ball movement. I don't care if you score twenty in a scrimmage — if you're lost without the ball, you won't play."
They nodded, and the drills began.
Ryan pushed them. He corrected stances, demanded quicker rotations, explained angles and why timing a cut one second late could ruin an entire possession. He was tough — but fair.
"Zay, you're drifting too wide on the curl. You're giving the defender time to recover. Come tighter — trust your teammate to screen properly."
They ran the play again. Cleaner. Smoother.
"Better," Ryan said. "But again."
After nearly two hours, the players were gasping, muscles tight and burning. But something had changed. Their movements were sharper. They were thinking — reacting. Playing the game the right way.
Ryan brought them in for a final huddle. "Today was a start. You keep working like this? You'll force Coach to notice you. Not because I say so — but because your game will speak for itself."
The guys nodded, eyes burning with belief.
Ryan smiled.
"Alright. Hydrate. Stretch. Go home."
As they walked off, Tony lingered. "Coach Ryan… thanks, man. No one's ever worked with us like that before."
Ryan clapped his shoulder. "You earned it. Now keep earning it."
Part Two: A Breath of Something Real
The evening sky above Los Angeles turned from orange to lavender as Ryan sat across from Ivy at a cozy coffee shop tucked into a quiet street near campus. Edison bulbs glowed overhead, soft music hummed in the background, and the smell of espresso lingered in the air.
Ivy sipped her drink, watching him with a look that made Ryan feel seen — like she was looking past his exterior and into something deeper.
"You looked in your zone today," she said. "With the bench players."
Ryan nodded. "They work hard. Just need someone to believe in them."
She smiled. "Kind of like someone once believed in you?"
He paused, eyes drifting to the window. "Yeah... exactly."
A quiet moment passed.
Ivy leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You don't talk much about where you came from. Rosehill, right?"
Ryan exhaled, swirling the drink in his hand. "Yeah. Small town. Quiet. Basketball meant everything."
"And?"
He hesitated, then met her gaze.
"I wasn't supposed to play anymore," he said. "After an accident, doctors said I'd never walk again."
Her expression softened. "Ryan…"
He smiled faintly. "I was angry for a long time. Cold. I pushed people away — even the ones who stayed. But… somehow, that town… the people in it… they didn't give up on me. They helped me stand again. Literally."
Ivy's eyes glistened. "That's incredible."
"I used to think basketball was all about being the best player," he said. "Now I know it's about something more. Teaching. Building something. Giving others a shot I almost lost."
She reached across the table, fingers brushing his.
"I'm glad you're here," she said softly. "And not just at UCLA."
Ryan chuckled, holding her gaze. "Me too."
In the quiet of that LA evening, under the warm lights and heartbeats shared across the table, something unspoken settled between them — gentle, real, and just beginning.