The Draft Night afterglow hadn't faded when social media erupted with opinions. Markus sat in his hotel room scrolling through Twitter, watching strangers dissect his basketball future with the casual certainty of armchair experts.
@JackPerullo: Spurs getting Wemby at #1 obviously the headline, but that Reinhart kid at 44 might be the sleeper pick of this draft. His tourney tape is ridiculous. #NBAdraft #GoSpursGo
@HoopsCentral: Sacramento calling Reinhart before their pick at 27 then taking Lively instead is COLD. Wonder what happened in those last minutes.
@NBAColdTakes: Reinhart going 44th after what he did to Duke is criminal. "Too small" "Not athletic enough" then why couldn't lottery guards stay in front of him? đ€ #NBAdraft
@JumpmanJohnny: Guys like Reinhart are why the combine is garbage. Dude tested as an "average athlete" then proceeded to cook every 5-star guard he faced in March Madness.
@LegitNBASource: Word is Sacramento told Reinhart they were taking him at 27 then switched last minute when Lively fell. Business is cold. Spurs wins again.
@TheHoopAnalyst: Spurs giving Reinhart guaranteed money as a mid-second rounder? Unheard of. Pop must see something truly special. Still, massive leap from Davidson to NBA level.
@RealHoopTalk: Wembanyama is generational but don't sleep on Reinhart. Kid played like a 5-star recruit in March. Basketball IQ off the charts.
@NBADraftExpert: Front office source tells me Spurs had Reinhart rated much higher than 44. Were targeting him with earlier pick before he fell.
Markus closed the app, tossing his phone onto the hotel bed. The online chatter felt distant, disconnected from the reality of what had just happened to his life. Being drafted wasn't just about basketballâit was about transformation. Financial security. Options his family had never had.
In the bathroom mirror, the same face stared back at himâbrown eyes slightly bloodshot from lack of sleep, close-cropped hair, the faint scar above his right eyebrow from a childhood fall. Physically unchanged, yet everything around him had shifted.
NBA player Markus Reinhart.
The thought felt foreign, like trying on someone else's identity. He splashed cold water on his face. He had calls to make, plans to arrange, a life to reorganize around San Antonio, Texasâa city he'd barely heard of growing up in Detroit.
Marcus had already texted seventeen times, most messages in all caps, oscillating between celebration and advice. Lisa had called once, her voice trembling with emotion she rarely displayed. Hiroshi had sent a single text with typical brevity: The journey continues.
His phone vibrated againâRyan Kessler, the agent assigned to him by the sports management firm Marcus had connected him with.
"Markus! Congratulations, man! Historic night!" Ryan's voice carried the practiced enthusiasm of someone who made similar calls to different athletes each year. "We need to schedule a call with the Spurs front office tomorrow. Their financial team wants to go over contract details."
"Sounds good," Markus replied, his mind already racing ahead to practical considerations. "I need to find a place in San Antonio. And arrange for my mother to relocate."
"We have people for that," Ryan assured him. "Real estate specialists who work with athletes, relocation services, everything. That's why you signed with us."
The "us" didn't escape Markus's notice. Ryan worked for Alliance Sports Management, a mid-sized agency that handled several dozen NBA players. Markus was just another client to them, albeit a newly signed one.
"What exactly does the contract look like?" Markus asked, grounding himself in specifics.
"You got a great deal for a second-rounder," Ryan replied, professional pride evident. "Two years, $3.2 million, with a team option for a third year. Best part? It's fully guaranteed, which is rare for picks outside the first round. The Spurs really value you."
The number hung in the air. $3.2 million. More money than his entire extended family had earned in their lifetimes.
"When's the first payment?" The question sounded mercenary, but practicality had been survival for too long to abandon now.
"Signing bonus processes next weekâabout $100K after taxes. Then your salary pays out biweekly during the season, around $66K per check before deductions." Ryan paused. "Markus, you've got to understandâthis isn't generational wealth yet. Not by NBA standards. We need to be strategic."
"I understand," Markus said, though his mind was still processing the numbers. $66,000 every two weeks. His mother had raised him on less than that per year.
"I want to meet with you in person," Ryan continued. "I'm flying to San Antonio next week. We'll go through everythingâfinancial advisors, investment strategies, housing options. This is just the beginning."
After ending the call, Markus stood at the hotel window overlooking New York City, the draft night venue still being dismantled twenty floors below. Tomorrow he'd fly to San Antonio for his introductory press conference. Next week he'd begin looking for a permanent residence. His life was moving at dizzying speed.
His phone chirped with Aisha's distinctive text tone.
So proud of you. Everyone on campus was watching. You looked good in that Spurs cap.
He smiled, typing back: When can you visit? I'll have a place soon.
After my July lab session ends. Mom wants to come too. Meet your mom. That okay?
Another layer of realityâtheir relationship now extending beyond Davidson's campus, beyond their private bubble, into family connections and public acknowledgment.
More than okay, he responded. Tell her San Antonio has great food.
Setting the phone down, Markus dropped to the floor and began his evening meditation routine, the one constant in a world rapidly shifting around him. Eyes closed, breath controlled, he centered himself in the sensation of the hotel carpet beneath his palms, the air conditioning's soft hum, his own heartbeat.
â
The San Antonio International Airport greeted Markus with a wave of heat that made Detroit summers feel temperate by comparison. A Spurs staff member waited at baggage claim holding a sign with his nameâanother small reminder of his new status.
"Welcome to San Antonio, Mr. Reinhart," the young man said, taking Markus's duffel bag. "I'm Carlos, from team operations. We have temporary accommodations set up for you until you find a permanent residence."
"Thank you," Markus replied, following Carlos to a waiting SUV. "And my mother arrives tomorrow?"
"Yes, sir. We have her flight information. A car will pick her up and bring her to your apartment. Mr. Tanaka arrives the following day, correct?"
"That's right."
Carlos navigated San Antonio's highways with practiced ease, pointing out landmarks as they passed. "River Walk is over thereâtourist area, but good restaurants. Medical Center is that way. Most players live north, in Shavano Park or The Dominion."
Markus absorbed the geography of his new home, mapping mental coordinates, establishing bearings. The landscape struck him as alien after Detroit's industrial edges and Davidson's manicured campusâpalm trees swaying in the breeze, Spanish-influenced architecture, rolling hills in the distance.
The temporary apartment, located in a luxury complex near the practice facility, left Markus momentarily speechless. Three bedrooms, three bathrooms, floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views, a kitchen with gleaming stainless steel appliances, smart home features controlled by wall panels.
"This is... just temporary?" he finally managed, setting his bag down on imported tile flooring.
"Team keeps several units for new players, staff, and visitors," Carlos explained, handing over a key card. "Fully furnished. Housekeeping twice weekly. Concierge downstairs can help with anything you need. Grocery delivery, restaurant recommendations, whatever."
After Carlos departed, Markus stood alone in the vast living room, silence pressing around him like a physical presence. This was his reality nowâspaces designed for the wealthy, services catering to his needs, strangers knowing his name and anticipating his arrival.
He wandered from room to room, running his fingers over surfaces that cost more than everything he'd owned previously. The master bedroom featured a California king bed and an ensuite bathroom with a rainfall shower and soaking tub. The second bedroom had been set up as an office. The third remained prepared for guests.
Mom will love this view, he thought, staring out at the Texas Hill Country from the living room window. They'd spent his childhood in apartments where windows faced brick walls or parking lots, where "natural light" was a luxury rather than an expectation.
His phone buzzedâa text from Marcus: Bro did you see Twitter? They're already making your highlight reels from Davidson. Told you second round was sleeping on you.
Markus opened Twitter again, finding his name trending in basketball circles. Someone had compiled his tournament performances into a five-minute video that had gone viral overnight.
@TheBasketballFilm: This Markus Reinhart breakdown is CRAZY. Elite spatial awareness. If he'd played at Duke instead of Davidson he'd have been lottery.
@SuperSonicSoul: Unpopular opinion: Markus Reinhart might be the best pure point guard in this draft. Not the most athletic but best at actual point guard skills.
@BBallUniverse: Watching Reinhart at Davidson was weird. First half of season: good but unspectacular. Conference tournament: suddenly looking like Larry Bird 2.0. What changed?
@HoopsReference: Fun fact: Markus Reinhart had the highest Pure Point Rating in college basketball last season by a significant margin. Elite decision-maker.
The online dissection of his game continued across hundreds of tweets, analysts and fans alike trying to make sense of how a relatively unknown Davidson point guard had suddenly emerged as a draft steal. None knew about Hiroshi's teachings, about the deliberate restraint.
His phone rangâAisha.
"NBA star," she greeted him, her voice a welcome anchor to something real amidst the surrealism.
"Hardly," he replied, smiling despite himself. "Just the 44th pick."
"In a house that probably costs more than my entire educational journey."
"Temporary apartment," he corrected. "And yeah, it's ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows, marble countertops, smart everything."
"Take a video tour for me later?" she asked. "Mom wants to see where we'll be staying when we visit."
"Of course."
They talked for nearly an hourâher summer research, his upcoming schedule, the adjustments they'd both need to make for long-distance relationship. Her voice grounded him, pulled him back from the strange detachment that had been growing since draft night.
"What are you actually feeling right now?" she finally asked, the psychology student in her picking up on his carefully controlled tone. "Not what you're supposed to feel. Not what you're telling yourself to feel. The real thing."
Markus closed his eyes, leaning back into an absurdly comfortable couch that probably cost more than his mother's car. "Disoriented," he admitted. "Like I'm walking through someone else's life. Everyone's congratulating me for reaching a destination, but it feels like I've just started a journey I don't fully understand."
"That's because you have," she said softly. "Most people would be googling themselves constantly, checking their bank accounts, shopping online for things they couldn't afford before."
"Is that what I should be doing?"
Her laugh carried through the connection. "No, it's what makes you different. Why I..." she hesitated briefly, "...why I care about you so much. But it's okay to acknowledge that this is weird and overwhelming."
After they disconnected, Markus stood at the window watching the Texas sunset paint the sky in colors he'd never seen in Detroitâvibrant oranges and pinks streaking across an endless horizon.
This was weird. This was overwhelming. This was just the beginning.
â
"Mom," Markus called, stepping into the temporary apartment's foyer. "I'm back."
Lisa Reinhart emerged from the guest bedroom, still looking slightly out of place in the luxury surroundings despite having arrived three days earlier. At forty-one, she carried herself with the dignified fatigue of someone who had worked twice as hard for half the recognition throughout her life.
"How was the meeting with the real estate agent?" she asked, scanning his expression for clues.
"Found a place," Markus replied, dropping into a chair at the dining table. "Shavano Park. Four bedrooms, four bathrooms, home gym already set up, swimming pool, security system. We can move in next week."
"We," Lisa repeated, testing the word. "You're sure about this? About me moving permanently?"
"Absolutely. There's plenty of space. And I want you there." Markus looked up at the woman who had sacrificed everything for himâwho had worked double and sometimes triple shifts, who had never missed his games despite exhaustion that carved permanent lines around her eyes.
"What about my job? My life in Detroit?"
"Mom," Markus said gently, "you've been working since you were sixteen. Multiple jobs for as long as I can remember. You can retire. Or find something here that you enjoy, not just what pays the bills."
She sat across from him, her expression complex. "I gave notice at both jobs yesterday," she admitted. "Feels strange. Like I'm abandoning a part of myself."
"You're not abandoning anything. You're just starting a new chapter."
A small smile crept across her features. "When did you get so wise?"
"Had a good teacher," he replied, reaching across to squeeze her hand.
The moment was interrupted by Hiroshi entering from the balcony where he'd been meditating. Though he'd arrived only yesterday, he had adapted to the space with characteristic ease, claiming a corner of the living room for his meditation mat and moving through the apartment with the same centered presence he maintained everywhere.
"House is secured?" he asked, pouring himself green tea from the kettle he'd brought from Detroit.
"Yes. Closing the rental agreement tomorrow. We move in next week."
Hiroshi nodded approvingly. "Good location for training?"
"Home gym already set up. And fifteen minutes from the practice facility."
"Swimming pool?"
"Yes. And space for the training mats you wanted."
Another nod. "Vehicle?"
"Tomorrow," Markus replied. "The financial advisor recommended something practical but reliable. Not flashy."
Hiroshi's lip quirked in what might have been a smile. "Wise advice."
Markus's phone buzzedâRyan Kessler again. The agent had arrived in San Antonio yesterday and had already scheduled meetings with financial advisors, Spurs management, and potential endorsement partners.
"Need to take this," Markus said, stepping onto the balcony for privacy.
"Markus! Great news," Ryan began without preamble. "Meeting with the money guys went well. They're setting up your direct deposit today. First payment hits next weekâsigning bonus plus first salary installment."
"Good," Markus replied, watching a hawk circle lazily in the distance. "I'm signing the rental agreement tomorrow. Four bedrooms in Shavano Park."
"Perfect area. Close to the facility, good security, other players nearby." Ryan paused. "Listen, there's something else we need to discuss. In person, preferably. Can we grab dinner tonight?"
"Sure. What's it about?"
"Career strategy. Long-term planning." Ryan's tone shifted slightly. "And some changes happening at Alliance that might affect you."
After setting a time and place, Markus returned inside to find his mother and Hiroshi in rare synchronized actionâunpacking groceries together, moving around the kitchen with unexpected coordination.
"Mom's teaching Hiroshi how to make her famous gumbo," Markus observed, leaning against the counter.
"Man cannot live on rice and fish alone," Lisa replied, shooting a teasing glance at Hiroshi, who merely raised an eyebrow in response.
"I have dinner with Ryan tonight," Markus said. "Agent stuff."
Hiroshi's attention sharpened. "Business matters requiring evening discussions often involve significant changes."
"That's what I'm thinking too."
Later, at an upscale steakhouse selected by Ryan, Markus listened carefully as his agent laid out a situation more complex than he'd anticipated.
"I'm leaving Alliance Sports next month," Ryan explained, cutting into a perfectly cooked ribeye. "Starting my own boutique agency."
The implications hung clearly in the air between them.
"Marcus said I should stay with the big agency if you left," Markus noted. "That they'd assign someone new."
Ryan nodded. "That's the safe play. Alliance has the connections, the infrastructure, the proven track record." He leaned forward. "But I believe in you, Markus. I think you're going to outperform everyone's expectations except your own. I'd like to represent you independently, build my new business with clients like you as the foundation."
Markus studied him, reaching for the instinctual read of intentions Hiroshi had taught him to trust. Ryan's expression held genuine conviction beneath the professional veneer.
"Higher risk, higher reward," Markus said finally.
"For both of us," Ryan acknowledged. "But from what I've seen, you're not someone who takes conventional paths. I'm offering a partnership with the same philosophy."
"What would change, practically speaking?"
"More personal attention. Direct access to me at all times, not filtered through assistants or junior agents. Customized approach to your career specifically, not a cookie-cutter development plan." Ryan set his fork down. "Potentially fewer immediate corporate sponsorship opportunities, but more authentic ones that actually align with who you are."
Markus nodded slowly, processing. "Let me think about it overnight."
"Of course. Just one thing to considerâ" Ryan hesitated. "If you stay with Alliance, your cousin Marcus gets a finder's fee and referral percentages. If you come with me, that arrangement would need renegotiation."
The statement landed with calculated precision. Marcus had insisted on certain financial arrangements when connecting Markus with Allianceâarrangements that benefited Marcus himself. It wasn't unreasonable; connections and introductions were valuable in the sports world. But it added another layer to consider.
On the drive back to the apartment, Markus rolled the decision through his mind, examining it from multiple angles like a basketball problem to solve. By the time he arrived, the answer had crystallized.
Hiroshi sat alone on the balcony, seemingly impervious to the Texas heat as he stared out at the night skyline.
"My agent is leaving his agency," Markus said without preamble. "Wants me to join him at his new boutique firm. Marcus won't like it."
"And what do you think?" Hiroshi asked, not turning from his contemplation of the city lights.
"I think Ryan sees my actual value, not just my commission potential."
"Rarer than you might imagine in business relationships," Hiroshi observed.
"If I leave Alliance, Marcus loses his referral percentages."
"Your cousin sees the conventional path because it is what he knows," Hiroshi replied, finally turning to face Markus. "And because it benefits him financially. But your obligation is to your own journey, not to his expectations."
Markus nodded, decision solidifying. "I'll call Ryan tomorrow."
"Now," Hiroshi said, rising from his seated position with fluid grace despite his age, "we should discuss your training schedule. Summer league approaches. Your real introduction to the NBA begins there."