Chapter 4 Teammates Nah.

The Oklahoma City Blue. Just another faceless squad in the NBA G League.

No trophies. No memorable players. Hell, the franchise was barely two years old.

In '05, the Asheville Altitude moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma, becoming the Tulsa 66ers. Two years ago, they moved again – from Tulsa (OK's second city) to Oklahoma City (the big one) – reborn as the Blue.

The move was a desperate plea: Notice us, Thunder! Make us your affiliate!

Yep. The Blue had no NBA parent. No sugar daddy. How long could a small-market G League team last without one?

And because they weren't affiliated, Blue players had to shine brighter to catch an NBA scout's eye.

Everyone left here? They were grinding for the NBA dream.

The next morning, Link heard a car horn blaring below his third-floor apartment. He leaned out the window. Zeke Upshaw's beat-up Chevy idled below.

They'd agreed to carpool to practice. Upshaw was always reliable.

Link took a deep breath. His first real pro practice. He had the memories, sure, but they weren't his. Nerves buzzed under his skin.

Then he remembered last night on the court. The smooth jumper. The control. If he really had Grant Hill's skills – even the old man version – the G League should be manageable.

Hill averaged double figures in the NBA for Phoenix. An NBA double-digit scorer? Should handle the minors.

Link clenched his fist. He had to seize this. Land an NBA contract this season!

"I didn't sleep a wink last night," Upshaw announced as Link slid into the passenger seat.

"Why?"

"You freaked me out, man! Since when you shoot like that? And your body... looks the same, but... stronger?" Upshaw was still processing Link's transformation.

After the threes, Link had hit mid-range shots. Then they played one-on-one. Link's positioning was savvier, his defense tougher. Upshaw, who used to bully Link physically, got tossed around. Link won 10-2. The two points Upshaw scored? Pure charity.

"Eh, I was hyped. You were just warmin' up. Coach ain't happy with me lately. Gotta bring it, you know?" Link shrugged.

"True. Last game, two turnovers the second you checked in. Practice hasn't been great either. Coach ain't a bad guy, but your play... gotta step up today, Link. Hope you bring that same juice."

"I will. Got the best practice partner around." Link bumped fists with Upshaw. He was getting used to this unlikely friendship.

Ten minutes later, they pulled up to their practice facility and home court: the Antioch Arena.

Same city as the Thunder, but no affiliation meant no sharing the Chesapeake Energy Arena. The Antioch was a remodeled relic, holding maybe 12,000. Nowhere near NBA glitz, but for Link, stepping into a pro arena for the first time? It felt huge.

"Yo Zeke! Rough night? Bags under your eyes!"

"Zeke! Rollin' with Link?"

"Mornin' Zeke! Feel good?"

Inside, players nodded greetings. Link scanned the gym – a forest of athletic freaks. Guys who'd be stars anywhere else. Stuck here, scraping by. It hammered home just how insane NBA talent was.

Link nodded back. The old Link was quiet, kept to himself. Didn't make enemies. His skin color hadn't caused open hostility, but he wasn't exactly popular either.

Only the irrepressibly friendly Upshaw had stuck by him.

Not everyone was welcoming. As they neared the locker room, a thick-necked, buzz-cut white dude stepped out. Mean mug, zero "gentle giant" vibe. He smirked at Link.

"Chink Lin! Back already? Head okay? Ha! Wasn't my fault you fell. You're just weak." Chink. The word hung heavy. It wasn't just "weakling." It was loaded, ugly. Like dropping the N-bomb.

"Knock it off, Jon! He's our teammate!" Upshaw shoved the guy, stepping between them.

"Ha! Fine, fine. Won't bother him." The guy, Jon Brockman, spread his hands. "But on the court? I gotta bother him." He strutted towards the court.

Jon Brockman. 38th pick in '09 by Portland, traded to Sacramento. Former Washington Huskies star. A 6'7" "polar bear" who played the 3 and 4. Agile for his size, relentless in the paint. Roared, wrestled, attacked the rim. No soft white boy.

He played 52 games for the Kings last season: 2.8 ppg, 4.1 rpg. Spent the rest in the G League.

This season? Traded to Milwaukee. Fifteen games: 2.2 ppg, 2.9 rpg. Embarrassing. Down to the G League again. Teammates with Link.

In the G League, "teammate" is a loose term. Especially for guys playing the same position. Everyone's fighting for the same NBA crumbs. Teammates? More like competitors.

That's why Brockman despised Link. Crushing the Asian forward in practice secured his starting spot. The starting spot meant NBA scouts might look his way.

Two days ago, Link had been chasing Brockman on D. Brockman gave a subtle shove mid-air. Link landed hard. Lights out.

"Don't sweat him," Upshaw muttered in the locker room. "That cracker always thinks he's top shit. Don't let him get in your head. Show out today."

These "civilized" types looked down on people of color, yet often acted worse than anyone.

"Yeah, screw that idiot," Link waved it off. He wasn't some hothead itching for a fight. That was comic book stuff.

Upshaw stared. The old Link never cursed. Always polite. Since the hospital... he was different.

"Right," Link pulled on his jersey. "But I ain't lettin' him push me around either. Like you said. Focus. Then make him eat it."

Link was from 2019. He'd never heard of Jon Brockman. Meaning the guy never made a dent in the NBA.

An unknown scrub trying to mess with Grant Hill? It wasn't arrogance. Link knew he could wreck him.

What Brockman did to the old Link? Water under the bridge. Mess with this Link? No damn way.