Chapter 5 I'm Scoring Right Here

Victor Conner was stressed. His team sucked.

A month into the season. 12 games. Only 5 wins.

The G League flew under the radar, sure. But wins mattered. Even here. Bad record? Maybe the owner pulls the plug.

Only successful, promising teams got NBA affiliations. Why else would the Thunder ignore the Blue, right in their own backyard?

Too weak. Not worth the hassle.

No affiliation? Tiny-market G League teams struggled to survive. Team folds? Everyone's screwed.

As Conner stewed, he saw Link walk in – the guy who got knocked out cold two days ago. Conner met him. Not out of concern. He just didn't want a corpse on his court.

"Link. You could take more time," the bald coach said, checking Link's head.

"I'm good, Coach. Doc cleared me." Link waved it off. He couldn't waste a single chance to be seen. To play. To get to the NBA. To avoid becoming a landscaper, broke again?

Rest? Hell no. He needed intense practice to fill that progress bar.

"You looked bad. Out cold. No contact drills today. Stick to shooting, footwork." Conner wasn't convinced. Link's frame was slight. Brockman could break him on a good day. And he just got out of the hospital.

"I can handle it. I'll tap out if I need to."

"Yeah, Coach! Kid's feelin' great! Gonna surprise you!" Upshaw backed him up. He'd seen Link's fire last night.

"Hahaha! Relax. Three minutes tops, he'll fold!" Brockman's voice cut in, dripping with scorn.

"Enough, Brockman! Keep it clean today! This is basketball, not boxing!" Conner snapped. Tough, but fair. He didn't care about pedigree or skin. Just wins.

America had its racists, sure. Not everyone.

"Point is," Conner turned back, clapping Link's shoulder. "Be careful out there."

G League practices weren't marathon sessions. Not as structured or complex as the NBA. Most guys had side hustles. Basketball alone didn't pay the bills.

Only the NBA hopefuls found time for extra work.

Tactics? Simple. The G League was about showcasing individual talent. Run a few basic sets, that's it. Everyone played for the next contract.

During warm-ups, Link focused on layup lines, syncing with his new body and Old Man Hill's instincts.

In shooting drills, he avoided threes. Others didn't blink – old Link couldn't shoot. Upshaw was puzzled.

"Why no threes, man?" Upshaw sidled up.

Link flashed a sly, almost predatory grin. "Not yet, Zeke."

Finally, after warm-ups and individual work, Conner's whistle cut the air. Players gathered.

Brockman grinned. Beating up on Link was one of his few pleasures left. Getting stomped in the NBA, then stomping in the G League? It felt good.

Link didn't flinch. He met Brockman's glare and smiled back. The old Link lacked confidence, couldn't hold Brockman's menacing stare.

Today? He stared. He smiled. Mockingly.

"Stupid chink. See how long you keep smilin'," Brockman muttered, fists clenching. He wouldn't mind another "accident."

"First scrimmage! Keep it clean! Find your rhythm! Game tomorrow! Regular groups! Go! Show me something!" Conner barked.

Players split into teams. Conner mixed starters and bench. In the G League, roles shifted constantly. An NBA assignee showed up? You got benched. Someone outplayed you? Benched.

No guaranteed spots. The competition here? Often fiercer than the NBA.

Link and Upshaw were paired – SG and SF. Brockman was on the other team. Also SF.

College Brockman was a bruising PF. But 6'7" was too small for PF in the NBA. At SF? Too slow. Couldn't shoot. Four years of college? One made three. He bullied his way inside. Shooting? What's that?

That "tweener" limbo doomed him in the NBA. Down here, he was trying to reinvent himself as a SF. Hence, he usually guarded Link.

No jump ball. Link's team inbounded.

The point guard brought it up, looked first for Upshaw. Upshaw averaged 9.8 ppg this season, but shot 38.6% from three. The Blue's most reliable sniper.

Meanwhile, Link hunted space behind the arc. That's why he held back earlier.

"Big dummy," Link grunted, jostling with Brockman. He pointed to a spot beyond the three-point line. "I'm scoring right there."

"Hahaha! Who you think you are? Larry Bird? Go ahead! Won't even guard you!" Brockman nearly doubled over laughing. Link's shooting? A joke.

Seeing Brockman sag off, Link gave a subtle shove and darted to the spot.

Brockman didn't chase. He wanted the show.

Upshaw saw it. He knew. He whipped the pass.

"Surprise 'em, Link!" Upshaw thought as the ball left his hands.

Link caught it at the spot. Faced the basket. Jumped. Shot. Released.

One fluid motion. Conner's eyes widened.

Simple shot. Textbook form. Looked like a ten-year vet, not a raw prospect.

And... he shot a three? Old Link never did that!

"Link, you dumb-" Conner started to yell, cut off by the swish.

"-Nice shot! Keep it up!" Conner choked back the curse.

Nothing but net. Three points.

Link pointed at his feet, locking eyes with the stunned Brockman.

"Told you. Scoring right here."

Trash talk delivered, Link backpedaled, bumping fists with Upshaw.

Crushing an opponent? Damn, that felt good.