Chapter 45: The Ones Who Stay

By Thursday, the sweat had worked its way into every seam of the gym.

The overhead fans pushed the stale air in slow circles, and the noise had settled into a familiar hum: the thump of sneakers, the slap of a palm on hardwood, the steady, low conversation of men who no longer needed every silence filled.

Practice had gone an hour longer than the sheet said it would.

Del Harris stood on the far sideline, stopwatch slung from his neck like a piece of jewelry, arms crossed so tightly his shirt creased at both biceps.

He called no timeouts, only occasional corrections: never longer than the sentence it took to say, “Run it again, but don’t let the help-side cheat.” The drill was a controlled five-on-five, starters against the second unit and the last three rookies.

The ball was live, but every possession started from the same set.

Harris would make an adjustment, give them a few trips to learn it, then change something else.

Kobe’s shirt was a darker purple than when he’d put it on.

The sweat bled into the waistband of his shorts and drew a cold band across the small of his back.

He’d stopped listening to his heartbeat somewhere in the second half; the important thing now was the sequence, the timing, the small alignments that made the difference between a shot and a turnover.

On the next trip down, Fisher ran the top, barking “horns” in a voice he’d stopped pretending to raise above the background.

He slid the ball to Kobe on the wing, who caught and looked, but Eddie was already slashing from the weak side, clearing the paint.

The entry wasn’t for Kobe anyway.

Shaq had his defender sealed deep on the block.

Kobe skipped the ball in.

Shaq caught it, then paused, holding the ball high and waiting for the double that was now, by rule, always coming.

Instead of fighting for space or calling for help, Kobe cut through the paint, taking his man with him, then planted and reversed direction.

His defender turned his head toward Shaq.

That was enough.

Shaq waited for the defender’s eyes to drop, then fired a one-handed pass behind his back.

Kobe caught it low, under the rim, and finished the layup before anyone else could rotate over.

Kobe was halfway back on defense.

Shaq waited until Kobe was halfway back on defense.

“Okay, Kobe.

I see you.” Kobe glanced over his shoulder.

“For what?” “You finally learned where to be.” Kobe turned and kept jogging backward.

“Pretty sure you finally learned where to pass.” Shaq stared at him for a beat.

“Oh, so that’s how we doing this?” Fisher brought the ball across half court.

“He got you there.” Shaq pointed at him.

“Fish, stay outta grown folks’ business.” Fisher didn’t miss a dribble.

“Then stop arguing with a teenager.” Kobe’s mouth twitched.

Shaq looked between them.

“Man, I already don’t like this backcourt.” Kobe didn’t bother arguing more and was already moving toward the wing.

On the next possession, the ball cycled to Bruce in the corner.

He pump-faked, sent his man flying, then took a dribble toward the elbow, but the defense collapsed with perfect timing, leaving the only option a tough skip to the opposite wing.

Fisher was waiting for it, hands ready, but Ben’s arm shot out just long enough to tip the ball out of bounds.

Ben didn’t celebrate.

He just jogged back, eyes on the rotation, waiting for Harris to call the next reset.

On the restart, Fisher inbounded to Shaq at the high post.

Shaq faced up, but instead of backing down, he handed off to Kobe curling around.

The screen clipped Eddie’s hip; Kobe took the ball and squared, but the shot was contested.

He missed, and the rebound caromed long, off the glass and into a tangle at the free-throw line.

Ben fought through the bodies, ripped the rebound down with both hands, and pivoted out before anyone could tie him up.

He outlet-passed to Fisher, then took off running, already ten feet ahead of his own man.

Kobe sprinted back and cut off the lane, forcing Fisher to pull the ball out.

Ben arrived a second later, planted himself on Bruce’s defender, and Bruce curled around him for a clean look.

The shot missed.

Harris didn’t blow the whistle.

That was usually a good sign.

Eddie, trailing the play, grabbed the rebound and immediately yelled, “Switch!” Fisher nodded, found his new man, and the possession continued with barely a hitch.

On the next trip, Kobe caught the ball at the arc, saw the defense sag, and fired.

The shot caught the back rim.

He was already turning when Eddie secured the rebound, pointing Fisher toward the switch as they went the other way.

For six more possessions, the pattern repeated.

The rotations got tighter.

The calls got shorter.

By the last one, Fisher only had to point before Bruce switched with him.

Harris’s whistle cut through the gym.

“That’s a wrap.” The release was immediate.

Everyone’s first move was for the water, and the bench filled in a flash.

Bottles unscrewed.

Towels slapped against faces and shoulders.

Nobody said much for the first few seconds because most of them were too busy breathing.

Nick dropped onto the bench beside Kobe and emptied half a bottle of water without stopping.

“We done, or Harris waiting for somebody to pass out?” Kobe looked at him.

“Thought that was you ten minutes ago.” Nick lowered the bottle.

“That was strategic.” As the others began drifting toward the locker room, Harris called out from behind them.

“Bryant.

Fisher.

Bowen.

Wallace.

Knight.

Stay.” Kobe stopped with the towel still around his neck.

Fisher looked toward Harris, then down at the water bottle in his hand.

Bruce turned around without expression.

Knight exhaled through his nose.

Ben was already walking back.

The others kept moving toward the locker room.

Shaq slowed near the doors when he heard the names, looked back once, then disappeared through with the rest of them.

Kobe grabbed his bottle and headed toward the bench.

Fisher fell in beside him.

“You think we’re running?” Kobe looked at Harris.

“Probably.” Fisher sighed.

“Knew I should’ve left faster.” .

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The first group out the door moved fast, a few of them already peeling away wrist tape and stretching their legs as they headed toward the locker room.

Nick passed Kobe, paused long enough to put a hand on his shoulder, and said, “Enjoy the after-party.” He didn’t wait for a comeback.

He just kept moving.

Shaq got halfway across the gym before turning to walk backward.

“I’ll save you some hot water.” “Appreciate it.” Shaq turned around and followed the others through the double doors.

Harris let the five of them stand there for another moment before pointing toward the bench.

“Sit.” They sat.

Fisher stretched one leg out in front of him and worked his ankle back and forth.

Knight leaned forward and tightened one shoe, then the other.

Bruce rested his forearms against his thighs.

Ben stayed upright at the end of the bench, breathing through his nose.

Kobe glanced toward the baseline.

Nothing.

No one was moving the basketball rack.

Nobody was setting anything up.

Rambis had joined Harris near the sideline with a clipboard tucked against his chest.

Kobe looked over at Fisher.

Fisher looked back.

Maybe they weren’t running after all.

Harris started with preseason.

The staff would be moving pieces around from game to game, changing combinations, putting players beside people they hadn’t practiced much with, then seeing what survived once the ball went live.

Nothing was settled.

A player could get twenty minutes one night and six the next.

He could run with the starters on Tuesday and spend Thursday waiting for his name to be called.

“You’re gonna see the rotations change,” Harris said.

“Don’t make a story out of every change.

Sometimes it’s rest.

Sometimes it’s matchups.

Sometimes I want to see what you look like with four different guys around you.” His eyes moved across the five of them.

“Some of you will play with the vets.

Some of you will be asked to carry a younger group.

You might get twelve minutes.

You might get three.” He paused.

“I don’t care what you do with the number.

I care what you do with the minutes.” Nobody moved.

“If I put you in for three minutes and you know where you’re supposed to be, make the right rotation, take the right shot, that tells me something.” Harris shifted his weight.

“If I give you twenty and spend all twenty wondering whether I can trust you, that tells me something too.” Kobe sat with his elbows on his knees and listened.

There it was.

No spot in the rotation.

No promise that today’s practice bought anything tomorrow.

Harris wasn’t offering security.

He was offering chances.

Small ones, maybe.

But Kobe had built an entire career out of making people regret giving him even one.

“Any questions?” Harris looked across the five of them.

“You’re going to get opportunities.

What you do with them decides whether you get another one.” He paused.

“Give me a reason to keep looking at you to get into the game.” That was it.

Fisher gave a small nod.

Knight reached down and loosened the shoe he had just tightened.

Bruce pushed himself upright.

Ben stood.

Harris motioned toward the doors.

“Go and shower up.” Knight was first off the bench.

Bruce followed him, with Ben a few steps behind.

Kobe stood and grabbed his bottle before heading after them.

They were halfway across the gym when Fisher fell into step beside him.

“I really thought we were gonna run.” Kobe looked over.

“You sound disappointed.” “Better than standing there wondering if you’re getting cut.” Up ahead, Ben said, “I still might be,” and didn’t look back.

Fisher didn’t answer.

Kobe could have.

He didn’t.

They followed Ben into the tunnel.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The locker room was a cloud of steam, cologne, and chatter by the time Kobe walked in.

The first wave of players was already half-changed, and somebody had commandeered the boombox for slow jam duty.

Fisher had already disappeared; Shaq was holding court from the trainer’s table, retelling a story about Vegas with a punchline that required both hands and half the room’s attention span.

Kobe went straight for his cubby, grabbed a fresh towel, and reached down for his water bottle.

Nothing.

He looked under the bench.

Still nothing.

Then he remembered leaving it courtside.

He considered letting it go.

It was a water bottle.

There would be another one tomorrow.

Kobe stared at the empty space beneath his locker for another second, then turned around.

Some habits were harder to leave alone than others.

He doubled back through the hallway, stepped around a laundry cart coming the opposite direction, and pushed through the gym’s side door.

The place felt different without twenty bodies in it.

Most of the overhead lights were still on, but the noise had disappeared.

No whistles.

No shoes cutting across hardwood.

No Shaq yelling from one end of the floor to the other.

Just a basketball.

Bounce.

A pause.

Then the rim.

Kobe looked toward the far basket.

Ben was at the free-throw line.

He had changed.

The purple practice jersey was gone, replaced by a gray T-shirt that had already begun darkening around the collar and down the middle of his back.

Ben bounced the ball twice and shot.

Front rim.

He stepped forward, caught the rebound after one bounce, and walked it back out.

The next one went in.

Ben caught the ball beneath the basket and returned to the line.

Kobe headed toward the bench and found his bottle beside the first chair.

He bent to grab it.

“Been at it a while?” Kobe straightened.

The question hadn’t been for him.

Two men stood farther down the opposite sideline.

Del Harris had his hands in his pockets.

Jerry West stood beside him.

Kobe hadn’t noticed either of them when he came in.

Harris kept his eyes on the court.

“He came back.” Jerry looked over.

“After?” “Showering and changing.” Another free throw hit the rim.

Ben followed it.

Jerry looked back toward him.

“When?” “About ten minutes later.” That was all Harris said.

It was enough.

Ben returned to the line and shot again.

Too strong.

The ball struck the back rim and kicked toward the right side of the lane.

Ben chased it down, caught it before it reached the sideline, and walked it back.

Jerry said nothing.

Neither did Harris.

Kobe twisted the cap onto his bottle but didn’t leave.

He knew Jerry well enough to recognize when something had caught his attention.

Jerry didn’t lean forward or start asking questions.

If anything, he became quieter.

That was what he was doing now.

Ben missed again.

He retrieved it.

The next one went in.

Then another miss.

Same walk back.

Same spot at the line.

No reaction after the makes.

None after the misses.

Kobe looked from Ben to Jerry.

The timing wasn’t lost on him.

Twenty minutes ago, Ben had walked through the tunnel saying he still might get cut.

Now the man with the most influence over that decision, more than almost anyone in the building, was standing fifty feet away watching him work.

Ben had no idea.

At least Kobe didn’t think he did.

Another shot went up.

It hit front rim, bounced against the backboard, and dropped through.

Ben caught it.

“Forty-seven.” Kobe looked over.

Ben had said it quietly to himself.

So that was what he was doing.

He wasn’t just shooting.

He was counting.

The next one missed.

Ben retrieved it, came back, and set his feet.

“Forty-seven.” He shot.

Make.

“Forty-eight.” Jerry stayed where he was.

Ben took the next shot.

It dropped.

“Forty-nine.” From the tunnel came Fisher’s voice.

“Kobe!

You coming, or you moving in?” Kobe looked toward the door, then back at the court.

Ben was setting his feet again.

Jerry was still watching.

“I’ll be right there.” Kobe started toward the side door.

He had nearly reached it when Ben released the next shot.

The ball struck the rim.

Kobe pushed through the door.

It had almost swung closed when Ben’s voice came faintly through the narrowing gap.

“Forty-nine.” Kobe smiled and stepped into the hallway.

The door swung shut behind him.

A second later, the muted thump of the ball reached him through the wall.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Quick update: MAMBA is officially becoming NBA: Rewriting Basketball History The story isn’t changing: just the title.

Hopefully, the new name makes it easier for NBA fans to find the novel and helps us keep growing.

Also…

we’re only at 45 Power Stones.

😭 Y’all gotta step it up!