Chapter 9: Smoke in the Film Room

The projector light flickered against the wall, casting the paused image of a heartbreaking game-losing sequence. An opposing forward stood midair, arm extended, tipping the ball into the basket as the final buzzer sounded. The rebound had bounced right over the outstretched arms of Duke’s five star recruit Kyrie Blackwood, who had failed to box out. The room was cold and tense, not because of the air conditioning but because of the weight of accountability that hung heavy in the air.

Coach Reynolds stood at the front of the film room, silent for a long moment as the frozen frame lingered on the screen behind him. His arms were crossed, remote in one hand, jaw clenched.

“You see this right here,” he finally spoke, voice low but sharp enough to cut glass. “That play lost us the game. Not the three pointers we missed in the second half. Not the missed free throws. This right here. This moment.”

No one responded. The players sat in a tight formation of chairs, most of them staring ahead, afraid to make eye contact. The silence only made the tension worse.

Kyrie Blackwood sat in the second row, legs stretched out, scrolling on his phone. He wore his warmups like armor, headphones dangling around his neck. His face showed no signs of concern.

Coach Reynolds narrowed his eyes.

“Kyrie. Put the phone away.”

Kyrie looked up slowly and gave the coach a lazy half-shrug before sliding the phone into his hoodie pocket.

Coach Reynolds turned back to the screen. “You left your assignment. You drifted. You looked at the ball instead of getting in position. And they scored. That is effort. That is focus. That is accountability.”

Kyrie rolled his eyes just enough for it to be noticed.

Coach Terry, who had been sitting in the corner watching quietly, leaned forward and broke the silence.

“Do you think this is all about you?”

Kyrie turned toward him, eyebrows raised.

“You think we’re calling you out to embarrass you?” Coach Terry continued. “Because I promise you we could save ourselves the breath. But we are calling you out because you are better than this. Or at least you could be.”

Kyrie didn’t say anything.

Coach Reynolds spoke again, stepping closer to the group.

“You walk around here like you are already a top ten pick. But talent without responsibility is just wasted potential. You can jump out the gym, yeah, but can you guard someone for forty minutes? Can you dive for a loose ball? Can you fight for a rebound with the game on the line?”

Kyrie finally looked up, clearly annoyed.

“It was one play. You act like I lost the whole game.”

“One play at this level,” Coach Reynolds snapped back, “is everything. You think teams at the next level are going to let that slide?”

A few heads turned. Jordan Carter, sitting at the end of the row, stayed quiet. He had been the one diving for loose balls in the second half, the one hustling to close out on shooters. He had earned nothing but silence and a seat at the back of the film room. But the tension between him and Kyrie had been building for weeks.

Coach Reynolds turned off the projector. The lights came on. No one moved.

“Six AM practice. No excuses. If you do not want to compete for a spot here, someone else will.”

The players began to file out. Kyrie stood up and grabbed his phone, brushing past Jordan without a word.

Jordan stood last. Coach Reynolds called to him.

“Jordan. Hang back a second.”

Jordan stepped up. The room was nearly empty now, just him and Coach Reynolds.

“I know you are getting frustrated. I see it in your eyes.”

Jordan nodded.

“I don’t get why he gets a pass. I get yelled at for missing one rotation. He jogs back on defense and no one says anything.”

Coach Reynolds placed a hand on Jordan’s shoulder.

“We are not giving him a pass. But people grow at different speeds. He is learning. Slowly. But he is learning. And you are showing me every day what maturity looks like. Stay locked in. Your time is coming.”

Jordan nodded again, quieter this time.

“Alright. I’ll be there at six.”

“Good. And Jordan,” Coach Reynolds added, “don’t change. You are the type of guy who makes this program special.”

Jordan left the room and walked down the hallway, past the trophy case filled with legends. Kyrie was standing at the end of the hall, texting. Their eyes met for a moment.

Neither said a word.

⸻

Chapter 10: Practice Gets Heated

The gym echoed with sneakers squeaking and balls bouncing. The clock read 6:13 AM. Most players looked tired, bodies sore from the week’s grind, but the energy shifted the moment Coach Reynolds clapped his hands.

“Alright. Line it up. We are doing live three on three. Game to seven. Losers run suicides. Let’s see who wants it.”

The first group stepped up. Jordan guarded Kyrie from the jump. Everyone could feel the tension.

The ball was checked at the top of the key. Kyrie sized Jordan up with a quick hesitation move, but Jordan stayed grounded. He forced Kyrie into a contested midrange jumper that clanged off the back rim. Jordan grabbed the rebound and pushed it up the court.

Next possession, Jordan ran a quick pick and roll, rejected the screen, and stopped on a dime for a pull-up jumper.

“Bucket,” he muttered under his breath, jogging back on defense.

Kyrie smirked.

“Alright. You got one.”

The next play, Kyrie caught the ball on the wing, jab-stepped, then powered through Jordan to the rim with a shoulder bump that sent Jordan stumbling. He threw it down with one hand and hung on the rim for a second too long.

“You too small,” Kyrie barked, chest out.

Coach Terry blew the whistle.

“Keep it clean. Play ball.”

The two went back and forth. Every possession felt personal. Jordan ripped Kyrie on a sloppy dribble and finished through contact. Kyrie responded with a stepback three. Trash talk escalated.

Then came the moment.

Jordan set a hard screen on Kyrie. Kyrie ran through it and shoved Jordan in the back after the whistle. Jordan turned and shoved him right back. The gym froze.

Coach Reynolds stormed in between them.

“Enough. On the line. Everyone.”

The team groaned.

“For what?” Kyrie muttered.

“For ego. For pride. For forgetting what the jersey means.”

They ran for twenty minutes. No water. No breaks. Just suicides.

Afterward, the players collapsed on the baseline. Breathing hard. Silent.

Coach Reynolds stared at them.

“You all want to wear Duke across your chest, but few of you understand the standard that comes with it. We are not going to be the most talented team every night. But we will damn sure be the hardest working.”

He turned to Kyrie and Jordan.

“You two want to fight each other, go ahead. But you better fight harder for each other when game time comes. Or sit on the bench while someone else does.”

No one spoke.

Practice resumed. Tension remained, but something shifted. Kyrie started boxing out. Jordan started passing more. The respect was not spoken yet, but it was beginning to form.

A quiet war turning into a quiet bond