Dawson was no stranger to that look—the quiet, skeptical kind that measured you and found you wanting.
He'd been getting it since the first time he picked up a basketball.
By now, he was numb to it. He knew how to handle it.
After all, the court didn't care about prejudice—it cared about skill. And Dawson much preferred the expression people wore after he'd torched them—surprise mixed with awkward embarrassment—over the sour faces they made beforehand.
"Dawson, right? Let me ask you—have you ever trained any famous players?"
Connor—hands still freshly shaken—didn't waste time. The tone was polite, but the arrogance and doubt underneath came through loud and clear.
The other three men turned their eyes toward Dawson as well.
"Mr. Connor," Dawson replied evenly, "I don't think the question is who I've trained before. What matters is what I can do for you now. I believe that's why Billy recommended me—because he thinks I can help Kwame bulk up while keeping his athleticism."
It was true—Dawson's résumé wasn't impressive on paper. Which is why he had one golden rule when pitching himself: skip the past, focus on the future. Tell people exactly how he could help them, not where he'd been.
It was, in truth, a tactic born of necessity. If he'd had a name in the business—if he'd trained a stable of NBA stars—he wouldn't need to sell himself. People would be begging for a spot on his schedule.
Connor clearly wasn't one of those high-school dads with limited basketball knowledge that Dawson usually dealt with. This guy wasn't buying the sales pitch. He chuckled without committing to anything.
"Dawson, you should know how big Kwame's name is right now," Connor said. "There's even a chance he could be the number one pick." His voice swelled with pride. "So we need someone truly capable, someone who can take him higher—make sure his future stays on track. But from what I've heard, back when you played at Florida, you were just an ordinary role player. And you were a guard."
The implication was clear: You weren't that good as a player, so why should I trust you as a trainer?
"After all," Connor added with a thin smile, "we're paying twenty thousand dollars."
Dawson almost laughed. That last line told him more than Connor probably intended.
For an independent agent, "twenty thousand" apparently sounded like a lot of money.
It wasn't.
Dawson would be giving up a whole month, creating a custom program, being with Kwame every single day. He'd cover his own meals and lodging—that's all cost. And after taxes? He'd be lucky to clear just over ten grand.
If Connor had real money to invest, he'd have gone straight to one of the big-name trainers. The fact that he was talking to Dawson at all meant his budget was tight.
That realization gave Dawson a little more confidence.
"Mr. Connor, what you said actually proves my point," Dawson replied without raising his voice. "If I'd been Florida's star and an NCAA household name, I'd be in the NBA right now—not here working as a trainer."
The corner of Connor's mouth twitched.
Before he could cut in, Dawson went on. "And as for me being a guard—there's no rule that says a guard can't train a big man. You've been in this business long enough to know that. A trainer works with technique, theory, and experience. We're not here to beat the player one-on-one."
He smiled slightly. "Besides, you're not hiring me to teach him post moves. You want him to gain weight without losing speed. If you wanted a full skill package… twenty grand wouldn't come close."
It was half a joke, but it landed.
Connor's brow furrowed. He didn't like Dawson's tone, but he couldn't argue with the logic.
From the sideline, Donovan gave Dawson an approving nod. Connor's skepticism wasn't just about Dawson—it reflected back on Donovan, who had recommended him. Dawson's calm pushback showed he wasn't desperate for the money, and that he was here largely out of respect for Donovan.
The moment hung there—until Kwame wandered over.
He looked Dawson up and down with open curiosity. "Hey, are you good at basketball? Can you teach me something?"
It wasn't rude—just blunt. The kind of bluntness that came from being a teenager who didn't see the point in sugarcoating.
"I do all right," Dawson said with a small smile. He beckoned for the ball. Once Kwame passed it over, Dawson added, "How about we run a few plays? Let me see what you've got."
In the end, words didn't prove much. Skill did.
Connor and the others were clearly unsure about him. No matter how much theory Dawson talked, it wouldn't stick unless they saw something.
"Sure!" Kwame said, brightening.
Connor and the rest exchanged a quick glance but didn't object.
"I'll take offense," Dawson said, slipping off his suit jacket and tossing it to Donovan. He strolled onto the court like a man about to give a master class.
Given the massive height gap, there was no way for him to show much on defense. Offense was where he could shine.
Kwame nodded, then eyed Dawson's shoes. "Uh… you sure you don't want to change shoes, sir?"
Dawson was still in leather dress shoes, slim-fit trousers, and a white dress shirt.
"No worries. We'll keep it simple," Dawson replied, rolling up his sleeves. "I just want to see your defensive habits."
He bounced the ball a couple of times. The pants were a little restrictive, the shoes a bit stiff—but otherwise fine.
And even with that tiny warm-up, Kwame's eyebrows lifted. The force, the rhythm—this was no casual weekend warrior.
Kwame spread his arms, giving Dawson some space but not much.
"When you're switching onto a smaller guard, you have to give more cushion," Dawson advised. "They're faster and more agile than you."
Then he burst forward, feinting a drive to his right.
Kwame slid his left foot back to cut him off. Dawson instantly planted, pulled the ball back, and spun his right shoulder toward Kwame's chest, hinting at a post spin the other way.
Kwame reacted fast, sliding to block that lane—only to realize it was another fake.
Dawson exploded off his left foot, stepped back to his right, and rose into a smooth jumper.
The double fake had opened just enough space.
Kwame's recovery was freakishly quick—he twisted, leaping with his full 6'11" frame and nearly getting a hand to the shot. If Dawson hadn't added extra arc, it would have been swatted.
No warm-up, but the touch was there. Years after retiring, Dawson had never let the skills rust. A trainer had to keep his own edge, after all.
Swish.
Kwame landed with a wide grin. "Yo, that's Penny's move, isn't it?"
Anfernee "Penny" Hardaway had made that half-spin stepback famous—plenty of players could do it, but no one else made it look quite as smooth.
And here was Dawson, in dress shoes and slacks, pulling it off with Penny-level fluidity.
It wasn't just Kwame who was impressed—Connor and the others traded looks, the surprise clear in their eyes.
That move… was beautiful.