The invitation came three days after that first brutal practice.
Coach Martinez pulled Darius aside after second string practice, his expression neutral but his words carrying weight. "You're coming back to first string practice. Tomorrow, 6 AM. And the day after. And the day after that. Consider it a regular thing now."
Darius nodded, keeping his face neutral despite the fire igniting in his chest. "Yes, Coach."
"Don't make me regret it," Martinez added, then walked away before Darius could respond.
The second practice was different from the first. The first string still brought intensity, still tested him, still pushed to see if he'd break. But there was a shift—subtle, almost imperceptible, but real.
They started acknowledging him in small ways. Derek would nod when Darius made a good play. Terrell would call out defensive adjustments that included Darius's positioning. Marcus Thompson dapped him up after Darius set a screen that freed him for an easy basket.
Even Khalil—quiet, focused, usually-in-his-own-world Khalil—gave him advice during a water break about reading help defense rotations.
"When you drive baseline and you see me step up," Khalil said, his voice low and matter-of-fact, "don't try to finish through me. Kick it back out to the corner. That's where the open shot is."
"Good look," Darius said, filing the information away.
By the third practice, Darius wasn't just surviving anymore. He was contributing. His defensive rotations were getting sharper. His offensive reads were coming faster. The first string's sets were becoming familiar, their tendencies predictable.
He hit Jonathan with a crossover that made the senior stumble, then finished with a floater. He fought through two screens to contest Derek's three-pointer, forcing a miss. He found Terrell cutting backdoor for an easy layup that made Terrell point at him in acknowledgment.
The fourth practice, something clicked. Darius stopped thinking and started reacting. His body knew where to be before his mind processed why. The Hustle System's integration was complete now—not feeding him information, just enhancing his natural basketball instincts.
He played thirty-five minutes at first string intensity and finished strong. No dropping to his knees this time. Just controlled breathing and a mind already analyzing what he could improve tomorrow.
By the fifth practice, it was visible to everyone in the gymnasium that Darius belonged. Not as a developmental project. Not as a second string player getting reps. As a legitimate first string caliber point guard who could compete with anyone on the roster.
Coach Williams mentioned it to Martinez during a water break, his voice quiet but clear. "He's ready. Right now. Today."
Martinez just nodded, his eyes tracking Darius as he ran through a defensive drill with perfect technique. "I know."
The uncomfortable feeling started around the sixth practice.
The first string players felt it but couldn't quite articulate it. That sense of unease that came from knowing someone was coming for your position, and there was nothing you could do to stop it except keep being excellent and hope that was enough.
Jonathan Cruz felt it most acutely. He was the starting point guard, the senior, the three-year starter. And Darius was playing his position at an increasingly high level. Every practice, every rep, every possession where Darius made the right read or hit the perfect pass was a reminder that his spot wasn't guaranteed.
The rotation players felt it too. If Darius was this good, and if a roster spot opened up, someone was getting cut to make room. And that someone was going to come from the back end of the rotation—the guys who got ten minutes a game, who were solid but not essential.
Even the starters felt it in a different way. Because if the coaching staff was willing to promote Darius over players who'd been in the program longer, what did that say about loyalty? About paying your dues? About the security of anyone's position?
The seventh practice had a different energy. Not hostile. Just... tense. Like everyone was waiting for something to happen, some announcement to drop that would change everything.
It came at the end of practice.
Coach Martinez blew his whistle and gathered everyone at center court. His expression was serious, his posture suggesting this wasn't a normal end-of-practice talk.
"Listen up," Martinez said, his voice carrying through the gymnasium. "The athletic director has approved a roster expansion. We're moving from fifteen players to sixteen on first string."
The team went silent. Every player knew what that meant.
"Darius Kingsley will be filling that sixteenth spot. He's earned it through consistent excellence, and he's now officially a member of this team. Congratulations, Darius."
A few players clapped. Mostly the ones who felt secure in their positions. Derek, because he was captain and that's what captains did. Khalil, because he respected excellence when he saw it. Terrell, because he genuinely liked Darius's competitive fire.
But others just stood there, their applause perfunctory at best. The reality was sinking in—the roster was expanding this time, but next time it might not. Next time, someone might actually lose their spot.
"Practice tomorrow at 6 AM," Martinez continued. "First official practice with our full sixteen-man roster. Be ready."
He dismissed them, and the team dispersed with less conversation than usual. The locker room was quieter. The showers were taken quickly. Everyone was processing what had just happened and what it meant for their own futures.
The next morning's practice arrived with a weight that made the gymnasium feel smaller.
Darius walked in at 5:50 AM—ten minutes early, like always—and immediately felt the difference. The first string players who were already there weren't warming up with their usual routines. They were locked in from the moment they stepped on the court. Focused. Serious. Ready to prove something.
When practice officially started at 6 AM, the silence was deafening. No casual banter. No jokes during stretching. Just grim determination and the understanding that today wasn't about development or team-building.
Today was about competition. Pure, unadulterated competition.
Coach Martinez didn't need to say anything to establish the tone. The players brought it themselves.
The first drill was a simple three-on-three half-court scrimmage. Darius ended up matched against Jonathan Cruz, with Derek and Terrell on Jonathan's team, and Marcus Thompson and Khalil on Darius's.
Jonathan brought the ball up with intensity Darius had seen before but never quite at this level. His defense was suffocating. His offensive execution was flawless. Every screen he set was solid. Every cut he made was purposeful.
He was playing like someone fighting for his career.
Darius matched him possession for possession. Hit him with a crossover that created space for a pull-up jumper. Good. Found Khalil cutting baseline for an easy dunk. Fought through a screen and forced Jonathan into a difficult shot that missed.
The drill continued at that fever pitch. Every possession felt like it mattered. Every mistake was magnified. Every success was noted by everyone watching.
They moved to full-court five-on-five. The intensity jumped again. This wasn't practice anymore—this was war conducted under the guise of basketball drills.
Derek played like he was personally offended by Darius's presence. His defense was relentless. His trash talk was constant. His competitive fire was burning so hot it was making everyone around him elevate.
But Darius didn't back down. He attacked Derek off the dribble and finished through contact. He hit a step-back three that made Derek shake his head. He found cutting teammates with passes that threaded through impossible windows.
Thirty minutes into practice, something became clear to everyone in the gymnasium.
Darius had evolved.
He wasn't just executing the first string's sets anymore. He was adapting them. Improving them. Adding wrinkles that came from watching how different players approached the same situations.
He'd learned Jonathan's patience in running the offense—that ability to probe defenses without forcing anything. He'd absorbed Derek's aggressive mindset in attacking mismatches. He'd studied Terrell's defensive positioning and incorporated it into his own game. He'd watched how Khalil read help defense rotations and used that knowledge to make better passes.
Darius hadn't just been fighting for a position. He'd been learning. Taking notes. Studying every player's strengths and incorporating them into his own game like a sponge absorbing water.
Coach Martinez noticed it first. He leaned toward Coach Williams during a water break, his voice quiet. "He's not playing like a second string player getting promoted. He's playing like he's been here all along."
Williams nodded, his eyes tracking Darius as he demonstrated a defensive concept to Devon—who'd also been invited back to continue practicing with first string. "He's been studying them. Learning from everyone. That's not just talent. That's basketball IQ."
On the sideline, Malik stood with a small group of students who'd shown up early to watch practice—something that had become more common as word spread about the competitive intensity of first string sessions.
Malik watched his cousin navigate through a trap, hit Khalil with a perfect entry pass, then relocate to the corner for a three-pointer that Derek found him for. The ball went through clean.
"Yo, your cousin is nice," one of the students said to Malik. "Like, really nice."
Malik nodded but didn't respond. Because he was feeling something complicated—pride mixed with unease. Pride because Darius was achieving everything he'd worked for. Unease because he recognized that look in Darius's eyes. That obsessive focus that had pushed away everyone who cared about him.
And now Darius had found an environment that not only tolerated that obsession but rewarded it.
Forty-five minutes into practice, even the players who'd been skeptical of Darius's promotion were starting to understand why Coach Martinez had made the call.
Derek pulled down a defensive rebound and immediately looked for Darius in transition. Darius caught it at half court, attacked in a three-on-two situation, and made the perfect read—hitting Terrell for an easy layup rather than forcing his own shot.
"Good read," Derek said, jogging back. Not sarcastic. Genuine acknowledgment.
Jonathan ran a pick-and-roll with Khalil and made the right pass to the roll man. Darius, playing defense, rotated perfectly and forced a difficult shot. The execution on both sides was Elite Eight level.
The practice continued at that impossible intensity for another thirty minutes. By the end, everyone was exhausted. But more than that, everyone was aware.
Darius Kingsley wasn't just good enough to be on first string. He was good enough to start. Maybe not today. Maybe not this week. But soon.
And that realization sent chills through everyone in the gymnasium who understood what it meant.
After practice, as the team hit the showers, Coach Martinez and Coach Williams stood in the hallway outside the locker room. Their conversation was quiet, meant only for each other.
"He's official," Martinez said, his voice carrying satisfaction. "Roster paperwork is filed. Darius Kingsley is a first string player at Riverside High as of today."
Williams nodded. "Who's getting moved to make room?"
Martinez's expression became more serious. "That's what I need to figure out before the next game. Someone's getting shifted to second string to balance the numbers. I just haven't decided who yet."
"The rotation guys are nervous," Williams observed. "They know it's coming from the back end of the bench."
"Let them be nervous," Martinez said. "Competition breeds excellence. If they're worried about their spots, they'll play harder to keep them."
He pulled out his phone and started scrolling through stats, his mind already running through scenarios. "I'll make the call before Friday's game. But for now, Darius is in. That's all that matters."
Inside the locker room, Darius sat in front of his new locker—the one with his name on it, the one that said "First String" on the tag—and felt the weight of what he'd accomplished settling on his shoulders.
Six months ago, he'd woken up from a coma with nothing but a burning desire to prove himself. Now he was a first string player at an Elite Eight school, competing with seniors and three-year starters, earning respect from players who'd initially dismissed him.
But he wasn't satisfied. Because first string was just the beginning. Starting lineup was next. Then district championships. Then state.
The hunger wasn't gone. It had just found a new target.
Around him, his teammates were getting dressed, heading out, moving on with their days. The practice was over. But for Darius, the work was never over.