Morning arrived with unapologetic Texas intensity—sunlight streaming through blinds Markus hadn't completely closed, the house already warming despite the central air running steadily. Today marked his first official practice with Victor Wembanyama, the beginning of summer league preparations in earnest, and Aisha's opportunity to observe the Spurs' developmental ecosystem.
In the kitchen, he found his mother and Aisha already awake, coffee mugs in hand, engaged in conversation that halted momentarily when he appeared.
"Morning," he greeted them, grabbing a protein shake from the refrigerator. "You two look suspiciously like you were talking about me."
"Not everything revolves around you, basketball boy," Aisha teased, though her smile betrayed her. "Your mom was just telling me about baby Markus and his first toy basketball hoop."
"The one you dunked on so hard it broke off the door?" Lisa added, eyes twinkling. "You were three."
Markus shook his head, accepting the gentle ribbing. "We should head out in twenty minutes if we want to beat traffic," he said, checking the time. "Diana coming with us?"
"Mom decided to explore the River Walk instead," Aisha replied. "Said she'll meet us for dinner."
The drive to the practice facility passed with comfortable conversation, Aisha's excitement growing visibly as they approached the sprawling complex with its understated "SPURS" lettering on the exterior.
Inside, the facility hummed with pre-practice energy—staff preparing equipment, players filtering in for treatment or early work, coaches huddled around tablets reviewing strategies. Markus introduced Aisha to Brett Brown, the summer league head coach who would be overseeing her observation.
"Psychology student, huh?" Brown said, shaking her hand. "Pop mentioned you're studying mindfulness applications in athletics. Interesting stuff. We've been incorporating more of that lately."
"That's exactly my research focus," Aisha replied, academic enthusiasm overtaking her initial nervousness. "Particularly how mindfulness practice affects spatial awareness and decision-making under pressure."
"Then you're watching the right guy," Brown nodded toward Markus. "Your boyfriend here has some of the most unusual cognitive processing I've seen in a young player. Makes reads before the defense even knows what they're doing."
Markus felt a flush of pride at the casual compliment, conscious of Aisha's approving glance. "Speaking of which," he said, "I should get started on warmups. Wembanyama arrives soon."
The practice court's familiar hardwood welcomed him like an old friend. Markus began his customary routine—not with shooting or dribbling, but with the specialized movements that formed the foundation of his training system. Balance work on one leg, proprioception drills with his eyes closed, deliberate footwork patterns that activated neural pathways established through thousands of repetitions.
From the sideline, he noticed Aisha watching intently, jotting occasional notes, her analytical mind clearly processing the approach. Several coaches had also paused their activities to observe, their expressions mixing curiosity with professional assessment.
The facility doors opened, and a ripple of energy passed through the gym. Victor Wembanyama ducked his head slightly entering—an unconscious habit developed by someone whose 7'4" frame rarely encountered doorways built to accommodate it. Beside him walked Gregg Popovich, the two engaged in conversation that continued as they approached the court.
Even having watched extensive film, Markus found Wembanyama's physical presence startling. Not just the height, but the unprecedented combination of length and fluid mobility, the way he moved with coordination that defied bodies that size.
Pop caught Markus's eye and gestured him over. "Victor, this is Markus Reinhart, our point guard selection. Markus, Victor Wembanyama."
The Frenchman extended a hand that seemed to materialize from an impossible distance away. "Pleasure," he said, his accented English precise and formal. "I watched your tournament games. Very impressive court vision."
"Thank you," Markus replied, shaking the enormous hand. "Looking forward to working together."
"We'll start with some two-man drills," Pop instructed. "Simple pick and roll variations, dribble handoffs, baseline actions. Get a feel for each other's tendencies."
Markus quickly discovered that Wembanyama processed the game with similar intuitive understanding, seeing possibilities that most players couldn't conceptualize.
On their third pick and roll repetition, without verbal communication, Markus delivered a bounce pass that threaded between two imaginary defenders precisely where Wembanyama would be stepping—not where he was at the moment of the pass. The Frenchman caught it in perfect stride, finishing with a fluid dunk.
"You anticipated my roll timing," Wembanyama observed during a water break. "Most guards wait to see me move first."
"You shift your weight slightly before the roll," Markus explained. "Creates a timing tell that defenders won't catch, but I'm looking for it."
Wembanyama's expression shifted—respect registering in his eyes. "You see details."
"That's the job."
As practice progressed, the connection between them strengthened with each repetition. Passes finding targets with increasing precision, movements synchronizing like dancers learning each other's rhythms, two basketball intellects operating on a wavelength.
"These guys have played together for what, an hour?" Brett Brown commented beside her. "Look like they've been teammates for years."
"It's pattern recognition and spatial processing," Aisha replied, her researcher's mind analyzing what her eyes were seeing. "They're both operating with advanced predictive modeling of movement."
Brown glanced at her with newfound interest. "You really do study this stuff."
After two hours of increasingly complex drills, Pop called a halt. "Enough for today. Victor, treatment room for recovery protocol. Markus, strength complex next. Introduction to your conditioning program."
Markus nodded, fatigue evident but energy undiminished.
Standing beside the Frenchman, he'd felt the potential for something special developing, something that extended beyond summer league preparations into future seasons.
"Good start," Pop said briefly as Wembanyama departed. "Very good start."
In the strength and conditioning center, Markus met Troy, the Spurs' head performance coach—a compact, muscular man with the focused intensity of someone who had optimized his own physical development before turning to develop others.
"Your assessment results are interesting," Jones began, reviewing a tablet displaying Markus's combine testing and initial Spurs evaluations. "Technical skills elite, court awareness elite, defensive instincts near-elite. But your raw athletic metrics are just average for your position."
"I know," Markus acknowledged.
"You've maximized effectiveness through efficiency," Jones continued. "Through anticipation and positioning rather than explosiveness. That's gotten you this far. But—"
"But the NBA requires more physically."
Jones nodded, pleased with the understanding. "Exactly. We're going to rebuild your body while maintaining the technical foundation. More power, more explosiveness, better endurance—all without compromising the skill elements that make you special."
What followed was the most comprehensive physical assessment Markus had ever experienced—movement screening, flexibility testing, strength baselines established across multiple planes of motion, cardiovascular capacity measured through VO2 max protocols. Every aspect of his physical capabilities catalogued with precision.
"You're underweight for optimal durability," Jones concluded as the evaluation ended. "And your posterior chain needs significant strengthening. Lower body power production is adequate but could improve twenty percent with proper programming."
The critique was delivered without judgment, simply factual assessment of areas for development.
"Starting tomorrow, you'll begin a specialized program," Jones continued. "Five days weekly alongside team practices. Nutrition protocols adjusted to support lean mass development. We're aiming for ten pounds of functional muscle by opening night."
"Understood," Markus replied, mentally preparing for the work ahead.
As they drove home that afternoon, Aisha's excitement spilled over. "That was fascinating," she gushed, reviewing her notes. "It's exactly what my research examines."
"Did it help your studies?" Markus asked, navigating traffic with relaxed confidence.
"Are you kidding? It's potentially dissertation-worthy data." Her eyes gleamed with academic enthusiasm. "The psychological frameworks for elite performance are right there in front of me, in real-time application."
Markus smiled, pleased that his world could contribute to hers in meaningful ways. "Wait until you see summer league games. Different intensity altogether."
"About that—" she hesitated. "Mom and I extended our tickets. We're staying through your first two summer league games."
Markus glanced over, genuine pleasure washing through him. "Really?"
"Really," she confirmed. "Mom's actually enjoying herself. Says San Antonio has 'unexpected cultural merit,' which from her is basically a love letter to the city."
That evening, after dinner with their mothers at a riverside restaurant Diana had discovered during her exploration, Markus and Aisha sat by the pool, feet dangling in cool water as night settled around them.
"You looked different today," she observed, studying his profile in the pool's blue light. "On the court with Wembanyama. More... assertive. Not the carefully restrained player I saw at Davidson."
"No reason to hold back anymore," Markus replied. "The development phase is over. Now it's about maximizing what I've built."
"It suits you," she said softly. "The intensity. The drive. You're still methodical, still thoughtful, but there's fire there too."
He turned to face her fully, struck again by how precisely she saw him—not just the external presentation but the internal shifts that even he was still processing.
"This is what I've been working toward," he said simply. "Every drill with Hiroshi, every morning session, every sacrifice. It's all been building to this."
"And now you're here." Her hand found his in the darkness. "Living it."
—
Summer league camp intensified with each passing day. The schedule left little room for anything beyond basketball, training, recovery, and sleep. Mornings began with team practices—tactical installation, shooting work, defensive positioning, five-on-five scrimmages increasing in complexity and intensity. Afternoons brought physical development—specialized weight training, movement pattern correction, nutritional consultations, biomechanical adjustments.
The Spurs' developmental system operated with scientific precision, each aspect of performance isolated, analyzed, and refined. Coaches identified minuscule technical inefficiencies invisible to conventional observation—a slight hitch in Markus' pull-up jumper, an unnecessary dip before certain passes, a tendency to favor his right foot on defensive slides.
"Millimeters and microseconds," assistant coach Will Hardy explained during film review. "That's where NBA games are won and lost. The difference between a steal and a foul, between a made shot and a block."
Physical training pushed beyond anything Markus had previously experienced. Troy's program targeted specific weaknesses with mechanical precision—deadlift variations to strengthen his posterior chain, Olympic lifting derivatives to develop explosive power, specialized core work to enhance rotational force production.
Each session ended with Markus gasping for air, muscles burning, perspiration soaking through his training gear. The physical discomfort was unprecedented but he embraced it with discipline.
Between sessions, the training staff introduced him to recovery modalities he'd only read about previously—cryotherapy chambers that dropped to temperatures approaching -250°F, compression boots that sequentially squeezed metabolic waste from his muscles, neuromuscular electrical stimulation that forced involuntary contractions in fatigue-resistant fiber groups.
Through it all, Victor Wembanyama remained a constant presence, working through his own developmental program alongside Markus. Their court chemistry continued strengthening through daily repetitions, the connection evolving from promising to exceptional.
"You two are developing something special," Brett Brown commented after watching them dismantle the summer league starting five in scrimmage. "This level of skill—it's beyond rookie level."
The night before Aisha and Diana were scheduled to return to Philadelphia, Markus arrived home to find his mother sitting alone in the kitchen, family photo album open before her.
"Looking at memories?" he asked, dropping his training bag and grabbing a recovery shake from the refrigerator.
"Hmm," she nodded, turning a page. "Found these when unpacking some boxes from Detroit."
Markus slid into the chair beside her, studying images from a life that suddenly felt distant—himself at five, first basketball clutched proudly; at eight, standing beside his mother at a community center tournament; at twelve, growth spurt evident, serious expression already forming.
"You were such an old soul," Lisa murmured, touching a photo gently. "Even as a little boy. Like you were born understanding things other kids had to learn."
"Dad leaving probably accelerated that," Markus said carefully. They rarely discussed his father directly.
"Probably," she acknowledged. "Forced us both to grow up faster than we should have."
She turned another page—Markus at fourteen, receiving a trophy from a Detroit recreation league, Marcus standing proudly beside him. Then more recent images: his Davidson acceptance letter, move-in day at the dorm.
"Sometimes I wonder if I failed you," she said softly, still looking at the photographs.
"Mom—"
"Letting you grow up too fast. Working so much you had to raise yourself half the time. Not being there for games because of shifts."
"You never failed me," Markus said firmly. "Never. You did everything possible to give me opportunities."
"And now look at this," she gestured around the kitchen—state-of-the-art appliances, imported tile, custom cabinetry. "My nineteen-year-old son providing a home I could never give him."
To Markus' shock, tears began streaming down his mother's face—Lisa Reinhart, who had weathered abandonment, poverty, and exhaustion with stoic resolve, finally allowing emotion to surface.
"Hey," he said gently, moving his chair closer. "This isn't about providing what you couldn't. It's about building on the foundation you created."
She shook her head, tears falling onto the photo album. "I was so tired, Markus. For so many years. Working those jobs, trying to keep us afloat, never having enough. Watching you grow up without being able to give you what other kids had."
The pain in her voice struck him with physical force. He had always known his mother's sacrifices intellectually, but hearing the emotional toll verbalized for the first time opened something within him as well.
"You gave me everything that mattered," he said, his own voice thickening. The things that actually got me here."
"I missed so much," she whispered. "So many moments. School events. Games. Just... time with you."
Markus wrapped his arms around her, this woman who had carried the weight of their family alone for so long. She felt smaller than he remembered, her shoulders shaking with release of emotions long suppressed by necessity.
"We have time now," he promised, his own tears falling freely. "All the time we need."
They sat together in the kitchen of a house neither could have imagined possessing a year earlier, mother and son allowing grief for the past to surface alongside gratitude for the present. A necessary catharsis, a cleansing of emotional debris carried too long.
Later, when composure had returned and the photo album was closed, Lisa patted his hand. "You should rest. Big practice tomorrow before your friends leave."
"They're staying for summer league games," Markus told her. "Extended their tickets."
"I know," Lisa smiled. "Diana and I arranged it together. That woman drives a hard bargain, but I think we're becoming friends."
—
The Las Vegas Summer League transformed Cox Pavilion and Thomas & Mack Center into basketball's annual glimpse of the future—rookies, sophomores, and fringe players competing for roster spots, contracts, and professional survival. Team executives, coaches, media, and fans packed the venues, everyone searching for emerging talent and unexpected revelations.
Markus entered the tournament with clear objectives established by the Spurs coaching staff: demonstrate playmaking in game situations, show defensive discipline against higher-level competition, establish chemistry with Wembanyama in competitive settings.
In his first game against the Pelicans summer squad, Markus compiled 22 points, 11 assists, and 4 steals in just 26 minutes, orchestrating the Spurs offense with veteran-like control. His shooting—5 for 7 from three-point range—forced defenders to press out, creating driving lanes he exploited with precision passing or deceptive finishes.
The basketball itself revealed aspects of Markus' game that practice sessions couldn't fully showcase. His dribbling style emerged as distinctively his own—not flashy with unnecessary movement, but deceptively quick, changes of pace that left defenders lunging at empty space.
"It's almost like he sees defensive reactions before they happen," a commentator observed during the broadcast. "Reinhart doesn't beat you with pure speed; he beats you with anticipation and timing."
His performances only escalated from there. Against the Lakers summer team: 28 points, 9 assists, 6 rebounds. Versus the Celtics: a near triple-double with 19 points, 13 assists, and 8 rebounds. The Kings matchup—perhaps with additional motivation given their draft night decision—resulted in his summer league peak: 34 points on 12-of-17 shooting, 12 assists, 5 steals, and zero turnovers in a performance that immediately went viral across basketball social media.
@NBAonESPN: This Markus Reinhart kid is SPECIAL. 34 points, 12 assists, 5 steals against the Kings summer league squad. Spurs got a steal at 44.
@TheHoop_Central: The Reinhart-Wembanyama two-man game is already UNSTOPPABLE. This connection is gonna terrorize the league.
@NBADraftExpert: Remember when Sacramento called Reinhart on draft night then picked someone else? How's that decision looking now? 💀
@BBallIntellect: Reinhart's game reminds me of a weird Luka/CP3 hybrid. Manipulates defenses with pace and positioning rather than athleticism. Basketball genius level IQ.
The Spurs front office took notice. After the fourth game, General Manager Brian Wright requested a meeting with Gregg Popovich, assistant coaches, and player development staff. Markus wasn't invited, but Ryan Kessler's connections provided insight afterward.
"They're reconsidering your role," Ryan explained during a phone call. "Summer league performance has them accelerating the timeline. They're discussing the possibility of moving Tre Jones and opening the starting point guard position earlier than planned."
"Tre's a good player," Markus noted, conscious of respecting established teammates he hadn't even met yet.
"He is," Ryan agreed. "But the connection you've shown with Wembanyama is something they can't ignore. Word is Pop called it 'generationally significant' in the meeting."
The possibility of starting as a rookie—a second-round rookie at that—seemed remote, but the summer league performances had undeniably altered perceptions. Coaches who had viewed him as a developmental project began treating him as an immediate contributor. Veteran players reached out with congratulatory texts. Media requests multiplied exponentially.
Through it all, Markus maintained his routine—practice, strength training, film study, recovery. The only significant deviation came after Aisha and Diana departed for Philadelphia, when he allowed himself one day of genuine teenage indulgence.
With Ryan's blessing for "reasonable personal expenditures," Markus took his mother shopping at San Antonio's high-end retail district. For Lisa, who had spent decades buying clothes at discount stores and thrift shops, the experience bordered on overwhelming.
"These prices are absurd," she whispered in Neiman Marcus, examining a simple blouse with a $400 tag.
"Get whatever you want," Markus encouraged. "Consider it decades of missed birthday presents."
With gentle persistence, he convinced her to accept a modest wardrobe upgrade—quality pieces that would last years rather than months, elegant rather than ostentatious. For himself, he selected several casual outfits from upscale brands, conceding to Ryan's insistence that public appearance now carried professional implications.
The real splurge came at a jewelry store, where Markus purchased his mother a simple but elegant necklace—white gold with a small diamond pendant. The saleswoman, recognizing him from local sports coverage, provided attentive service without the cloying overenthusiasm celebrity often attracted.
"It's too much," Lisa protested when he fastened it around her neck.
"It's not enough," he countered, studying the effect in the store mirror.
His final purchase of the day came from a breeder outside the city—a German Shepherd puppy with excellent bloodlines and professional training potential. The breeder, a former military dog handler, had been recommended by Spurs security staff.
"Eight weeks old," he explained, placing the squirming puppy in Markus's arms. "Already showing exceptional intelligence and drive. Will grow into a superb protection dog with proper training."
Lisa's expression upon seeing the puppy when they arrived home was worth every penny of the considerable purchase price. Her initial protests about practicality quickly dissolved when the puppy—named Tanka after much deliberation—curled contentedly in her lap.
"He'll provide security when I'm traveling," Markus explained, watching his mother fall instantly in love with the animal.
"You thought of everything, didn't you?" she said, scratching behind Tanka's ears as he dozed against her.
"Trying to," he admitted.
The indulgence day concluded with one more significant decision—scheduling a properly timed visit to Philadelphia during the brief break between summer league and preseason training camp. Aisha's delight at the news during their evening video call confirmed he'd made the right choice.
"Mom will be thrilled," she said, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. "She won't admit it, but she's been talking about your mother constantly since we got back. I think they genuinely connected."
"Apparently they arranged your extended stay together," Markus revealed. "Behind our backs."
"Sneaky," Aisha laughed. "But effective. Those summer league games were incredible, by the way."
As July transitioned to August, summer league concluded with the Spurs claiming the championship—a relatively meaningless title in terms of NBA implications, but a positive indication for team chemistry and development. Markus was named Summer League MVP, his statistical dominance and impact on winning leaving voters with little choice despite Wembanyama's equally impressive performances.
With the honor came increased attention—national media features, local celebrity status in San Antonio, expanded social media following that Ryan helped manage with professional assistance. For someone naturally inclined toward privacy, the attention required adjustment, but Markus handled it with the same balanced approach he applied to basketball challenges.
The final phase of summer brought preparation for formal introduction to the full Spurs roster—veterans returning from offseason travels, established rotation players evaluating new additions, the organizational hierarchy establishing itself through unspoken but unmistakable rituals.
"Almost all NBA teams operate with implicit pecking orders," Ryan explained during their regular strategy call. "Spurs are better than most organizations, but still have traditions rookies are expected to observe. Carrying bags for veterans, being first at practice, last to leave, that sort of thing."
"I see," Markus replied, making mental notes. "Any specific players I should be especially conscious of?"
"Veterans like Doug McDermott set the culture tone," Ryan advised. "Respectful, professional, no shortcuts. If you continue the approach you've shown in summer league, you'll integrate smoothly."
The night before official team activities began, Markus sat on his back patio, Tanka sleeping at his feet, the swimming pool's lights creating shifting patterns across the textured concrete. His mother had retired early, still adjusting to the luxury of adequate sleep after decades of deprivation.
His phone chimed with Aisha's text tone: Ready for tomorrow? First day with the full team.
As ready as possible, he replied. Summer league created expectations I'm not sure are realistic for a rookie.
Since when do you worry about expectations? came her response. You've been exceeding them since Davidson.