The transition from college student to NBA prospect happened with disorienting speed. Within days of Davidson's tournament elimination, Markus had signed with an agent (on Marcus's recommendation and Hiroshi's approval), withdrawn from spring semester classes (with arrangements to complete crucial credits remotely), and begun preparations for the draft combine and team workouts.
His final weeks at Davidson acquired a bittersweet quality—saying goodbye to teammates, professors, and the routine he had established over the academic year. Trevor organized a farewell gathering with friends who had become an unexpected support system during his brief college experience.
Most difficult was the uncertainty surrounding Aisha. Her summer research position in Philadelphia would begin shortly after the semester ended. The NBA draft would follow in June, with summer league and team activities immediately afterward. Their paths were diverging geographically while their emotional connection had only deepened.
"We'll figure it out," she assured him during their final night together in her dorm room. "Philadelphia to wherever you end up—we'll make it work."
"What if it's San Antonio?" he asked. "Or Sacramento? That's a long distance."
"Then we get really good at FaceTime." She traced his jawline with her fingertip. "And frequent flyer miles."
Markus pulled her closer, memorizing the feeling of her body against his, the scent of her hair, the rhythm of her breathing. "I've never been good at halfway commitments."
"Who's talking about halfway? I'm all in, Markus Reinhart."
The declaration hung between them—both promise and challenge, commitment and leap of faith.
"So am I," he replied, the words carrying the same certainty he felt on the court in his most transcendent moments.
—
The NBA Draft Combine in Chicago transformed prospects into commodities—measured, weighed, tested, and evaluated with clinical precision. Vertical leap, shuttle runs, wingspan, body fat percentage, hand size—every physical attribute quantified and recorded for comparison against historical averages.
Markus' measurements placed him firmly in the "good but not exceptional" category for NBA point guards. His athletic testing yielded similar results—above average but not eye-popping. Nothing in the raw data explained the extraordinary court vision, anticipation, and decision-making he had demonstrated at Davidson.
The scrimmages and skill drills, however, told a different story. Paired with unfamiliar teammates against elite competition, Markus displayed the same commanding presence he had shown in the NCAA Tournament. His passes found shooters in perfect rhythm. His defensive positioning disrupted opposing guards consistently. His communication organized teammates who had met only hours earlier.
Team interviews revealed the final piece of the evaluation puzzle. Behind closed doors with general managers, coaches, and scouts, Markus impressed with basketball intelligence that transcended his years. His understanding of offensive concepts, defensive schemes, and game theory reflected both Hiroshi's philosophical training and his own analytical mind.
Sacramento's interview, scheduled early in the combine process, felt particularly significant given their need at point guard and draft position potentially aligning with his projected range.
"We've been watching you closely," their general manager began. "Particularly impressed with your tournament performance."
Markus nodded appreciatively but didn't elaborate.
"Walk us through your development," the GM continued. "Your training background seems... unconventional."
For twenty minutes, Markus provided thoughtful answers to increasingly specific questions about his game, his mindset, his preparation methods. The Sacramento brass nodded approvingly throughout, exchanging glances that suggested genuine interest.
"One last question," their head coach interjected. "We pick twenty-seventh. Several projections have you available in that range. Would you be excited about joining our organization?"
"Absolutely," Markus replied honestly. "You have talented young players who could benefit from a distributor-first point guard. I believe I could help immediately."
As he left the room, he overheard the GM's comment to his colleagues: "That's our guy. Smart, mature, ready to contribute."
The interaction left Markus cautiously optimistic. Sacramento's need aligned perfectly with his skills. Their draft position matched projections. The expressed interest seemed genuine rather than performative.
San Antonio's interview, scheduled for the combine's final day, followed a dramatically different pattern. Rather than the standard panel setup, Markus found himself facing only Gregg Popovich, the legendary coach sitting alone at a small table with no notes, no prepared questions, no team executives flanking him.
"Sit," Pop gestured to the chair opposite him. "Water? Coffee?"
"Water would be great. Thank you."
Pop poured from a pitcher himself rather than delegating to an assistant. The gesture, small but telling, suggested a different approach to hierarchy than Markus had observed in other team environments.
"I watched your tournament games," Pop began without preamble. "Then went back and studied your regular season. The contrast was illuminating."
Markus remained silent, sensing this wasn't a question.
"Most players show their full capabilities at all times," Pop continued. "They can't help themselves. The desire for recognition, for validation, overrides strategic patience. You demonstrated unusual restraint—revealing your complete game only when circumstances demanded it."
He took a sip of water, studying Markus over the rim of his glass. "Who taught you that?"
"My mentor," Markus replied. "Hiroshi Tanaka."
"The martial arts instructor."
Markus couldn't hide his surprise. "You know about Hiroshi?"
Pop nodded.
The conversation shifted to basketball philosophy rather than specific skills or statistics. Pop asked about Markus's understanding of spatial relationships on the court, about reading defensive rotations, about maintaining presence under pressure. The questions probed deeper than basketball mechanics into the underlying principles that governed elite performance.
"Last question," Pop said as their time wound down. "What matters to you beyond basketball?"
The query caught Markus off guard after the basketball-focused discussion. "Connection," he answered after a moment's reflection. "Understanding. Growth. Basketball is my path, but not my entire purpose."
Pop's expression revealed nothing, but he nodded slightly. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Reinhart. We may speak again."
As Markus left the room, he felt a curious certainty—this conversation had mattered, though he couldn't articulate exactly why or how.
Later that night, in his hotel room, he called Aisha. Despite the combine's exhausting schedule, they had maintained daily contact, sharing the minutiae of their separate lives as a way of preserving connection across growing distance.
"How was San Antonio?" she asked after they'd exchanged updates.
"Different," Markus replied, struggling to articulate the experience. "Popovich interviewed me alone. No front office people, no assistants. Just him."
"What did you talk about?"
"Basketball, but not in the usual way. Philosophy more than specifics. And at the end, he asked what matters to me beyond the game."
"What did you tell him?"
Markus smiled, invisible across the phone connection. "The truth. Connection. Understanding. Growth."
"And me," she teased. "You forgot to mention me."
"You're included in 'connection,'" he laughed.
"Smooth recovery." Her voice softened. "I miss you."
"Three more weeks until draft night," he reminded her. "Then at least I'll know where I'm going, even if it's not where you are."
"We'll figure it out," she repeated their mantra. "One step at a time."
After they disconnected, Markus lay awake thinking about the contrasting team interviews. Sacramento's explicit interest versus San Antonio's philosophical exploration. The conventional evaluation process versus Popovich's unique approach.
Something told him both would prove significant in the coming weeks.
Draft night arrived with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. Markus, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit with subtle blue accents (Davidson's colors), sat at a table in the Green Room with his mother, Hiroshi, Marcus, and Aisha.
The first pick went as expected – Victor Wembanyama to San Antonio, a generational talent destined to transform the franchise. As Wembanyama crossed the stage to shake the commissioner's hand, Markus found himself imagining what it would be like to play alongside such a unique talent.
"Imagine feeding that guy lobs," Marcus whispered, echoing his thoughts.
The draft proceeded through its predictable early stages. Top college stars and international prospects came off the board, each celebration punctuated by hugs, handshakes, and the donning of team caps.
As the first round neared its midpoint, Markus's phone buzzed. Sacramento's GM was calling.
"Markus? How are you feeling tonight?"
"Good, sir. Excited to see how things unfold."
"We're very impressed with your game, son. Very impressed. You're in consideration for our pick at twenty-seven, just wanted you to know that."
"I appreciate that, sir."
"Stay by your phone. Good things ahead."
The call ended, and Marcus, who had been listening in, slapped the table excitedly. "Sacramento's in! First round money, baby!"
Lisa squeezed Markus's hand, while Aisha offered a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. The prospect of him moving to California was becoming real.
Only Hiroshi remained impassive. "Many words are spoken on draft night. Few have meaning."
As the twentieth pick came and went, Markus's phone buzzed again. This time, a Charlotte area code.
"Markus? This is Mitch Kupchak with the Hornets. We're on the clock at twenty-three and wanted to let you know you're at the top of our board. How would you feel about playing in Charlotte?"
"It would be an honor, sir."
"Good to hear. Sit tight."
Markus relayed the conversation to his table. Two teams expressing strong interest, both with picks coming soon. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
The twenty-third pick arrived. "With the twenty-third pick in the 2023 NBA Draft, the Charlotte Hornets select... Brandon Miller, forward, Alabama."
Markus' expression didn't change, but Hiroshi placed a steady hand on his shoulder. The message was clear: Patience.
Four picks later, Sacramento was on the clock. Marcus leaned forward expectantly, while Lisa clutched Markus's hand. Even Hiroshi seemed to hold his breath slightly.
"With the twenty-seventh pick in the 2023 NBA Draft, the Sacramento Kings select... Dereck Lively II, center, Duke."
A beat of silence at their table. Then another. Marcus was the first to break it.
"What the fuck? They just called you!"
"Language," Lisa admonished, though her disappointment was evident.
Markus merely nodded, absorbing the information without visible reaction. This, too, was part of the journey. The descent from the Green Room into the audience as first-round prospects were claimed around him. The cameras occasionally finding him, documenting his wait.
The first round ended. The second began. Picks in the thirties came and went, Markus' name still uncalled. The crowd thinned as families of selected players departed for celebrations. Those remaining cast sympathetic glances his way.
Marcus checked his phone constantly. "No one's calling. I don't understand."
"It's okay," Markus assured him. "Whatever happens, happens."
Aisha squeezed his hand. "Their loss."
As the fortieth pick approached, a text message appeared on Markus's phone from an unknown number: Stay ready. -Pop
Before he could process this, his phone rang – a San Antonio area code.
"Hello?"
"Markus? Brian Wright, General Manager of the San Antonio Spurs. How are you holding up?"
"I'm good, sir."
"Listen, we've been watching you closely all season. Coach Popovich is particularly impressed with your game. We have pick forty-four coming up and wanted to let you know we're planning to select you if you're still available. Would you be comfortable joining our organization?"
A surge of energy coursed through Markus's body. "Absolutely, sir. It would be an honor."
"Excellent. Stay by your phone."
When Markus shared the news, Marcus nearly leaped from his chair. "Spurs! Popovich! Wembanyama! That's better than Sacramento anyway!"
Hiroshi's eyes gleamed with rare approval. "The right organization matters more than draft position."
The next four picks crept by with excruciating slowness. Finally:
"With the forty-fourth pick in the 2023 NBA Draft, the San Antonio Spurs select... Markus Reinhart, guard, Davidson College."
The release of tension was instantaneous. Lisa hugged him tightly, tears flowing freely. Marcus hollered in celebration. Aisha kissed him, whispering congratulations in his ear.
And Hiroshi – disciplined, reserved Hiroshi – embraced him for the first time in their years together.
"Well done," he said simply.
Markus walked to the stage, where the deputy commissioner waited with a Spurs cap and jersey. As he posed for photos, the reality washed over him – from a Detroit playground where he'd once contemplated quitting basketball entirely to the NBA draft stage. A journey that had seemed impossible now fulfilled.
Backstage, in the interview area, a reporter asked the obvious question: "How does it feel to slide to the second round after being projected higher?"
Markus smiled. "I ended up exactly where I'm supposed to be."
—
The following days passed in a blur of media obligations, congratulatory calls, and preparations for the move to San Antonio. His contract, while modest by NBA standards – a two-year, $3.2 million deal with a team option for a third year – represented life-changing money for his family.
"Mom, I want you to quit your night job," he told Lisa over breakfast in their hotel suite. "The hospital one too, if you want."
"Markus—"
"Please. You've worked enough. Let me handle things now."
Her eyes welled with tears as she nodded. "I'm so proud of you. Your father never—" She stopped herself.
"It's okay," Markus said gently. "We can talk about him."
"He chose to leave," she said simply. "You chose to stay and fight. That's the difference."
Later that day, Markus met with Spurs officials to sign his contract and tour the team facilities. The organization's professionalism impressed him immediately – every detail considered, every interaction purposeful.
When Popovich finally appeared, Markus felt a familiar gravity in his presence – the same quiet authority Hiroshi projected.
"Welcome to San Antonio," the coach said, shaking his hand firmly. "We're glad you fell to us."
"Thank you for the opportunity, sir."
Popovich gestured for him to follow, leading him to a quiet office away from the main areas. "I had our scouts follow your individual workouts at Davidson," he said without preamble. "The ones you did alone, early mornings, late nights."
Markus blinked in surprise.
"Your game caught my eye, but those workouts confirmed what I suspected," Pop continued. "You've received unusual training. Different from conventional development."
"My mentor approaches things differently," Markus acknowledged.
"Hiroshi Tanaka." Popovich nodded. "Former martial arts champion."
"He's still in town for a few days."
"Good. Bring him tomorrow." Pop fixed him with a penetrating gaze. "No more hiding your true capability, Markus. The development phase is over. Here, we expect your absolute best, every day, every practice, every game."
"Yes, sir."
"And one more thing." A hint of a smile crossed the coach's weathered face. "Victor is looking forward to meeting you. Says he watched your tournament games. Was impressed."