The Vegas Threat
1375 Words
The first sign came three days before the flight to Las Vegas.
Alvin arrived at The Cage for his morning workout. His bag was where he'd left it the night before. But something was wrong.
The zipper was open. Not all the way — just a few inches. Enough for someone to reach inside.
He froze.
Someone was here.
He checked his bag. Wallet still there. Phone still there. But his spare ankle brace was missing. And his notebook — the one where he wrote down plays and scouting reports — had been moved to a different pocket.
His heart pounded.
He called Michael.
"Someone was in my bag."
"What?"
"The Cage. Last night. Someone opened my bag. Took my ankle brace. Moved my notebook."
Michael was quiet for a moment. "The traitor."
"Or someone who wants to scare me."
"Same thing."
---
Maya arrived an hour later. Alvin showed her the bag. She examined it, her face hard.
"No forced entry on the gate. They had a key."
"Who has keys?"
"You. Me. Rivera. The janitor." She looked at the fence. "And anyone who wanted to copy one."
"So we're not safe here anymore."
"Nowhere is safe. Not completely." Maya put a hand on his shoulder. "But you can't let fear stop you. Vegas is three days away. Northwood is watching. Focus on that."
"The traitor —"
"Will be found. But not by you. By me." Maya's eyes were cold. "I've been watching too. And I have ideas."
"Who?"
"I'm not telling you yet. Not until I'm sure." She picked up a ball. "Now shoot. Five hundred free throws. Then we run."
---
The flight to Las Vegas was on Thursday.
Alvin sat by the window, staring at the clouds. Michael sat next to him, his knee wrapped, his face tense.
"You okay?" Alvin asked.
"Didn't sleep."
"The traitor?"
"My dad." Michael stared at his hands. "He called last night. Said he was coming to Vegas. Wanted to watch me play."
"That's good, right?"
"I don't know." Michael's voice cracked. "Every time he watches, I play worse. I think about him instead of the game."
"Then don't think about him. Think about the ball. Think about the scholarship. Think about Northwood."
Michael looked at him. "When did you get so wise?"
"Pain," Alvin said. "Lots of pain."
Junk leaned over from the seat behind. "Did you hear about the showcase? Sixty players. Only ten get offers."
"Pressure," Dante said.
"Privilege," Alvin said.
"What's the difference?"
"Pressure is what you feel when you're not ready. Privilege is what you feel when you are."
Junk raised an eyebrow. "That's deep."
"I've been practicing."
---
Las Vegas was nothing like home.
The heat hit them as soon as they stepped off the plane — dry, sharp, like walking into an oven. The casino lights blinked even in the daytime. The streets were crowded with tourists and players from other states.
The showcase was held at a massive sports complex on the edge of the city. Six full courts. Stadium seating. College scouts from across the country.
Alvin stood at the entrance, his duffel bag over his shoulder, his heart pounding.
Michael stood next to him. "You ready?"
"No."
"Good. Me neither."
Junk walked up behind them. "There's a player here from California. Six-five. Averaged thirty a game."
"Everyone here averaged thirty a game," Alvin said.
"Not everyone has your passes."
"Not everyone has your rebounds."
Junk almost smiled. "Let's go."
---
The first day of the showcase was chaos.
Sixty players divided into ten teams. Alvin, Michael, Junk, and seven strangers. They had three games to impress the scouts.
Alvin's first game was at 2:00 PM.
His team — the Westbrook trio plus a point guard from Arizona and a forward from Nevada — faced a team of all-stars from Texas.
The Texas players were bigger. Faster. Louder. They talked trash from the opening tip.
"You're the redirect kid? I've seen your film. It's cute."
"Cute doesn't win games."
Alvin said nothing. He just played.
First possession. He drove left, drew two defenders, and threw a blind redirect to Michael on the wing. Michael caught it, pump-faked, and scored.
2-0.
The Texas player stared at Alvin. "Lucky pass."
"Practice," Alvin said.
---
The game was close. Texas led by four at halftime. Alvin had six points, four assists, one turnover.
During the break, Michael pulled him aside.
"There's someone in the stands. Watching you."
"Everyone's watching."
"This one is different." Michael nodded toward the upper deck. "Gray hoodie. Face hidden. Same as Kari, but not Kari."
Alvin looked up. A figure sat alone, hood pulled low, not moving.
The unknown texter. The one who wants me to fail.
"Don't look at him," Alvin said. "Look at the game."
"I can't ignore him."
"Then let him watch. Let him see what happens when someone tries to scare us."
---
The second half was different.
Alvin played angry. Not reckless — focused. Every pass was sharper. Every shot was cleaner. He scored twelve points in the third quarter alone. Six assists. No turnovers.
Texas couldn't keep up.
Final score: 68-54. Alvin's team won.
Alvin looked up at the gray hoodie. The figure was gone.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown: Good first game. But the real test comes tomorrow.
Alvin: Who are you?
Unknown: Someone who knows you're not as good as you think.
Alvin: Then come down here and say it to my face.
Unknown: Not yet. Not until you've lost.
---
The second game was at 8:00 PM.
Alvin's team faced a squad from Chicago — faster, more physical, with a point guard who'd already committed to Michigan.
The game was brutal. Hard fouls. Trash talk. Referees who let everything go.
Alvin took a elbow to the ribs. A knee to the thigh. A shove out of bounds.
But he didn't quit.
With two minutes left, his team trailed by three. Alvin had the ball. The Michigan commit guarded him — hands active, mouth running.
"You're not that good, Chen. You're a gimmick."
Alvin drove left. The defender stayed with him. Alvin pulled up for a jumper.
Swish.
One-point game.
The Michigan commit stared at him. "Lucky."
"Practice," Alvin said.
---
The final possession. His team down by one. Fifteen seconds left.
Alvin called for a screen. Junk came up. The defense switched. Alvin drove right, drew the big man, and kicked to Michael in the corner.
Michael rose for a three.
The buzzer sounded.
The ball arced. Too high. Too flat.
Clang.
Game over. 64-63.
Alvin stood at midcourt, breathing hard.
The Michigan commit walked over. "Good game, Chen. You almost had us."
"Almost doesn't count."
"Not here. Not anywhere."
Michael limped over. "My fault. I should have made that shot."
"No one makes every shot." Alvin put a hand on his shoulder. "We're 1-1. Tomorrow's games decide everything."
---
That night, Alvin sat in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling.
His phone buzzed.
Observer (Maya): You played well today. Not perfect. But well.
Alvin: We lost the second game.
Observer: You lost. That's different.
Alvin: The unknown texter was in the stands. Watching.
Observer: I know. I saw them.
Alvin: Who is it?
Observer: I don't know yet. But I will.
Alvin: What if they try something tomorrow?
Observer: Then you deal with it. You've dealt with worse.
Alvin put the phone down. He closed his eyes.
One more day. Two more games. Scholarship on the line.
He said it again. Out loud.
"I'm ready."
He said it until he believed it.
Then there was a knock on his door.
He opened it. Michael stood there, his knee wrapped, his face pale.
"I can't sleep."
"Me neither."
"The traitor. The texter. It's too much."
Alvin thought about it. "Remember the first time we played together? The redirect that hit you in the face?"
Michael almost smiled. "Yeah."
"You caught it. Everyone else would have dropped it. But you caught it. That's why we're here. Because you catch what no one else can."
Michael looked at his hands. "I've dropped a lot since then."
"You've caught more."
They stood in silence for a moment.
"Same time tomorrow?" Michael asked.
"The court," Alvin said. "Don't be late."
- Writer
