“Would you stop fucking leering at me? I don’t do camp groupies.” He thrust a hand out, pointing behind me. “I want a ball. Now.”

I snapped to attention, jerking around. I grabbed a ball and thrust it at him. “Here.”

He took it and rotated swiftly on his feet, pushing the ball to the ground in a bounce as he stepped over it at the same time. He began dribbling as he went to the court—so smoothly, so naturally, it was like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Legend.

L-e-g-e-n-d.

There was a sign-out sheet campers were supposed to use when they took equipment, but sorry, Keith. No camp policy for this guy, though I did scribble his name on the paper. My hand was trembling so much it looked like a chicken scratch.

Oh well.

It’d have to do.

He ignored me and began shooting hoops. He’d toss the ball up. It’d go through the basket, with a nice swishing sound, and he’d grab it off the first bounce to follow with a quick layup.

I was riveted.

My whole body had been shaking, but he kept going, and going, and going, and after what must’ve been an entire hour, I felt calm.

I almost wanted to freak out, realizing that, but nope.

Watching him play, the same motion over and over and over again, was soothing. He had such control every time he touched the ball. He never struggled. The ball answered his commands seamlessly, as if connected to him through a mental string.

The room was rippling with the power he had, but as I relaxed and lounged back against the wall, I began to pick up what else was coming off of him. And I felt anger. His anger. His bounces were hard and forceful. His shoulders were tense, so was his jaw as he kept his head bent down.

All pro players were phenomenal athletes, but when Reese was on the court, he was different. I should know. I watched him enough. He could move the ball around like it was magic, sending it through legs, outstretched arms, and behind his own back. There were times when he was in the Reese Zone, as the announcers liked to call it, when he almost toyed with his opponents. He could send off a quick round of sharp and abrasive dribbling, then suddenly, whoosh, that ball was either in the air or in the hands of his teammate and his defender had barely blinked.

I watched him for another hour, and he never slowed down.

Bounce, bounce, pivot, then up for a layup. Sometimes, he fell back and tossed it up in a pretty arc, what would be a teardrop shot or a floater. Other times, a hard hit against the backboard. Just over and over again.

A quick rebound.

Or back to the three-point line.

The free-throw line.

He just kept on.