The pressure did not ease with time. It multiplied.
By the end of the week, Marcus's schedule no longer felt like his own. Breakfast meetings replaced quiet mornings. Phone calls filled the spaces where training used to breathe. Every conversation carried the same question, dressed in different words.
When will you decide?
He still trained. That was the one thing he refused to give up. No matter how late the night ran or how many interviews stacked up, he was at the court before sunrise. The ball did not care about contracts or sponsors. It only responded to honesty.
Hammond watched him closely.
One morning, after Marcus finished a long shooting session, Hammond sat beside him on the bench. "You are quieter lately," he said.
"I'm thinking," Marcus replied.
"That can be dangerous," Hammond said gently. "Too much thinking pulls you away from your instincts."
Marcus wiped his hands on his shorts. "Everyone wants a piece of me now. Clubs. Brands. Media. Even people who never knew my name."
"And what do you want?" Hammond asked.
Marcus opened his mouth, then stopped. The answer did not come easily anymore.
That afternoon, he met with an international club representative. The man spoke smoothly, confidently, sliding papers across the table.
"We play in packed arenas every week," he said. "Champions League. Global exposure. You would not just be a player. You would be a star."
Marcus scanned the contract. The numbers were staggering.
"And my role?" Marcus asked.
The man smiled. "You will earn it. But understand, we already have a system. You will need to fit into it."
That word again. Fit.
Later that evening, a sponsor dinner stretched late into the night. Polite laughter. Expensive food. Carefully chosen compliments.
"You inspire people," one executive said. "Your story sells hope."
Sells.
Marcus nodded, thanked them, left early.
He walked instead of calling a car. The city felt different now. Familiar streets carried unfamiliar weight. Posters flashed faces of athletes he once admired. He wondered how many of them had stood where he stood now, believing they could handle it all.
At the café near the station, Lena was waiting.
She noticed it immediately. "You look tired," she said.
"Not from training," Marcus replied.
They sat quietly for a while, the hum of the city filling the gaps.
"My parents asked me something today," Lena said carefully.
Marcus tensed. "What?"
"They asked if I would move if you signed abroad."
He looked down. "And what did you say?"
"I said I do not plan my life around contracts," she replied. "I plan it around people."
That hit him harder than any offer.
"But they don't see it that way," she continued. "To them, this is your peak. Your chance to secure everything."
Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I'm scared of choosing wrong," he admitted. "Not of failing on the court. I know how to survive that. I'm scared of winning and losing myself in the process."
Lena reached for his hand. "Then don't let anyone rush you. Not clubs. Not sponsors. Not my parents. If this rise is real, it will not disappear because you took a breath."
That night, Marcus turned down three calls.
The next morning, he did something unexpected.
He went back to the village.
No cameras. No announcements. Just a borrowed car and a long drive down familiar dusty roads. Children stopped their games when they saw him. Old men stared from doorways. Whispers followed him like shadows.
He walked to the old court. The hoop still leaned slightly to one side. The net was frayed. The ground uneven.
He bounced the ball once.
The sound grounded him.
This was where everything had been stripped away. Where pride had died. Where excuses had run out.
A few boys gathered nearby, watching silently.
"Can you show us that move?" one finally asked.
Marcus smiled and nodded.
He played with them for an hour. No pressure. No cameras. Just joy and sweat and laughter.
When he left, an old man called out, "Do not forget where you learned to fight."
Marcus did not reply. He did not need to.
By the time he returned to the city, the noise felt clearer. Not quieter, but clearer.
That evening, he called Hammond.
"I'm ready to choose," Marcus said.
Hammond paused. "Which offer?"
Marcus looked out at the darkening sky. "The one that lets me keep waking up hungry."
There was silence on the line.
Then Hammond said, "Good. That means you are still yours."
Tomorrow, the world would hear his decision.
But tonight, for the first time in days, Marcus slept without the weight of everyone else's expectations pressing on his chest.
He was not running anymore.
He was choosing.