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The ESPN reporter, microphone in hand and an IFB earpiece tucked into her right ear, stood waiting for Aaron near the entrance tunnel as the United Center slowly continued to empty around her. Her name was Sarah Kessler; she had spent the last six years covering college hoops for the network and had interviewed more than enough freshmen to know beforehand which ones would offer boilerplate one-word answers and which ones had something genuine to say. While she waited for Aaron to clear the floor, she mentally reviewed the stat line her producer had chirped into her earpiece barely a minute prior, concluding that after a thirty-four-minute performance like the one she had just witnessed, it probably wasn't going to require much effort to get the interview to flow naturally.
Aaron walked toward her with the towel still draped over his shoulders and his Kentucky jersey thoroughly soaked in sweat, stepping into the position indicated by the cameraman without an ounce of awkwardness or pretense.
"Aaron, first of all, congratulations on the win," Sarah began with a natural smile, avoiding the artificially effusive tone some broadcasters adopted in high-profile post-game spots. "32 points, 17 rebounds, 6 assists, and 0 turnovers. How do you process what just unfolded here tonight?"
Aaron gave a measured nod before responding, as if requiring a brief second to locate the precise words rather than defaulting to the textbook script most young athletes relied on in these situations.
"It was a great team win," he said calmly, his voice significantly steadier than Kessler expected from someone who had just completed a game of that physical intensity. "Michigan State is an excellent ball club with veteran pieces who tested us from the opening tip. I'm happy to secure the victory, but what I'm taking home most tonight is what I managed to learn on every single possession."
"You were learning during the game?" Kessler asked, unable to mask a trace of genuine curiosity.
"Always," Aaron answered simply, a quiet smile playing on his face. "Every opponent teaches you something. Payne is a tremendous player, and every time he showcased a new look, it forced me to adjust. That's what I value most about a hard-fought game."
Kessler paused briefly, processing the maturity of the response before transitioning.
"Speaking of Payne, back in the first half you put together a sequence of three consecutive defensive stops that literally paralyzed Michigan State's half-court set. What were you diagnosing out there that allowed you to anticipate those looks so clearly?"
"It's just a matter of reading habits," Aaron answered with the same casual tone he might use to discuss an entirely routine activity. "Every player features certain preferences, their go-to moves, the angles they lean toward when defensive pressure mounts. Within the first two or three minutes, I started mapping out some of theirs, and from there it was simply about occupying the correct spot before they arrived."
"Sounds simple when you map it out like that," Kessler noted with a smile.
"It isn't," Aaron admitted with complete honesty. "But that's exactly what drives my passion for the game. Not the bucket itself, but everything you have to comprehend before that bucket can even exist."
Kessler nodded, then executed the pivot she knew the entire viewing audience was waiting for.
"Aaron, with everything we witnessed tonight, the question inevitably looms. You're eighteen years old, this is only your third collegiate game, and your production tonight was flat-out historic. Do you envision a near future in the NBA?"
Aaron smiled. It wasn't a nervous or calculated reaction. It was the calm, slightly amused expression of someone who had known that exact query was coming and had decided long ago precisely how he intended to handle it.
"We'll see," was all he offered, his delivery leaving zero leverage for a more elaborated response.
Kessler waited a beat to see if he would expand. He didn't.
"Is that it?" she asked with a smile, hovering midway between professional surprise and genuine admiration.
"For now," Aaron confirmed with his signature composure.
The interview spanned barely three more minutes, with Aaron fielding every prompt with the identical combination of honesty and economy of words that had defined his performance on the floor. He expressed gratitude for the Big Blue Nation support, acknowledged his teammates' execution, extended words of respect toward Michigan State's coaching staff, and never once allowed any of the prompts to disrupt the balance he had maintained since stepping up to the mic.
When the cameras cut and Kessler wrapped up with a handshake, she found herself tracking his stride back toward the locker room for a second longer than necessary.
In various pockets across the country, that interview was monitored by individuals whose entire livelihoods depended on identifying exactly that type of presence. The Director of Scouting for the Cleveland Cavaliers watched it from a hotel room in New York, where he had been tracking the game on tape delay while reviewing background files on other prospects. The Assistant GM for the Orlando Magic streamed it in the front-office break room, halting his current task to instantly pull up Aaron Reed's profile within their internal scouting database.
Up in the United Center stands, Gar Forman didn't miss a single second of the broadcast either. He had remained anchored in his seat while the bulk of the crowd filed out, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the stadium's jumbotron where ESPN was feeding Aaron's remarks in real time.
When Aaron delivered his "we'll see" regarding the NBA draft with that placid smile that barred any forced interpretation, Forman turned his head slightly toward his assistant, Tom, who was still seated two rows back.
"Do you have anything compiled on him yet?" he questioned.
"I've been on it since you logged the request, Mr. Forman. You'll have the complete file in your inbox first thing tomorrow morning," Tom answered.
Forman nodded without expanding further and returned his attention to the monitor, where the interview had concluded and the ESPN desk analysts were beginning to dissect the night's box score with the reverent tone reserved for a talent that didn't fit neatly into any pre-existing scouting categories.
Derrick Rose, who had remained seated alongside Jimmy Butler through the entirety of the broadcast, waited until the feed cut to commercial before speaking.
"Did you catch how he handled the NBA question?" he asked Jimmy with a smirk.
"'We'll see,'" Jimmy repeated, his expression blending amusement with something closely resembling respect. "That kid knows exactly what he's doing at all times. On and off the hardwood."
Queens, New York
Back in the apartment, Melissa had kept her eyes glued to the screen from the exact moment the interview commenced, with Paola by her side and Mía fast asleep on the sofa, having surrendered to fatigue during the final minutes of regulation.
"Look at him," Paola said in a low voice, pointing toward the screen where Aaron was addressing the reporter's questions with that eerie composure. "It looks like he just wrapped up a routine practice, not what he actually pulled off out there tonight."
"He's been that way since he was little," Melissa responded, her voice slightly strained by the emotion she had been internalizing all evening. "I have never once seen that boy lose his composure over anything."
Héctor, who had remained quiet over the final stretch while tracking the interview with the same intensity he had dedicated to the game, chimed in as the reporter recanted Aaron's final statistics.
"32 points and 17 rebounds," he repeated under his breath, as if needing to hear the numbers in his own voice to fully accept them. "I watched him play as a kid on the neighborhood blacktops. This exact same kid. And now I'm sitting here watching this."
"Do you remember when he took down that older kid at Rucker Park?" Paola asked, glancing at Melissa.
"He was thirteen," Melissa recalled with a smile. "And he just went about it like it was nothing, completely devoid of swagger."
When the reporter pressed regarding the NBA and Aaron issued his brief "we'll see," Héctor let out a loud chuckle from the far edge of the couch.
"That kid," he said, shaking his head with a grin. "He's got the whole world demanding answers, and he answers them with two words."
"Because he doesn't require any more than that," Melissa said, her smile mixing deep pride with something that felt very much like nostalgia. "He has always known exactly what he wanted, and exactly how much he needed to vocalize to secure it."
The interview wrapped up, the ESPN feed cut back to the central studios, and Melissa retrieved her phone from the cushion. It was eleven-twenty at night in New York, meaning it was ten-twenty in Chicago. She drafted a brief text before deciding to simply place the call directly.
The phone rang twice before Aaron picked up.
Locker Room
Aaron was seated on the bench in front of his locker, his change of clothes already on and his sneakers still unlaced, when he felt the phone vibrate inside his duffel. He noted the name flashing on the display and answered immediately.
"Hey, Mom," he said, his tone dropping into a noticeably softer register than the one he had maintained throughout the evening.
"Son," Melissa responded from the other end, and within that singular word lay everything his mother had no intention of elaborating further on. "How are you holding up?"
"Good. Tired, but good," Aaron answered honestly. "Did you guys catch the whole thing?"
"Every single second," Melissa said. "Paola and Héctor too. Mía fell asleep during the final minutes of the second half, but she was awake for almost the entire game."
Aaron smiled upon hearing that.
"How is she doing?"
"Fast asleep on the couch like nothing happened," Melissa laughed. "She was babbling the whole time, pointing at the screen whenever they mentioned your name. I think she already knows who you are."
"Or she just knows we're family," Aaron countered gently.
A brief, comfortable silence settled between them—the kind that only materializes between people who have spent a lifetime communicating in the same language without needing to fill every void with words.
"I'm proud of you," Melissa stated finally, her voice firm and free of unnecessary decoration. "Not because of the points or the rebounds. Because of how you went about it. With your head. With respect. Exactly how we raised you."
Aaron took a beat before answering.
"Thanks, Mom," he said simply.
Across the locker room, Julius Randle strolled past him with a massive grin, delivering a friendly slap to his shoulder without a word, and Aaron tracked him with his eyes for a brief moment before returning to the line.
"Hey, Mom," Aaron said after a beat. "I noticed Hannah didn't return my texts. Have you guys heard anything from her?"
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line.
"I sent her a message before tip-off to let her know," Melissa answered carefully. "She told me she was buried studying for an exam. Said she'd try to check the box score later tonight."
Aaron didn't offer an immediate response. Melissa waited, adding nothing further, allowing her son to process the information at his own pace.
"Right," Aaron said finally, his tone flattening out into a neutral register that revealed very little. "She's busy. It's normal."
"It is," Melissa stated simply.
Another silence followed, shorter this time.
"I'll call tomorrow when things quiet down, we still have a lot of post-game media and logistical stuff to clear out here," Aaron said. "Tell Paola and Héctor I say hello."
"I will. And Aaron..."
"Yeah?"
"What you said in the interview, the 'we'll see' part..." Melissa paused. "I liked it. You sounded exactly like yourself."
Aaron didn't respond with words. But Melissa, who had spent years learning to decipher her son's silences, knew precisely what that quiet meant.
"Take care of yourself, son."
"Always."
He tucked the phone away and remained seated for a moment on the locker room bench, listening to the ambient chatter and laughter of his teammates echoing around him. Julius was arguing animatedly with Andrew Harrison regarding which of their sequences constituted the play of the night. James Young was playing the replay of his first-half corner three on his phone with the volume maxed out. Someone had synced a Bluetooth speaker to one of the lockers, and a track was beginning to thud over the general din of the celebration.
Aaron observed it all from his quiet corner, his elbows resting on his knees and his gaze drifting down to the white-tiled locker room floor of the United Center. He thought about the call with his mother, the slight hesitation before she addressed the question regarding Hannah, and the unsaid dynamics that remained floating between them at the end of the conversation.
Then his mind drifted to Payne tracking him down on the hardwood after the final horn, and the brief, genuine handshake shared between them. To Calipari delivering a simple "great job" with the stark economy of a coach who knew those two words were entirely sufficient. To Forman up in the executive tiers, arms crossed with the calculating look of someone already operating three sequences ahead of what his eyes had just processed.
He weighed it all for approximately ten seconds.
Then he stood up, unlaced his sneakers, and began quietly preparing for the charter flight back to Lexington.
It was precisely how he had envisioned it would feel, and simultaneously entirely distinct from anything he could have anticipated. He was acutely aware that tonight—with all its statistical history, post-game media availability, and family check-ins—marked merely the absolute beginning of something far greater than any box score could ever quantify.
Authors thought
What did you think of today's chapter? Give me your opinions and thoughts.
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