December 1, 2013
The team bus crossed the Queensboro Bridge shortly before two in the afternoon, the Manhattan skyline unfolding to the left like a curtain drawn open specifically for that exact sequence. The sky was crisp and clear—a rare premium for December in New York—and the midday sun made the skyscrapers gleam with that sharp, cold clarity unique to the city in the wintertime.
From his window seat, Aaron surveyed the landscape with a tranquil smile that bore no resemblance to the expressions of the guys around him.
Julius's reaction was pure, unadulterated awe. His nose was nearly pressed against the glass, his eyes wide as he tracked every new skyscraper materializing on the horizon.
"Man, this place is massive," Julius muttered to no one in particular.
James's gaze was more calculated—the look of someone accustomed to major markets but acutely aware that this venue operated on a different scale. He held his phone up, capturing snapshots of every passing block.
"Is that the Empire State?" James asked, gesturing toward a distant silhouette that, from their current angle, could have been anything.
"No," Aaron answered without even turning his head, carrying the effortless precision of someone who had spent his entire life identifying his city's landmarks by their shifting geometry from various vantage points. "The Empire State is further south. That's the Chrysler."
James nodded, continuing to snap photos.
Andrew Harrison, seated two rows back, had remained entirely silent since the team bus cleared the tarmac. It wasn't that the city failed to impress him; rather, his mind was already locked onto the game plan for tonight, processing the matchup best in total silence. Aaron understood his backcourt partner well enough to leave him to his thoughts.
The bus pressed south along the FDR Drive, flanked by the East River on one side and the Midtown high-rises on the other. Aaron watched the neighborhoods roll past with that distinct blend of familiarity and detachment that only surfaces when returning to a place that once defined you, but no longer feels identical—because you are no longer identical either.
Williamsburg. DUMBO. The Manhattan Bridge peeking over the rooftops of the Lower East Side. He recognized every mile before they even reached it, like someone scanning a book memorized in childhood, already anticipating the text on the following page.
Nobody on the bus caught him smiling during that stretch. But he did.
"You grew up out here, right?" Julius asked, turning toward him without completely breaking his gaze from the window.
"In Queens," Aaron replied. "Just across the bridge."
"How's it feel being back?"
Aaron weighed the question for a brief beat before offering a response.
"Good," he said simply.
Julius lingered for a second, anticipating an elaboration. When Aaron offered no further commentary, Julius shifted his focus back to the window.
Thirty minutes later, the bus pulled up to the curb of the hotel where the team would anchor before returning to Lexington the following morning. It was a four-star establishment in downtown Brooklyn, a brisk fifteen-minute walk from the Barclays Center. The squad disembarked in their standard sequence while the equipment managers handled the luggage haul.
Aaron was among the final few to step off. Several of his teammates had already cleared the entrance and were processing their check-ins by the time he navigated the revolving doors of the lobby, his duffel slung over one shoulder and his backpack secure. The lobby was expansive, featuring polished marble flooring and a warm architectural glow that contrasted sharply with the overcast gray settling outside. It was the exact tier of hotel he had never set foot in as a kid when he used to cross the bridge from Queens to run floor in Brooklyn.
He spotted them before they registered his presence.
Melissa was standing near one of the lobby lounge chairs, cradling Mía in her arms with her eyes fixed on the entrance. Paola stood directly beside her, a vibrant smile already taking shape before Aaron fully cleared the threshold. Héctor, positioned a couple of paces back, stood with his arms crossed, wearing that familiar, grounded expression Aaron knew by heart.
Aaron dropped his duffel onto the nearest vacant chair and walked directly toward his mother.
The embrace lasted for several seconds. Melissa didn't utter a word. Neither did Aaron. There was nothing left to articulate that the embrace hadn't already communicated with absolute precision.
"You look good," Melissa said as they pulled apart, framing his face with both hands and looking him squarely in the eyes with that analytical depth mothers perfect over the years. "Leaner, but good."
"Same as always, Ma," Aaron responded with a relaxed smile.
Paola wrapped him up next with her signature high-octane energy, firing off three distinct updates simultaneously. Aaron fielded them all with the seasoned patience he had developed over years of living under the same roof as his aunt.
Héctor extended a firm, steady hand, locking eyes with him for a quiet moment.
"Pride," he said simply.
It was the precise word for the moment, and both of them recognized it.
Then Aaron turned his attention to Mía, who was observing him from her mother's arms, her eyes wide as she clutched a plush bear tightly against her chest.
"Hey there, princess," Aaron said softly, leaning down to her level.
Mía evaluated him for a beat, then reached out a tiny hand toward him, let out a soft babble that defied translation but carried the distinct energy of someone who had a lot to communicate.
"I think she recognizes you," Paola noted with a grin.
"Of course she recognizes me," Aaron replied, gently gripping the infant's hand with two fingers. "I'm the only seven-footer who comes to visit her."
A wave of laughter rippled through the circle. Even Melissa, who had been fighting back emotion for the last ten minutes, let out a genuine laugh.
They spent about twenty minutes catching up in the lobby—just enough time for Aaron to get a quick briefing on the neighborhood dynamics since his departure, for Héctor to pitch a brief update on his current workload, and for Paola to deliver a highly detailed breakdown of a dispute with the third-floor neighbor, whose identity Aaron mapped instantly based on a two-word description.
At some point, Mía drifted off to sleep in his arms without warning, the way infants do. Aaron held her securely for a few minutes without shifting his stance, just watching her, before carefully transferring her back to Paola's arms.
The reunion concluded precisely when the team's pre-game itinerary mandated. Aaron was fully aware that Calipari allowed a certain degree of flexibility regarding family visits, but he also knew the formal team meeting was locked in for four o'clock, and the clock was ticking.
"I'll see you guys in the stands tonight," he told them, retrieving his duffel from the lounge chair. "Tickets are held under Melissa Reed at the will-call window. I already cleared it with staff."
"We'll be there," Melissa said.
"Did Hannah confirm?" Aaron asked casually, keeping the inflection entirely neutral.
Melissa and Paola exchanged a lightning-fast glance—the exact kind that passes between people who have thoroughly discussed a topic before the subject enters the room.
"She texted us this morning," Melissa answered. "Said she wouldn't miss it."
Aaron nodded. He didn't push the subject further.
"Tonight," he repeated, turning toward the elevator banks where the rest of the roster had already vanished.
Barclays Center, Brooklyn
Hannah arrived at the Barclays Center at a quarter past seven, flanked by her friend Vicky, her Columbia scarf wrapped securely around her neck to buffer against the biting December wind whipping down Atlantic Avenue with zero hospitality.
Vicky had spent the entire subway transit formulating the exact same inquiry in various iterations.
"But seriously, how did you score these tickets?" Vicky pressed, eyeing the passes Hannah held tightly as they navigated the security line. "Do you have any idea what these are pulling on StubHub right now? They're trending at two hundred dollars minimum for the nosebleeds."
Hannah offered a quiet smile, holding back the answer to let the suspense build for an extra beat.
"Do you have a connection?" Vicky nudged.
"Something like that," Hannah said finally, slipping the tickets into her coat pocket.
"Something like that? What does that even mean? Do you know someone or not?"
Hannah didn't counter. She simply continued her stride toward the main entrance, sporting that serene, slightly amused expression Vicky knew all too well—the one that invariably signaled she wouldn't extract another syllable of data until Hannah decided the timing was right.
Vicky let out a theatrical sigh and kept pace.
Once through the turnstiles, they passed security and headed up toward the lower bowl. Vicky had to weave past a cluster of die-hard fans clad in Kentucky blue, hoisting signs emblazoned with REED in bold, block letters.
"Is the atmosphere always this electric for college hoops?" Vicky asked.
"No clue," Hannah admitted.
The interior of the Barclays Center welcomed them with the ambient heat and roaring white noise of an arena that had been filling to capacity for hours. The tiers were practically packed, with Kentucky's signature blue dominating the visiting allocation, while Providence's black and white was scattered across the remaining sections. The environment featured an energy distinct from what Vicky anticipated for a midweek college showcase; it carried a charged, heavy intensity that extended far beyond standard athletic rivalry.
"Why is the draw this massive?" Vicky questioned, scanning the arena as they followed the usher down toward their row.
"Aaron Reed," Hannah stated simply.
Vicky blinked, turning to her.
"The Kentucky big man? The kid from Queens?"
"That's him."
The seating was premium—fourth row, sideline alignment, offering an unobstructed view of the paint. Vicky stared at the seats, then at Hannah, then back down at the hardwood.
"Hannah," she said deliberately.
"Don't ask," Hannah countered, taking her seat and unknotting her scarf.
Vicky dropped into the adjacent seat with the expression of someone harboring a thousand questions and the absolute certainty that she wouldn't receive a single answer for the foreseeable future.
In the neighboring section, just two rows down, Melissa settled into her seat with Mía resting in her lap while Paola and Héctor anchored the flanks. Guided by pure instinct, Melissa scanned the adjacent rows to her right and spotted Hannah evaluating the surrounding crowd.
Their eyes locked.
Hannah smiled first—that familiar, slightly reserved smile of hers. Melissa countered with a warm one of her own, gesturing toward the vacant space to her left.
Hannah muttered a quick brief to Vicky, they gathered their things, and within a minute, the group was unified in the same row. Melissa greeted her with a brief, genuine embrace. Paola bypassed all formalities with her usual high-energy welcome, while Héctor offered a firm handshake and a grounded smile.
Vicky, anchored at the edge of the row, watched the entire exchange unfold, her eyes widening by the second as Paola enthusiastically broke down who everyone was.
"Wait, so you're Aaron Reed's girlfriend," Vicky said once Paola wrapped up her breakdown, staring at Hannah with an expression caught between absolute shock and sheer amusement.
Hannah didn't offer a direct confirmation. She simply sat back, adjusted her scarf, and shifted her gaze toward the hardwood where the players were wrapping up their warm-up lines.
Paola and Vicky locked eyes for a brief beat.
"Welcome to the inner circle," Paola said with a grin, giving the newcomer a reassuring pat on the arm.
On the floor, both programs were finalizing their pre-game routines as the arena audio engineers cranked the volume on the sound system. The massive jumbotron overhead began flashing the projected starting lineups alongside their seasonal analytics.
The official public address announcer for the Barclays Center gripped the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Barclays Center in Brooklyn for tonight's showcase between the Providence Friars and your Kentucky Wildcats."
The booming acoustics filled every square inch of the venue.
"Starting for the Kentucky Wildcats," the announcer began, dialing into that specific cadence PA announcers reserve for moments when they know the name they are about to project will trigger an absolute eruption. "At center... from Queens, New York..."
The roar initiated before he could even close the sentence.
"...Aaron Reed!"
The Barclays Center exploded. It wasn't the uniform, synchronized roar of a fanbase backing their program; it was that raw, distinct acoustic wavelength produced when a crowd comprised primarily of people from the exact same city recognizes one of their own. It was deeper, more visceral, and entirely more personal than any other ovation registered all evening.
In the fourth row, Hannah clapped with both hands while Vicky just stared at the floor, completely stunned by the volume.
Out on the hardwood, Aaron heard his name filter through the rafters alongside the massive wall of sound. He raised a hand briefly toward the tiers without tracking any specific face in the crowd, executing the gesture with the same calm, unbothered precision that dictated his entire existence.
Then, he strolled toward the center circle with that measured, deliberate stride that had become as much of a signature trademark as his literal height.
The referee stood at the logo, gripping the leather, waiting for both big men to lock into their alignments.
The Providence center navigated the circle and established his stance directly across from Aaron, looking up slightly across the three-to-four-centimeter height deficit separating them.
Aaron didn't offer a glance back. His eyes were locked entirely on the leather.
And inside the Barclays Center—packed to the final upper-tier seat with people who had navigated their way from Queens, Brooklyn, and the Bronx to watch one of their own run the home floor—the crowd held its collective breath for one silent beat before the ball went up.
Authors thought
Based on your responses, I see that many of you want him to be divorced or married, so if you haven't voted yet, there's still time. Also, please leave more suggestions in the comments, such as whether you want his wife to be someone else.
What did you think of today's chapter? Give me your opinions and thoughts.
For football fans, check out my other fanfic, *The Golden Standard*, and discover the story of Wyatt Sterling.
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