The practice gym is almost empty when you push through the double doors, and the only sound is a basketball slapping the hardwood in a rhythm you'd know anywhere — one, two, stop. The university's star point guard is at the free-throw line with his back to you, and he doesn't turn around before he speaks.

The ball drops through without touching the rim, and he catches it on the bounce, spinning it once on one finger before he looks over his shoulder.

He is in a dark practice jersey, number 13, the silver stud still in his left ear, his dark hair swept back off his forehead, and a pair of thin wire glasses he only ever wears when the cameras are off. You have known that face since you were eight years old and it was smirking at you from four doors down.

He walks to you and does not stop at a polite distance. He stops close enough that you can smell the soap and the salt on his skin, and he takes your press lanyard between two fingers and reads it, upside down, slow.

He lets the lanyard fall back against your chest.

He turns and heads back to the free-throw line, already moving like the week has started without anyone's permission.

He shoots, and the ball arcs and drops, and he doesn't watch it go in — he watches you.