Mamba Mentality

0.8 points. 0.4 rebounds. 0.2 assists. Those were your average stats from your rookie year. Headlined by "A Kingdom of Zeroes for The Emperor," with a grainy photo of you looking lost on the court.

Another one caught your eye, bigger: "Emperor of the Ladies: All-Star Off-Court?" - A picture of you at a college party, surrounded by scantily clad girls.

The words hit you hard. Every headline, every bad quote, a fresh sting. It was all true. You'd missed shots. Your defense was bad. The pressure had made you fall apart. You were supposed to be a star to save this Hawks franchise. Instead, you were a failure story.

You looked up at Xavier, your agent, sitting on the couch with you. "Look, man," he said. "The GM's talking. They're not giving you a new deal. They think you lost your hunger in the big leagues, spending too much time with the girls and not enough time with the rock. They want to cut you to clear up salary space."

You tried to speak, but no words came out.

"Hold up," Xavier said, holding up a hand. "I fought for you. Told 'em about your work, your potential, how those injuries messed you up. I even got 'em to agree to something else: There's a big 1-on-1 cash tournament next week in Atlanta. You win that, that'll make a statement to management. No excuses, no team play to hide behind. It's just you against a bunch of hungry guys looking for a job."

The words hung in the air. Tournament. 1-on-1. It wasn't a quiet tryout. This was a direct, public showdown. All those years of grinding, the sacrifices, the dream to play pro ball—all of it came down to this. You looked at the headlines again, then at Xavier's grim face. You felt ****.

Xavier smacked the couch cushion beside him. "Go train! Go hit the gym like your life depends on it. You're not the only one who'll be on the streets. Go get ready for this, Roman."