Page 140 of Bad Prince
She’s the only thing that’s ever felt real.
And that might be the problem.
My alarm goes off at 4:45 a.m.
Not because my coach demands it.
Because I do.
The basketball house is quiet at that hour—dark hallways, the hum of the industrial fridge in the kitchen, someone’s sneakers left by the couch like a forgotten afterthought.
I don’t trip over them.
I step around them.
Routine.
Protein shake.
Black coffee.
Cold water on my face.
By 5:15, I’m in the weight room.
Locked in.
The mirrors don’t interest me.
The numbers do.
Reps.
Explosiveness.
Vertical.
Sweat drips down my spine before sunrise.
By 7:00, I’ve showered, eaten, and reviewed film from last season.
By 9:00, I’m in a lecture hall, front row, laptop open, notes typed with precision.
The guys notice.
“Ohhh, Vale’s in monk mode.”
“Yo, you’re so locked in, bro. Other teams are cooked.”
“Stanford Final Four loading…”
I smirk but don’t engage.
Kane bumps my shoulder once in passing.
“Good energy,” he mutters.
That’s approval in our language.
