Ken Ken
India watched him, her eyes searching his face. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft and uncertain. "I just... I need time to think about this. To make my decision."
Arell nodded, relief and anxiety warring within him. "Alright," he managed to croak out. "Yeah, take... take the time you need."
An awkward silence stretched between them. Arell shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly feeling out of place in the bustling warehouse. "I should... I should probably go," he said, gesturing vaguely towards the exit.
India nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. "Okay. I'll... I'll call you."
Arell turned and walked away, his feet feeling like lead. As he pushed through the warehouse doors into the cool night air, the reality of the situation hit him anew. "Wow," he breathed, running a hand over his face. "Just... wow."
He blinked, and suddenly the world around him shifted. The warehouse disappeared, replaced by the confines of an airplane cabin. Arell found himself seated next to Kenny.
Kenny leaned in, his voice low. "Bro, this is crazy. How you feeling?"
Arell stared out the window at the clouds below, his reflection ghostly in the glass. "Confused," he admitted. "I don't even know where to start processing all this."
Kenny nodded sympathetically, then abruptly changed the subject. "Enough of that heavy stuff for now. You ready for your mixtape?"
The sudden shift threw Arell for a loop. "Oh, right. Yeah, I guess. What about you? How's the recovery going?"
Kenny grinned. "The physiotherapist Geoffrey got says we'll go through a recovery plan. Should be back in shape in no time."
"That's great," Arell said, a small smile breaking through his preoccupied mood. "You changed your mind on the Atlanta college, right? You need to be going to a better place."
Kenny's grin widened. "Well, let me break some news to you. Geoffrey pulled some strings. Apparently, I'm gonna play in the G League."
Arell's eyebrows shot up. "What? How did Geoffrey pull that off?"
"Bro, you're a millionaire," Kenny laughed. "Apparently, the College Park Skyhawks are down bad with injuries right now. Geoffrey made a tiny…donation, and now I'm gonna play there until the end of the season."
"That's good," Arell said, genuinely impressed. "And if that doesn't work out?"
"I can play a regular college season," Kenny shrugged. "But that starts all the way in fall, so this makes more sense for now."
Arell nodded, a surge of pride for his friend washing over him. "Kenny, you know you're insanely good at basketball, right?"
Kenny's confident smile softened slightly. "I know. I just gotta make sure I pop off on 'em."
"I dead think you can make the NBA," Arell said, conviction in his voice.
Kenny looked thoughtful. "Not soon, though. The draft is in June, I won't have enough time to impress."
A lightbulb went off in Arell's head. "Summer league, bro. That could be your chance to shine."
The conversation faded as the plane began its descent into Atlanta. Soon enough, Arell found himself standing in front of his house, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He took a deep breath, savoring the familiar scent of home.
"Home sweet home," he murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the emotions still churning inside him.
Pushing open the front door, Arell made his way through the house, his footsteps echoing in the quiet space. He dropped his bag in his room before heading out to the garage, drawn by the pull of his makeshift studio.
As he stepped into the space, Arell's eyes roamed over the mismatched equipment and haphazard setup. "I'm gonna need to get this renovated," he mused, envisioning the possibilities. A proper soundproofing system, maybe even expand into the house a bit...
Shaking off the daydream, Arell pulled out his phone and fired off a quick text to Post Malone: "Yo, I'm back in ATL. Pull up to the studio when you can."
With that done, Arell settled into his chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Meanwhile, across town, Kenny found himself in a SUV with Malik and Geoffrey, the city passing by in a blur outside the tinted windows.
Geoffrey's voice cut through the silence, his tone businesslike. "Now, Kenny, it's crucial that you don't overload yourself. This is a big opportunity, but we need to approach it strategically."
Kenny nodded, his knee bouncing with nervous energy. "I got it, Geoffrey. I won't let you down."
"We know you won't," Malik chimed in, clapping Kenny on the shoulder. "You got this, bro."
As Geoffrey navigated the Atlanta traffic, he continued outlining the plan. "We've arranged for a top-notch physiotherapist to work with you. Dr. Amelia Rodriguez. She's worked with several NBA players in the past, so you'll be in good hands."
"What about training?" Kenny asked, leaning forward in his seat. "I don't want to go in cold."
Geoffrey nodded approvingly. "We've thought of that. You'll be going through an intensive training program to get your skills back up to speed. It'll be tough, but it's necessary if you want to make an impact in the G League."
The conversation flowed easily as they made their way to the facility, discussing the team's current lineup, recent performance, and Kenny's potential role. As they pulled into the parking lot of the College Park Skyhawks' training facility, Kenny felt a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbling up inside him.
The trio made their way into the building, greeted by the sleek, modern interior. The smell of rubber and sweat hung in the air, a familiar scent that made Kenny's fingers itch for a basketball.
They were met by Coach Stevens, a tall man with a shaved head and piercing blue eyes. He extended a hand to Kenny, his grip firm. "Welcome to the Skyhawks, son. We're excited to have you on board."
As they toured the facility, Kenny's eyes widened at the state-of-the-art equipment. The weight room gleamed with polished metal, the court shone under bright lights, and the recovery area was stocked with high-tech machines he'd only seen on TV.
"This is insane," Kenny breathed, taking it all in.
Coach Stevens chuckled. "Only the best for our players. Now, let's talk about getting you on the court."
They settled into a conference room, the contract laid out on the table before them. As Geoffrey and the team's lawyer went over the details, Kenny found his mind wandering, imagining himself in a Skyhawks jersey, making game-winning shots.
"Kenny?" Geoffrey's voice snapped him back to reality. "Are you ready to sign?"
Taking a deep breath, Kenny picked up the pen. This was it - the moment his life would change forever. With a flourish, he signed his name, making his dream official.
Cameras flashed as Kenny shook hands with Coach Stevens, holding up his new jersey for the photos. The number 23 gleamed on the back - Michael Jordan's number. It felt like a good omen.
As they left the facility, contract signed and future secured, Kenny felt a weight lift off his shoulders. He was one step closer to his dream, and he was determined to make the most of this opportunity.
Back in the SUV, Malik threw an arm around Kenny's shoulders. "Look at you, man! A professional basketball player!"
Kenny grinned, still riding the high of the moment. "It doesn't feel real yet."
Geoffrey met his eyes in the rearview mirror, a rare smile on his face. "Oh, it's real. And this is just the beginning. Remember, Kenny - work hard, stay focused, and there's no limit to how far you can go."
<>
"Alright, Post," Arell said, spinning his chair to face the lanky figure slouched on the leather couch. "Let's run it back one more time."
Austin Richard Post, nodded eagerly. His long hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and his face bore the scruff of several days without shaving. Despite the laid-back appearance, there was an intensity in his eyes that Arell had come to recognize – the look of an artist fully immersed in his craft.
Arell queued up the track they'd been working on, a slow, melodic beat with a heavy bassline that seemed to pulse through the floor.
Then Post opened his mouth and began to sing:
"Old hoes, new stars, funny how life changes who you are
Mama saw me shining, said I've come so far
Dreamed it all since I was young, nothing seemed bizarre"
Arell felt a chill run down his spine. There was something raw and honest in Post's voice, a quality that couldn't be taught or manufactured. It was the kind of voice that made people stop and listen, really listen.
As Post continued through the verse, Arell found himself lost in thought. He remembered the first time he'd heard Post sing, how he'd been struck by the unique blend of hip-hop and melodic vocals. It was unlike anything he'd heard before, and he knew instantly that Post had something special.
The track faded out, and Post's voice came through the intercom. "How was that?"
Arell snapped back to the present. "That was fire, man. Let's run it back one more time, just to be sure."
As Post started the verse again, Arell pulled up his mental interface, scanning his latest stats:
Flow: 74
Voice: 75
Lyrics: 73
Production: 83
Performance: 84
Freestyle: 71
Songwriting: 75
He frowned slightly. The numbers were good, no doubt about it, but the progress in his higher stats had slowed considerably. It was like pushing against an invisible barrier, each incremental improvement requiring more and more effort.
"Gotta keep pushing," he muttered to himself, so quietly that the mic didn't pick it up.
"What's that?" Post asked, catching Arell's movement.
"Nothing," Arell said quickly, closing the mental interface. "Just thinking out loud. That last take was perfect, by the way. Why don't you come out and we'll listen to it together?"
Post emerged from the booth, his face flushed with the exertion of singing. He flopped down onto the couch next to Arell, grabbing a bottle of water from the mini-fridge as he did so.
"Man, I still can't believe this is happening," Post said, shaking his head in wonder. "White Iverson just hit 500K on YouTube. It's insane."
Arell nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "Geoffrey's got the magic touch, that's for sure. But don't sell yourself short – you've got something special, Post. I knew it from the first time I heard you sing."
Post ducked his head, a hint of red creeping into his cheeks. "Thanks, man. I owe you guys everything. Being part of Infinity... it's a dream come true."
"You're family now," Arell said, his voice soft but firm. "We look out for our own."
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, listening to the playback of Post's latest take. As the track faded out, Post turned to Arell, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"These beats are fire, man. I've been meaning to ask – do you produce these yourself?"
Arell nodded, unable to keep a hint of pride from creeping into his voice. "Yeah, every beat I've played so far was made by me."
Post's eyes widened in surprise. "No way! That's incredible, man. You're like a triple threat – rapping, singing, producing. Save some talent for the rest of us, yeah?"
Arell laughed, but there was a part of him that took Post's words to heart. He'd always been driven, always pushing himself to improve, to be better.
"Hey," Post said, breaking into Arell's thoughts. "I've been working on something new. Mind if I run it by you?"
Arell leaned forward, instantly alert. "Hit me."
Post cleared his throat and began to sing softly:
"Used to be invisible, now I'm in the limelight
Jumping out the Benz, seeing everything in hindsight
Money on my mind, yeah, it's a wild ride
Surrounded by the lights, but feeling the divide"
"Post, man," Arell said when he'd finished. "That's gold. Absolute gold. We need to get that recorded ASAP."
Post's face lit up with a mixture of relief and excitement. "You really think so?"
"I know so," Arell assured him. "In fact..." He trailed off, his mind already racing with possibilities. "Give me a sec."
Arell turned to his computer, fingers flying over the keyboard as he pulled up a beat he'd been working on. It was something he'd started late one night, unable to sleep, his mind buzzing with melodies and rhythms. He'd set it aside, unsure of what to do with it, but now...
"Alright," he said, spinning back to face Post. "I've got an idea. Let's try your lyrics over this beat. I think it could be something special."
As the track began to play, Arell watched Post's face closely. He saw the moment when it clicked, saw Post's eyes light up with recognition and excitement.
"Oh man," Post breathed. "This is perfect. It's like... it's like you read my mind or something."
Arell grinned. "That's what good producing is all about, my man. Now, let's get you back in that booth and make some magic."
As Post made his way back into the recording booth, Arell felt a surge of excitement. This was what it was all about – the collaborative process, the spark of creativity, the thrill of creating something new and beautiful.
He queued up the track, watching as Post closed his eyes, swaying slightly to the beat. Then, as the intro faded, Post began to sing:
"Yeah, they runnin', runnin', yeah
Deep end, I'm drownin', yeah
Superstar, you shine so bright (Bright)
But your glow burns me every night (Burns)
I'm runnin', runnin' from your light (Light)
Chasin' shadows, lost in twilight (Lost)"
Arell felt goosebumps rise on his arms. Post's voice, raw and emotive, filled the studio, perfectly capturing the melancholy and desperation of the lyrics. As Post continued, Arell found himself nodding along, completely absorbed in the music.
When Post finished to take a breather, Arell leaned into the mic. "That's fire, Post. Keep going, man. This is gold."
Encouraged, Post launched into the second verse, his voice gaining confidence with each line:
"Champagne tears and golden fears (Gold)
Your love's a trap, it disappears (Vanish)
I'm spiralin' down this rabbit hole (Down)
Chasin' a high that leaves me cold (Cold)"
As Post continued through the rest of the song, Arell felt a growing excitement. This track had potential - serious potential. When Post finished the outro, letting the last "burnin'" fade into silence, Arell couldn't contain himself any longer.
"Post, that was absolutely tuff," he exclaimed, grinning widely. "This track is too good to pass up. Give me a few minutes to write something."
As Arell scribbled furiously in his notebook, Post watched in amazement. Within ten minutes, Arell had a verse ready to go. He stepped into the booth, adjusting the mic as Post queued up the track.
Arell closed his eyes, letting the beat wash over him. Then, he began to rap:
"Yeah, they runnin', but I'm chasin' dreams
Nightmares turn to gold, ain't nothin' what it seems
Deep end of fame, where the sharks all swim
Lights so bright, but inside it's dim
Superstar lifestyle, but I'm feelin' hollow
Hard to swallow, fame's a bitter pill to follow
Runnin' from the truth, but it's always near
Drownin' in success, somebody throw a lifeline here
Champagne showers can't wash away the pain
Golden chains feel more like golden chains
Trapped in this game, where winners still lose
Chasin' that high, but payin' heavy dues
So we keep runnin', runnin' from ourselves
Putting on a show, our true feelings on the shelf
But in the deep end, when the cameras all go dark
That's when the real demons come to leave their mark"
As Arell finished his verse, he looked up to see Post staring at him, mouth agape.
"Bro," Post said, shaking his head in disbelief. "That was... that was incredible. How did you come up with that so fast?"
Arell grinned, feeling a rush of pride. "When the beat's right and the vibe's right, it just flows, you know? This track, man - it's special. I can feel it."
<>
Kenny found himself in a physical therapy facility. The pristine white walls and gleaming equipment were a far cry from the neighborhood basketball courts he was used to. He shifted nervously on the padded table, his injured leg stretched out before him.
Dr. Amelia Rodriguez, the physiotherapist Geoffrey had arranged, entered the room with a warm smile. "Kenny, right? I'm Dr. Rodriguez, but you can call me Amelia. How are you feeling today?"
Kenny managed a small smile. "A little nervous, to be honest. But ready to get to work."
Amelia nodded approvingly. "That's a good attitude to have. Now, I've looked over your medical records. The gunshot wound to your leg, while serious, didn't cause extensive damage to the muscle or bone. That's good news. Our main focus will be on strengthening the leg and improving your range of motion."
She sat down on a rolling stool, wheeling closer to examine Kenny's leg. Her touch was gentle but professional as she probed the area around the healing wound.
"The wound is healing nicely," she commented. "You've been following the doctor's orders for care?"
Kenny nodded. "Yeah, to the letter. I want to get back on the court as soon as possible."
Amelia's eyes met his, her expression serious. "I understand your eagerness, Kenny. But it's crucial that we take this at the right pace. Push too hard too fast, and you could set yourself back weeks, even months. Are you prepared to follow my instructions, even if it means taking things slower than you'd like?"
Kenny took a deep breath, then nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I'll do whatever it takes."
"Good," Amelia smiled. "Then let's get started. We'll begin with some gentle stretches to assess your current range of motion."
Over the next hour, Amelia guided Kenny through a series of exercises. Some were surprisingly challenging, causing Kenny to break out in a sweat despite their apparent simplicity. Others were more what he'd expected - leg lifts, gentle resistance training, and mobility exercises.
Throughout it all, Amelia kept up a steady stream of explanation and encouragement. "You're doing great, Kenny. Now, I want you to understand what we're doing here. These exercises aren't just about building strength. We're retraining your neuromuscular connections, teaching your body how to move efficiently again."
As Kenny continued through the exercises, another figure entered the room. Dr. Marcus Chen, a sports medicine specialist, nodded to Amelia before turning his attention to Kenny.
"Alright, Kenny," Dr. Chen said, his voice calm but authoritative. "We're going to run through some basketball-specific drills now. But I want you to understand - these aren't going to look or feel like your usual practice. We're going to break everything down and build it back up from scratch."
Kenny nodded eagerly, excited to finally do something basketball-related. But as they began, his enthusiasm quickly turned to frustration.
Dr. Chen had him start with the most basic of movements - simply walking across the court. But it wasn't just walking. Every step was analyzed, critiqued, adjusted.
"Heel-toe, Kenny. Feel the roll of your foot. Now, I want you to focus on engaging your core with each step. Yes, even for walking. This is the foundation we're building on."
After what felt like an eternity of walking drills, they moved on to lateral movements. Again, the pace was excruciatingly slow. Kenny found himself having to think about every tiny movement, muscles he'd never paid attention to before screaming for attention.
"Slower, Kenny," Dr. Chen instructed. "I know it feels unnatural. That's the point. We're reprogramming your movement patterns, making sure you're using the right muscles in the right way."
Hours passed, and they had yet to touch a basketball. Kenny felt sweat dripping down his back, his legs trembling with exertion from movements that would have been effortless just weeks ago.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered under his breath, frustration finally boiling over. "When are we going to do some real basketball stuff?"
Dr. Chen raised an eyebrow. "This is real basketball stuff, Kenny. Every great player has this foundation. The difference is, most of them build it over years. We're trying to rebuild yours in a matter of weeks."
Kenny shook his head, a spark of defiance igniting in his chest. "I can do more than this. Look, I'll show you."
Before either Dr. Chen or Amelia could stop him, Kenny took off across the court. In a burst of speed that surprised even him, he leapt, soaring towards the hoop. For a moment, it felt like old times - the rush of air, the rim in sight. With a satisfying thud, he slammed the ball through the hoop, hanging on the rim for a moment before dropping back to the floor.
The silence that followed was deafening. Kenny turned, a triumphant grin on his face, only to be met with stern looks from both Dr. Chen and Amelia.
"That," Dr. Chen said, his voice, "was incredibly irresponsible."
Amelia stepped forward. "Kenny, we discussed this. Pushing too hard too fast can set you back weeks, even months. What were you thinking?"
The grin faded from Kenny's face as the reality of what he'd done sank in. He'd let his frustration and impatience get the better of him, potentially jeopardizing all the progress he'd made.
Dr. Chen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I understand your frustration, Kenny. Believe me, I do. But this process - as slow and tedious as it may seem - is crucial. It's not just about physical healing. It's about building the mental fortitude you'll need to succeed in professional basketball."
He paused, letting his words sink in. "You think this is frustrating? Wait until you're in the middle of a grueling season, playing back-to-back games, your body screaming for rest but your team needing you on the court. That's when this mental toughness we're building now will make the difference."
Kenny nodded, shame coloring his cheeks. "I'm sorry. I just... I want to be back out there so badly."
Amelia's expression softened slightly. "We know, Kenny. And you will be. But you have to trust the process. This isn't just about getting you back on the court. It's about making sure you stay there for a long, successful career."
Dr. Chen stepped closer, placing a hand on Kenny's shoulder. "Your athletic ability is incredible, Kenny. That dunk? Most players couldn't do that at 100%, let alone while recovering from an injury. But raw talent isn't enough at the professional level. You need control, precision, and most importantly, discipline."
He gestured around the empty gym. "Right now, this is your court. These drills, these exercises - this is your game. Approach them with the same intensity and focus you'd bring to a championship match. That's how you'll get where you want to go."
Kenny took a deep breath, letting the words wash over him. He'd been so focused on getting back to where he was, he hadn't considered that he could come back even better.
"Okay," he said finally, a new determination in his voice. "I'm ready. Let's do this right."
Dr. Chen nodded approvingly. "Good. Now, let's get back to those lateral movements. And this time, I want you to tell me exactly which muscles you're engaging with each step."
As they resumed the drills, Kenny found a new appreciation for the subtle complexities of movement he'd always taken for granted. Each step, each shift of weight, became a deliberate act. It was still frustrating, still painfully slow, but now he understood the purpose behind it.
Hours passed, the sun sinking low in the sky outside the gym windows. By the time they finished, Kenny was drenched in sweat, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. But there was a sense of accomplishment too, a feeling that he'd taken the first real steps on his road back to the court.
As he gathered his things to leave, Dr. Chen approached him one last time. "You did good work today, Kenny. Remember this feeling. The satisfaction of pushing through frustration, of mastering the fundamentals. That's what separates good players from great ones."
Kenny nodded, a tired smile on his face. "Thanks, Doc. I won't forget."