By 2:00 p.m., the arena was already humming.
Camera crews circled the newly waxed court. Press badges glinted under the fluorescent lights. Photographers snapped wide shots of the Crimson Tigers' branded backdrop, while interns tried not to get in the way of the bigger names circling the space like predators.
This wasn't just a team reveal.
This was a narrative handoff—from an old dynasty of quietly funded mediocrity to a headline-grabbing legacy kid with new money and global heat.
Lucas didn't wait backstage.
He walked out onto the court through the center tunnel, in a crisp black jacket over a team-branded athletic tee. Tailored. Intentional. Not performative.
Julius followed ten paces behind, nodding at the media pit with the look of a man who'd already planned for everything.
"Mic's hot. Front row is lifestyle and sports media, back row has two business reporters. One of them's here on Frances's dime."
Lucas didn't stop walking. "Let her watch."
The players were already in their branded warm-ups, mingling just behind the cameras. Some were still watching Lucas with that subtle calculation—former athlete or not, he was still the new boss.
He turned to face the crowd.
Didn't smile.
Didn't pose.
Just picked up the mic and began.
"Good afternoon," Lucas said. "I'll keep it short. This team isn't just part of my portfolio. It's part of my story."
The room quieted.
"My first game was here. Age seven. I don't remember the score, the teams, or the coaches. I just remember the sound."
He glanced to the back row.
"The roar of people hoping something would change."
Small pause.
"We're building something now. Not just a brand. Not just a team. A movement—owned by the people who show up. Who play. Who grind. If you're here for shortcuts, you're not going to make it. But if you're here for the long haul, welcome."
Scattered applause. A few flashes.
And then it happened.
A woman near the second row stood up without waiting to be called on.
Tight bun. Gold pen. Press badge tagged to an "independent media alliance"—but Lucas already knew who sent her.
She smiled wide and asked, loud enough for the mics to catch:"Mr. Pan, your résumé's still a bit thin—just a gym teacher a year ago, now you own a team. What would you say to critics who think this is a vanity purchase?"
A few heads turned.
Julius didn't move—but his jaw tightened.
Rhea, at the back wall, tilted her head like she was already crafting the legal memo for tomorrow.
Lucas didn't flinch.
He stepped toward the edge of the mic zone, met the woman's gaze directly, and spoke clearly.
"First—I wasn't just a gym teacher."
He let the pause hang.
"I was a coach. I worked with kids who didn't care about their future until someone taught them how to earn one. I ran drills at 6 a.m. with players who had more raw heart than most executives I've ever met. I didn't just teach—I built."
He stepped closer.
"And second—if this were vanity, I'd be courtside in designer shoes."
He reached down, tapped the heel of his training sneaker. "These are fifteen months old. My knees still remember every pivot. I'm not here to watch—I'm here to work."
The reporter's smile flickered.
Lucas leaned in, voice steady.
"Vanity buys a logo. I bought a system. And I plan to win with it."
That landed.
The silence broke into applause—first from the team, then scattered through the room. Even a few of the hardline business press cracked a grin.
Julius exhaled. "That's the clip."
ATHENA's voice whispered smoothly in Lucas's earpiece."Positive sentiment spike: 18%. Public relatability curve trending upward. Term: 'coach energy' gaining traction."
Lucas turned back toward the players.
"We'll talk stats next week. Today's just about showing up."
Then he stepped off the mic and into the crowd.
Backstage, ten minutes later, Julius handed him a bottle of water and shook his head. "You were supposed to smile."
Lucas cracked the cap. "I did. Internally."
Rhea appeared, tablet in hand. "Next interview's been pushed to tomorrow. After that response, the journalist 'no longer has a clear angle.'"
Lucas drank half the bottle in silence, then finally said:
"Good. Let them find a new one."
Lucas handed Julius the empty water bottle and rolled his shoulders back, the kind of posture that said he was already done thinking about the last ten minutes.
"ATHENA," he said, voice low but clear. "What's the post-coverage window looking like?"
"Live clips are being reshared across eight major platforms. Quote of the hour: 'Vanity buys a logo. I bought a system.' Currently projected to run across at least three global sports outlets and two financial channels within the next six hours."
Julius looked smug. "Told you that line would land."
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't trying to land a line. I meant it."
"Precisely why it worked," ATHENA replied.
Rhea stepped in beside them, sliding her tablet into her bag. "You ready for what comes next?"
Lucas didn't hesitate.
"Always."
She gave him a slow nod. "Then we go tighter with the message. This wasn't just PR. This was positioning. The crowd saw you own it. The press saw you survive it. That leaves only the people still pretending you don't belong here."
Lucas's expression didn't change, but something sharpened behind his eyes.
"Then let's make them the next problem I solve."
Lucas stepped back from the press corridor, peeled off the branded jacket, and handed it to one of the interns on standby. "Locker room?"
"Down the tunnel, first right," the kid said, too fast and too nervous.
Lucas didn't head there.
Instead, he turned left—toward the court.
The team had started their open scrimmage. Nothing official. Just drills, loose sets, and high-speed passes in full view of the press, which had been asked to keep cameras off unless authorized.
Lucas climbed into the lowest seat of the empty bleachers and sat down, elbows on his knees, watching.
They weren't perfect.
But they were fast.
Smart.
They moved with a kind of hungry cohesion that said they'd been underestimated for too long and were starting to realize that might be their greatest weapon.
ATHENA chimed in quietly."This current roster has four players with subpar shooting records and above-average defensive instinct. Not star material. But they play like they've already been cut once."
Lucas nodded. "Good. I want them sharp. Not polished."
On the court, one player—a second-string guard—caught a bad pass mid-air, dropped to a knee, and still managed to sling it back into a clean assist that turned into an easy layup.
No celebration.
Just reset and hustle.
Lucas smiled, just a little.
"These are my kind of people."
"Unremarkable at first glance," ATHENA noted. "Until momentum exposes intent."
Lucas leaned back against the bleacher, watching the players shout, move, grind.