BILLION DOLLAR SHOT

The court was cracked. Faded white lines barely outlined the key. One of the rims leaned to the left like it had given up, and the chain net hung in patches, rusted like forgotten dreams. But none of that mattered to Andre Corbin. At midnight, under a dying streetlight humming like a wasp nest, he was here again sweating, breathing hard, and perfecting his footwork like the whole world was watching.

But nobody was. Only shadows watched Andre. And shadows didn’t sign contracts. He pivoted on one foot, launched into a step-back jumper, and sent the ball flying. It bounced off the backboard and into the net with a satisfying clank. He grabbed the rebound, reset, and did it again. Then again. And again. Sweat ran down his face like rain. His muscles screamed. But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t afford to. Because tomorrow morning, Andre Corbin would be back at SpringClean Janitorial, pushing a mop through the high-rise lobbies of people who laughed in suits.

Inside the locker room, he sat alone. No music. No teammates. Just the old sound of dripping water and a photo in his hand. A woman with soft eyes and a tired smile. His mother. The only one who still believed in him. His phone buzzed.

Teanna  – “I hope you’re done wasting time.”

Andre didn’t reply. A second later, another message came through.

Teanna  – “I can’t date a man who’s allergic to money. You clean floors. You chase balls. Pick a struggle.”

He stared at the screen. Then, for the first time that day, he let himself feel. The sting. The shame. The white-hot shame of knowing you’re good but being invisible to the people who could change your life.

He had applied for five tryouts that month. All ignored. Not because he lacked talent. But because he had no sponsor. No uncle in the system. No fancy coach to vouch for him. Just a mop… and a dream.

The next morning, Andre clocked in at SpringClean. His boss, Mr. Dalton, a red-faced man with a gut like a watermelon and a voice like sandpaper, tossed him a mop and said, “You missed a spot yesterday, star boy.”

Andre said nothing. “Oh, what, too busy pretending you're the next LeBron?”

Still nothing. “I saw your little I*******m clips,” Dalton snorted. “All six likes.”

Laughter echoed from the nearby hallway. A few other cleaners snickered. Andre swallowed hard, picked up the mop, and moved toward the elevator. He heard one of them whisper, “He cleans better than he plays, let’s be honest.”

Later that night, back on the court, Andre trained harder than usual. He wore headphones, drowning out the world with silence. One move, one jump, one clean shot at a time. He imagined the crowd. The lights. The pressure. He wanted to feel it now so he wouldn’t break when it was real.

Because someday, it would be. What he didn’t know was that across the street, in the King’s Crest Hotel, one of the curtains twitched.

Inside, Clive Madden, head scout for Elite Euro Club FC Titania, was pacing in his suite. He had just come back from a disappointing talent search. Europe’s top youth players? Overhyped. Robotic. All trained systems, no raw hunger.

Then he looked out the window. And saw something different. A kid. Alone. Practicing. In silence. He watched for ten minutes. Then twenty. Then an hour. No break. No calls. Just relentless drive. “Who is this kid?” he muttered. Clive reached for his phone. Switched on video. Pressed record.

Back on the court, Andre made a final dunk and landed hard, knees bending to absorb the shock. He looked up at the moon. “You still believe in me, Ma?” he whispered.

From her tiny kitchen two blocks away, Mrs. Corbin washed dishes and looked at his baby photo taped to the fridge. “Always,” she said.

Teanna laughed with friends at a rooftop party. “Girl, you really told him to pick a struggle?”

Teanna smirked, “He needed to hear the truth. That man was dating fantasy.”

Back at the hotel, Clive Madden stared at the video. He didn’t know the kid’s name. But something in his gut told him this wasn’t just talent. This was obsession. This was fire.

And in a world full of fakes, that was gold. He uploaded a 30-second clip to his private account and messaged his assistant: “Find me his name. Send this to the media whisperers. No tags. Just let the world wonder.”

Morning came. Andre’s alarm didn’t go off, because he hadn’t slept. He’d dozed off in his jersey, shoes still on. His phone buzzed nonstop. Strange numbers. Unknown DMs. He blinked at the screen.

“Are you the baller from that video?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Video?” He clicked a link and watched. It was him. That midnight session. His moves. His shots. His pain turned into poetry. And now… The world was watching.