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Chapter 3: Start of Madness
🕑 Added 2025-09-30 19:39:48 +0000 UTCMarch 15, 2007 | The Road to Spokane
The bus idled outside the Austin gym before sunrise, headlights cutting through a thin, gray morning. Players shuffled on with backpacks and duffels, the air heavy with coffee and menthol rub. Yawns mixed with low chatter, laughter muffled by nerves that no one wanted to admit.
Ethan stepped on near the front, scanning the rows. KD sprawled across two seats with his hood up, long legs blocking the aisle. A.J. Abrams already had earbuds in, head bobbing. D.J. Augustin flipped a stress ball back and forth like he was keeping time. Damion James passed out granola bars like a team dad.
Two rows back, Tristan Hale, a redshirt freshman just happy to be on the trip held up a disposable camera like it was a trophy.
“Alright, fellas, team picture before we win it all,” he said, standing in the aisle. “Smile like you actually made your free throws this week.”
Groans and laughter rolled through the bus. Damion James flexed his biceps. A.J. threw up a peace sign. D.J. Augustin covered his face with a granola bar. Even the trainers leaned in from the front.
“Yo, KD,” Tristan said, grinning as he framed the shot. “Don’t hide under that hood. People wanna see your face”
KD dropped his hood, stone-faced. “Fuck you, man. It’s too early for this.”
The whole bus cracked up. Ethan leaned into the aisle, throwing up bunny ears behind Kevin’s head just as the shutter clicked. The flash popped, and Tristan grinned like he’d won a championship already.
“Yeah,” KD muttered, shaking his head. “That one’s goin’ straight in the trash.”
Ethan slid into the seat across from him, dropped his bag, and unfolded the itinerary tucked into his notebook. Bus to the airport. Wheels up to Spokane. Hotel check-in. Open practice. Media. Film. Lights out.
He frowned. “Hm. Lot more media on this than the Big 12.”
“Means more questions I don’t wanna answer,” Kevin said, slumping back. “They gonna ask about Skip. About Stephen A. About everything.”
Ethan smirked, flipping the page. “Don’t look at me. I’m not your press secretary.”
“You’d be better at it,” KD muttered.
“Yeah, and Tristan would be better at defense,” Ethan shot back, loud enough for the bus to hear.
“HEY—” Tristan barked from the back, and the whole team exploded again.
The laughter was good. Needed. It cut the tension, if only for a moment. Because underneath it, Ethan could feel it humming: tomorrow was March. The real thing. No more warmups. No more “next game.” One and done. He’d lived this once already the noise, the cameras, the weight of knowing every possession could be the end. He wasn’t about to let these guys drown in it.
From the back, A.J. yanked out one earbud. “Yo, Cross. Tell Kevin what you told me last week.”
Ethan raised a brow. “Which part?”
“The Hunger Games thing,” A.J. said, grinning.
Heads turned. Even KD tilted his hood back a little, curious.
Ethan sighed, leaning into the aisle. “Sixty-four teams walk in. Sixty-three walk out crying. That’s March. Every possession’s a knife fight. You don’t play scared. You don’t play lazy. You play like it’s your last game, ‘cause it probably is.”
Tristan whistled. “Sheesh. Dark.”
“Yeah,” Ethan said, tossing a crumpled wrapper at him. “But that’s why it’s fun.”
The bus roared again, echoing off the windows.
Then the engine growled to life, and the whole vehicle lurched forward. Austin slid by in pale orange and silver, the city still half-asleep while the Longhorns rolled toward the airport. Toward Spokane. Toward the madness waiting on the other side.
.
Security lines. Sneaker bins. Beeping wands. The team shuffled through like cattle, hoodies up, bags slung over tired shoulders. It didn’t take long before the first cluster of fans spotted them with Texas hoodies, phones up, camera flashes bouncing off the terminal windows.
A boy no older than twelve shoved through the crowd, hat in one hand, Sharpie in the other. His voice cracked. “Kevin… can you… can you sign my hat?”
Kevin’s grin split the travel fog. “C’mere, little man.” He crouched, long arms folding awkwardly as he scribbled across the brim. The kid froze like he’d just been knighted.
Then a teenage girl pushed forward, clutching a notebook. Her eyes were huge. “Ethan, big fan… you’re my brother’s wallpaper.”
Ethan raised a brow but smiled. “Tell him I said thanks.” He signed neat and fast, already edging them toward the gate before the line swelled.
Meanwhile, Tristan was in full performance mode, holding the disposable camera out like a news anchor. “This is Tristan — the people’s champ — reporting live from Austin International. KD and Cross, en route to end lives gently with jump shots. Ma’am—” he spun the camera toward a random TSA worker, “—can you confirm you just fainted from the aura?”
The TSA agent didn’t blink. “Sir, please remove your belt.”
The whole line broke down laughing.
The trainer turned, scowling. “Tristan.”
“What?” Tristan raised his hands, still filming. “It’s positive press! We’re connecting with the community!”
Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to laugh. KD slapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking.
“Man,” Kevin muttered, leaning close to Ethan, “you sure we can’t trade him to Kansas before tip-off?”
Ethan smirked. “Nah. He’s our court jester. Every king needs one.”
Tristan, still narrating into the lens, shouted back: “I HEARD THAT. AND YOU’RE WELCOME.”
Ethan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. Tired as he was, he couldn’t fight the smile.
.
The plane hummed steady as it climbed, the team scattered into two-by-twos along the narrow aisle. KD pressed his forehead to the window, long frame folded awkwardly into the seat. Across from him, Ethan buckled in, stretching his legs under the tray.
Half the guys were already nodding off when Coach Barnes’ voice cut down the aisle.
“Alright, nobody’s sleeping yet. Pop those screens down. We’re watching.”
Groans rolled through the cabin. A.J. pulled his hoodie tight. Damion James muttered, “Man, it’s a four-hour flight.”
Barnes gave him the look. “And it’s forty minutes in Spokane if you don’t box out.”
The assistants moved through the rows, sliding DVDs into the overhead players, screens flickering to life above the seats. New Mexico State. Their sets. Their shooters. Their weaknesses.
“Pay attention,” Barnes said. “They love that stagger action left side. Two shooters curling. Don’t chase — fight through. Their five hedges high. Slip will be there. Weak side board every time. Simple. Execute. We will practice it when we land.”
KD leaned back, watching, then shot Ethan a look. “Didn’t we already go over this?”
Ethan smirked. “We’ll go over it again until you stop forgetting your box outs.”
“Snitch,” KD muttered, tugging his hood low.
A few rows back, Tristan whispered loud enough for everyone to hear: “Coach should just mic Ethan up, save the staff some work.”
“Keep talking, you won’t see the court ‘til 2010,” Barnes fired back without missing a beat. The whole plane cracked up.
The laughter died as the film rolled. Screens flickered in the dim cabin, the same sets looping over and over, curls, hedges, weak-side boards. Around him, teammates shifted and sighed, some already slumping in their seats, eyes glassy from repetition.
Ethan didn’t move. His gaze locked on the screen, steady, patient. No complaints.
He’d sat through thousands of these. Not in college gyms, but in Spain, China, Japan. Coaches shouting in broken English, rewinding the same clip until it burned into his retinas. Nights when he was the only American on the roster, the only one expected to understand every detail.
That’s what separated him now. These kids were just learning the grind. For him, this was familiar territory. That’s the feeling Ethan gave off everytime he was on the field. A veteran.
.
Spokane greeted them with cold air like a slap, breath turning to smoke. Outside the hotel, a cluster of fans had already formed, homemade posters, hand warmers, a TV crew with a fuzzy mic cover shaped like a gray bear.
“Kevin, over here! Ethan!”
A reporter slid in with a practiced smile. “Ethan, quick one how are you feeling? You’re the nation’s leading scorer and you’ve never played in this environment.”
Ethan zipped his coat and leveled a calm look. “Basketball’s still ninety-four feet. Same rim. Same ball. Pressure’s just noise.”
“Kevin,” another asked, “what’s your message to fans who think you’re too skinny to dominate in March?”
KD’s eyes glinted. “They can watch tomorrow.”
.
And watch what they did.
Spokane Veterans Memorial Arena
The place was shaking an hour before tip-off. Brass bands blasted fight songs from opposite corners, drums thundering back and forth like cannons. Cheer squads spun and flipped on the baseline. The stands were packed with fans in red, white, burnt orange, and every neutral shade in between, waving signs and chanting at anything in warmups that moved.
Reporters lined the baseline, cameras on their shoulders, muttering as they scribbled notes. ESPN guys had headsets on already, testing levels.
The Longhorns walked out, and the noise jumped.
Ethan was first to grab attention. He blew past a teammate in the layup line, spun into a reverse jelly that kissed high off glass, then came right back with a scoop underhand between two bodies. On his third trip he strung the ball between his legs, froze a defender with a fake pass, and stepped back into a fadeaway corner three. Net. Net. Net.
Phones flipped open. Flashes popped.
“Kid’s got every trick,” one reporter muttered to another. “The game hasn’t even started and the crowd’s already watching him. He can sell tickets.”
At halfcourt, D.J. Augustin grinned, slung a no-look lob, and Kevin Durant rose like a shadow across the lights. He hammered it down, the rim shaking, the crowd roaring.
KD wasn’t done. He trailed out to the hash, caught, rose smooth, and dropped a three like it was nothing. Then he drifted back to the logo, pulled again. Splash. He didn’t even blink.
Tristan jogged by, hand to his forehead like he was shielding his eyes. “Somebody tell NASA we found a sniper.”
The crowd was split, Longhorn faithful cheering every bucket, but the rest of the arena chanting back.
“OVERRATED! OVERRATED!” rolled down from the student section in waves every time KD touched it.
When Ethan danced into another stepback, the chant switched:
“BALL-HOG! BALL-HOG!”
Ethan just grinned, held a finger to his lips, and drilled the shot anyway. The place erupted, half cheering, half booing.
On the sideline, two familiar faces to fans cut through the first few rows. Gary Payton leaning forward, elbows on his knees, Jamal Crawford in a hoodie, smiling like he was back at a Seattle open run.
As KD walked by during a break in drills, Payton cupped his hands. “Yo, Slim! You supposed to be in diapers, not pulling from the damn logo!”
KD broke into a grin, jogged over, slapped hands. “Had to show Spokane what pure talent looks like, GP.”
Gary’s eyes flicked to Ethan, who had just nailed three straight pull-ups without grazing rim. “Hey, Cross go easy on them ankles, man. Trainers gonna be busy tonight.”
Ethan jogged over, towel around his neck, shook his hand. “Good to see you again, Mr. Payton.”
Gary snorted. “Mr. Payton? Don’t age me like that, kid.”
Jamal leaned in, flashing his trademark grin. “Smooth game, bro. Real smooth. That bag’s deep. You gonna be a problem in the league.”
“Appreciate it,” Ethan said smiling.“Just trying to hoop.”
KD nudged him, eyes wide, whispering like a little kid. “Bro… we got Seattle legends in the building for us. This is crazy.”
Ethan wasn't surprised by NBA players coming to the matches, this was a pretty normal thing for them. It just KD gets more starstruck than anything whilst he didn’t care the much unlike it was Jordon or Iverson which never happened.
The buzzer sounded, cutting through the noise. Players jogged back to line up for team drills. KD went with a grin still plastered across his face.
.
The lights dimmed, and a roar rolled through the building as the PA system crackled to life.
“Ladies and gentlemen… welcome to the NCAA Tournament, Round of 64! Tonight’s matchup… the Texas Longhorns versus the New Mexico State Aggies!”
The crowd thundered, brass bands dueling from opposite corners.
The crowd thundered, brass bands dueling from opposite corners, their fight songs colliding in a wall of sound. Fans waved signs, cameras flashed, and the energy inside Spokane Veterans Memorial Arena felt ready to burst.
At the broadcast table, Jim Nantz’s voice cut clean through the roar.
“Here we go, Billy. The NCAA Tournament is officially underway in Spokane. And on this floor tonight, two freshmen who’ve already rewritten the record books. Kevin Durant. Ethan Cross. The future of basketball, both wearing burnt orange for Texas.”
On screen, slow-motion highlights rolled: Ethan slicing through a double-team and finishing high off glass; Kevin rising, silk-smooth, for a fadeaway three.
Billy Packer leaned into his mic, his voice brimming with disbelief.
“That’s right, Jim. Ethan Cross, twenty-eight point four points per game. The national scoring leader as a freshman. Big 12 Player of the Year, Big 12 Freshman of the Year, Big 12 Tournament MVP. First-Team All-Big 12. First-Team All-Defense. Already named National Freshman of the Year by both the USBWA and Sporting News. And Jim, this kid’s a consensus First-Team All-American before he’s even touched the court in March Madness. Nobody and I mean nobody has ever walked in with that much hardware at eighteen.”
The feed shifted to Kevin warming up, each jumper softer than the last, net barely moving.
Jim’s tone dropped as well, he couldn’t believe the numbers he was staring at.
“And then there’s Kevin Durant. Twenty-six points. Nine rebounds. Two blocks a night. First-Team All-Big 12. Consensus All-American. Kevin Durant is everything you could ask for in a college star. And the remarkable part, Billy? He’s still only eighteen.”
The montage split-screened now: Ethan breaking an ankle on one side, Kevin draining from deep on the other.
Billy couldn’t hold back. “Together, Jim, Ethan Cross and Kevin Durant have set the freshman scoring record for teammates in NCAA history. This isn’t hype, this is production. Cross gives you fire, flair, defense, leadership. Durant gives you length, touch, poise beyond his years. And when they get rolling? There may not be a team in this tournament that can stop Texas.”
The camera panned to the huddle by the bench, Ethan at the center with a hand on Kevin’s shoulder, the rest of the Longhorns locked in. The arena swelled to a roar that rattled the camera feed.
Jim raised his voice over the noise.
“It’s the Big Dance. Texas enters as the four-seed, but with Ethan Cross and Kevin Durant leading the way, Billy — they’ve got the look of a number one.”
The announcer’s voice boomed again as spotlights swept across the hardwood.
“At guard, six-foot-one sophomore from Houston, Texas… A.J. ABRAMS!”
“At forward, six-foot-seven freshman from Nacogdoches, Texas… DAMION JAMES!”
“At center, six-foot-ten sophomore from Clear Lake, Texas… CONNOR ATCHLEY!”
“At forward, six-foot-nine freshman from Washington, D.C.… KEVIN DURANT!”
The place erupted. Durant slapped hands, spun into a shoulder-bump with Augustin, then finished with a finger-gun routine that looked effortless. Cameras flashed like lightning.
“And at guard… six-foot-five freshman from Washington, D.C.… ETHAN CROSS!”
The noise spiked again. Ethan jogged out in his white Texas jersey, the number 24 bold across his chest. Blue eyes fixed on the floor, black hair damp under the lights, his face was a mask of calm. A black sleeve hugged his right arm, another his right leg, and Kobe sneakers gleamed underfoot reminders of who he idolized, and what he owed this second chance.
(Think SGA)
He slapped palms with Abrams, clean and simple. Damion tried to pull him into a choreographed handshake, but Ethan froze halfway and settled for a quick half-hug. Atchley stuck out his hand for a snap, Ethan just gripped and released. KD shook his head, grinning, as Ethan defaulted to the same plain slap-and-go with every teammate.
On the sideline, the bench howled. Tristan cupped his mouth. “Yo, Cross, we practiced those!”
Ethan shrugged, deadpan. “Never been good at choreography.”
Front row, Gary Payton and Jamal Crawford cracked up. GP slapped his knee. “Kid’s too old school. No sauce at all.”
Jamal leaned back in his seat, grinning. “He’s white, GP. Let him keep it simple.”
Gary chuckled, wagging a finger. “Hey, long as he drops thirty, he can do the YMCA for all I care.”
The teams huddled, the arena vibrating with noise. The announcer’s final call echoed through the rafters.
“Ladies and gentlemen… let’s play basketball!”
The horn blared. Players peeled into position for tip-off.
Ethan tugged at the strap of his shorts, rolled his shoulders, and glanced at the number 24 across his chest. A reminder. A vow. No more failures.
The horn blared, and the noise hit like a wave. Banners swayed. Bands hammered their drums in rhythm, Aggie fans chanting in one corner, Texas fans drowning them out in another.
Center court: Connor Atchley crouched low, locked in. Across from him, the Aggies’ big pawed the floor like a bull.
The ball went up.
Atchley rose, fingertips brushing it clean. The tip caromed back toward the Longhorns. Before anyone else could react, Ethan Cross shot forward, snatched it one-handed, and pushed immediately.
Jim’s voice lifted with the tempo. “And we are underway from Spokane — Texas and New Mexico State in the opening round of the South!”
Billy leaned in. “And right on cue, Jim, the ball is in Cross’s hands. That’s how the Longhorns want to start every possession.”
Ethan slowed just across half, dribble tight, body coiled. His defender crouched wide, jittery feet, every nerve screaming. Ethan rocked the ball through his legs once, twice. Then — SNAP. He cut right with a violent crossover, and the defender’s ankles went. Frozen.
Ethan exploded left. Two strides. Into the paint.
And then he rose.
Right arm cocked back, blue eyes locked on the rim, Ethan hammered it through with a dunk that rattled iron and backboard both.
The arena erupted. Burnt orange fans leapt, arms high. The neutral crowd gasped, phones flying up like lighters at a concert. Even the Aggie section couldn’t help but murmur in disbelief.
Jim’s voice cracked with excitement. “Ethan Cross a statement slam to open March Madness!”
Billy practically shouted. “That is not a freshman move, Jim. That’s a man saying ‘This is my tournament!’”
On the sideline, Gary smacked Jamal’s chest. “Sheeeesh! First possession and he’s trying to rip the rim off!”
Jamal shook his head, grinning ear to ear. “Kid’s crazy but in the best way.”
New Mexico State tried to steady. Their point guard ran a high screen, pulled up from fifteen. Clang. Damion James grabbed the rebound, turned, and rifled an outlet.
Ethan caught in stride then flicked a behind-the-back bounce pass without breaking stride. Durant was waiting.
KD rose smooth, high release, three from the wing. Pure.
The arena buzzed again, a low roar like a fuse burning.
Jim filled it. “Kevin Durant from deep! And just like that, the Longhorns strike with both of their stars!”
The Aggie fans tried to drown it out. A chant started in their section. “OVERRATED! OVERRATED!”
Ethan only smiled as he brought it back up the next trip, louder boos following every bounce.
The Aggies fought back. Their forward muscled through for two inside buckets. Their guard floated one high over Atchley’s reach. The red section of the crowd swelled, roaring with every make.
But every answer lit a fuse in Ethan. A hesitation, pull-up midrange over a hard contest. Net. A spin into contact, hanging left-handed finish. And when the double came, he zipped a no-look dime to A.J. Abrams in the corner. Splash.
Billy’s voice was tinged with disbelief. “Cross is everywhere right now, Jim. He’s scoring at will, setting the table, guarding multiple positions. He’s dictating the entire pace of this game.”
By halftime, Ethan had 15 points, 4 assists, 3 boards. Durant added 11 points, 5 rebounds.
Texas jogged into the tunnel leading 40–32, the crowd buzzing like a hive, the chants still echoing.
Jim signed off as the cameras cut to commercial. “The stars are shining early. Cross and Durant with 26 combined — and Texas takes an eight-point lead into the break.”
The Aggies came out swinging in the second half. Their guards pushed tempo, their shooters found rhythm. Elijah Ingram, quick as a spark, drilled a pull-up three off a high ball screen. The next trip, Justin Hawkins leaked to the wing, caught, and buried another triple.
The arena erupted,neutral fans smelling blood, chanting “U-S-A! U-S-A!” as the underdog cut it to two.
Jim’s voice tightened with the tension. “And just like that, New Mexico State has clawed all the way back!”
“This is what March is all about, Jim. It doesn’t matter who’s got the lottery picks one hot streak, and the bracket can flip upside down.”
Texas regrouped. On the floor: Ethan Cross, D.J. Augustin, A.J. Abrams, Damion James, and Connor Atchley.
Across from them: Ingram, Hawkins, Tyrone Nelson bruising inside, Fred Peete scrapping on the wing, and Justin Hawkins hounding the ball.
The next possession, Ethan answered.
He jumped a passing lane at halfcourt, picked Ingram clean, and streaked ahead. The crowd rose with him. Ethan took flight cocked it back, spun it windmill-style, and hammered it down.
The arena detonated. Texas fans roared, Aggie fans gasped, the bench exploded. Tristan jumped so hard he nearly toppled off his chair.
“Ethan Cross! A windmill exclamation, the Longhorns are not going quietly!”
Billy nearly shouted. “That’s a statement, Jim! A momentum play if there ever was one!”
New Mexico State tried to answer, swinging to Hawkins again in the corner but Damion James flew out, swatted it into the seats. The Texas bench leapt up, towels waving.
On the other end, Durant stepped out to NBA range, smooth as silk. Pull-up three. Splash.
Jim rose with him. “Kevin Durant from deep. That could be the dagger!”
The Aggies switched to a 2-3 zone, desperate to slow them. Ethan picked it apart like a surgeon whipping crosscourt lasers to Abrams in the corner, feeding Atchley on slips, attacking seams himself for layups.
Augustin found daylight, floated one high off glass. Damion James muscled down a rebound, put it back through contact.
The lead swelled back to double digits.
Gary leaned into Jamal on the sideline, shaking his head with a laugh. “Man, these kids ain’t fair. Aggies gotta feel like they walked into a pro gym.”
Final minutes. Texas by twelve.
New Mexico State pressed full court. Ingram and Peete trapped Ethan at the timeline.
He didn’t care.
He dribbled between them, split the double, and surged forward. Midcourt crowd gasped as he lobbed softly to the rim. Durant took flight. He caught it with two hands and hammered it through, swinging from the rim as the noise split the roof.
Jim’s voice thundered. “Cross to Durant! The stars are shining in Spokane!”
Billy slapped the table. “That’s NBA talent, Jim. Period.”
The horn blared. Final score: Texas 79, New Mexico State 67.
Ethan Cross — 28 points, 6 assists, 5 rebounds, 2 steals.
Kevin Durant — 23 points, 9 rebounds, 2 blocks.
Augustin chipped in 10 points and 7 assists. Abrams added 9 on threes. Damion James? 8 points, 11 rebounds, relentless. Atchley? 4 blocks anchoring the paint.
On the other side, Hawkins led the Aggies with 16, Ingram 14, Nelson 10 and 8 boards. They fought. They scrapped. But tonight, Texas’s stars were too bright.
“Texas advances. The freshman stars deliver. Cross with 28, Durant with 23, the Longhorns survive and move on to the Round of 32.”
Billy finished it. “If tonight’s any indication, Jim, the road through the South Region is going to have to run through those two. And I’m not sure anyone can stop them.”
Comments
Victor De Paula
Nice guy that he doesn't just rely on his talent and you didn't mess around in the game it was very good and it wasn't boring
Anderson
Thanks for the chapter
l K
Tristan hales back man 🥹🥹
