Sinbad
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Chapter 8: The Future
🕑 Added 2025-11-18 01:05:50 +0000 UTCMarch 22, 2007 | Atlanta, Georgia – Late Afternoon
The rental sedan eased into the hotel driveway, tires crunching over sun-warmed gravel. Ethan parked the car.
In the backseat, Wanda Durant finished a story that had both moms cracking up, something about Kevin. Emily wiped the corner of her eye with a smile.
Kevin just groaned. “Y’all been slandering me for thirty minutes straight.”
Wanda tapped his shoulder. “It’s not slander if it’s true, baby.”
Ethan popped the trunk and started unloading their bags. As he moved around the car, a valet froze, mouth slightly open like he was looking at someone who’d just stepped off a billboard.
“Yo... that’s Ethan.”
Inside the lobby, it got louder.
The revolving door barely spat them out before whispers turned to murmurs, murmurs to pointed fingers.
“No way, you think they let me get a pic?.”
“Holy sh— it’s Ethan and KD.”
“Bro, they’re really here.”
Tourists. Hotel staff. Even an older couple with Final Four lanyards around their necks did a double-take. Phones came out fast.
By the elevators, two teen boys in Lakers hoodies sprinted over, sneakers squealing on tile.
“Ethan! KD! Can we get a pic?”
Kevin was a little unhappy getting bothered whilst he was family but he wouldn’t show that to fans much less kids asking for a picture. “Come here, man.”
Ethan took the phone, snapped a quick selfie with the kids.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open to a clean, carpeted hallway lined with soft gold sconces. Ethan led the way, keycard in hand, bags over his shoulder.
Emily followed slowly behind, her eyes on her son’s back.
It hit her, quiet and sudden—how much had changed.
Not in the headlines. Not in the hype. Just…in her son.
She could still see him at five years old, dragging a too-big ball through the house, dribbling in crooked rhythms against the kitchen tile. Could hear the thump of it on linoleum. The way he used to shoot rolled-up socks into the laundry basket and scream “Kobe!” like it meant everything.
Even back then, before middle school, before high school, before KD and AAU and the floodlights of ESPN — the game wasn’t a phase for him. It was the thing. The only thing that seemed to matter to her son.
And somewhere between seventh grade and his junior year, it stopped being just hers. Ethan and Kevin started playing together, and the cameras followed. Local stories turned into national segments. News anchors said his name with the same tone they used for presidential candidates. Coaches flew across the country to watch him shoot around.
They started saying the next Iverson. The next Kobe. The next Jordan.
Then came Texas.
Then came the explosion.
And somehow, through all that — the pressure, the labels, the avalanche of expectation — he was still the same Ethan she had raised to be kind and gentle.
Behind her, she could guess Wanda was probably thinking something similar.
They’d both raised boys in the shadow of loss. Her husband had died whilst Wanda’s just left. Held them through the worst. Scraped together tuition. Rent. Gas. Ate less so their kids could eat more.
And now?
Now they were walking through a five-star hotel with sons who had the entire world’s attention.
Maybe this was what grace looked like.
Maybe this was God’s way of giving something back.
Not money. Not the fame. Just the simple relief of knowing—
They made it.
.
The hotel room was calm now. Bags unpacked. Coats draped over the backs of chairs. The AC hummed faintly.
Ethan sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed as he scrolled through his phone. Kevin was stretched out on the bed, one arm behind his head, the other lazily flipping channels. Neither of them spoke. There was really no need to talk all the time.
The game was in two days.
Wanda entered first, carrying two mugs of coffee, Emily close behind with a small folder tucked under her arm.
“Boys,” Wanda said, setting the mugs down, “we need to talk.”
Kevin clicked the TV off. Ethan sat up straighter wondering what was up.
Emily settled across from them, folder resting quietly on her lap. She didn’t open it.
“We know y’all are focused right now,” she said, glancing between them. “And that’s how it should be. This is the biggest stage of your lives so far. No distractions.”
Wanda nodded. “But once the season ends, y’all know what’s coming.”
Emily offered a soft smile. “You’re both one-and-done. The world knows it. Hell, the agents know it too. That’s why our phones have been ringing off the hook.”
Ethan nodded. They’d told their moms months ago to handle all that noise — the calls, the voicemails, the emails with subject lines like “Representation Proposal for Ethan Cross” and “Kevin Durant – Lifetime Opportunity.” Big firms. Small sharks. Everyone wanted in.
But Emily and Wanda hadn’t promised anyone anything.
“We haven’t said a word to anyone,” Emily said. “Because that decision should come from you.”
Ethan rubbed a hand over his mouth, then leaned back against the couch. In his first life, he had a decent agent that got him to roosters overseas constantly so he knew how important one was.
An agent could make you a star or a cautionary tale.
In theory, they were supposed to protect you. Negotiate contracts, lock in endorsements, fend and make sure you got what you were worth. The good ones did. They fought for every clause, every bonus, every detail as that's also how they got paid.
But for every one of them, there were ten more who saw players as walking paydays.
The wrong agent could ruin everything. Sign you to predatory deals. Pocket cuts off every check. Take money under the table from brands you never agreed to. Promise connections they didn’t have. Even take your money, lie to your face and smile doing it.
Careers had been derailed before they even began.
There were agents who locked players into multi-year endorsement deals worth pennies while they collected kickbacks. Agents who stole millions through fake expenses. Agents who convinced 18-year-olds to trust them with everything then vanished when the money dried up.
They were the middlemen.
Pick the right one, and your career soared even if you were at the bottom.
Pick the wrong one… and the fall was fast.
Every player in the draft class would have to roll those dice.
Ethan leaned back against the couch again, eyes drifting toward the hotel ceiling.
In his first life, his agent had been a man named David Cortez.
David was... fine. Dependable. He knew every loophole in overseas contracts, could land you housing, a car, and a stable salary before most NBA reps even returned a phone call. Greece. Spain. Turkey. He had maps for all of them.
If you were overlooked, undrafted, or just chasing security, David was gold.
But that wasn’t Ethan’s life anymore.
He wasn’t praying for a summer league invite or a third-tier European deal. He was the deal.The hype machine around him rivaled pre-draft LeBron.
He didn’t need someone who could keep him alive.
He needed someone who could make him immortal.
Someone who could shape him into a brand.
Kobe. LeBron.
Not just a name but a lasting legacy.
Ethan sat up and looked toward his mom.
“You made a list?” he asked, already knowing the answer. If there was one thing Emily Cross didn’t play about, it was protecting her son.
Emily nodded, opening the folder on her lap. “Of course. I pulled everything—court records, tax filings, client history, payout structures, even who they vacation with. Took me 3 months but it paid off.”
She handed him and Kevin a page. Five names who she believed were the best agents around.
“They’ve repped All-Stars. No scandals. No lawsuits and they’ve all personally asked to meet with us.”
Ethan scanned the list.
Arn Tellem
→ Clients: Kobe Bryant, Tracy McGrady, Jermaine O’NealKnown for keeping clients out of drama and in control of their careers. Deep ties with Nike. Leon Rose
→ Clients: Allen Iverson, LeBron James (through Aaron Goodwin initially), Richard HamiltonThe new-age power broker. Ruthless negotiator, big on image building. Started as a lawyer, which meant he knew how to read fine print most agents skimmed. Bill Duffy
→ Clients: Steve Nash, Yao Ming, Baron Davis
Known for international ties especially in China. Global thinker. If Ethan and Kevin wanted to build an empire beyond America, Duffy opened those doors. Jeff Schwartz
→ Clients: Paul Pierce, Jason Kidd, Tyson ChandlerSeems to be respected by players but hasn’t done anything noticeable Aaron Goodwin
→Clients: Originally LeBron James, then Dwight HowardSeems to be a master of marketing. Was one of the key players to building Lebron’s image before handing it off to Leon Rose.
Ethan leaned back, thinking.
Duffy was out. He didn’t need an agent for the Chinese market. He wasn’t trying to be the next NBA ambassador to the East. Nike or Adidas would handle the international stuff once he blew up. He didn’t need a guy pitching China like it was a hidden gem.
And honestly—Yao Ming? Respectfully at his best when healthy at all, he was a top 15 to 20 player in the league but no one wore Yao’s shoes. No one studied Yao highlights. Nobody wanted to be Yao Ming. If your biggest claim to fame was that you made a generational center famous in his home country, congrats. That’s not what Ethan wanted.
Schwartz didn’t move the needle either. Neither did.
That left Arn and Leon.
Ethan didn’t need someone to babysit him. He needed someone who could help transform his hype.
He circled both names in his head.
From the bed, Durant spoke up for the first time since the conversation started as he finished reading the page as well.
“I’m not sharing an agent with you.”
Ethan looked up. “Huh?”
“I mean it,” Kevin said, sitting forward. “We’re brothers. That doesn’t change. But once we’re in the league? I want to be number one. I’m not taking the same route as you.”
It wasn’t said with venom. There was no edge in his tone. He really just wanted to be on his own. He was tired of being the second best.
Ethan nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I get that.”
They both did.
Once they entered the NBA, everything would change. It wouldn’t be college ball anymore. There were endorsement tiers. Brand loyalties. Shoe deals, contract battles, image rights. And every agent had their priorities. Their “star client.” Sharing one could get messy.
Better to draw that line now.
.
Next Morning
Ethan squinted at the faded sign above the storefront.
The red and blue barber pole barely spun. The window was half-covered by a sun-bleachedposter of Iverson from ‘01, and the door creaked every time it opened.
He took a step back. “You sure this the right place?”
Kevin just pushed the door open like it was his uncle’s spot. “Man, relax. One of the dudes at the hotel told me this was the best in the city.”
Ethan glanced up the street. Chain-link fence. Liquor store. Corner boys nodding slow from the steps. He wasn’t scared. He just wanted a damn haircut, not to get jumped. “Feels like we about to get lined up and lined up,” he muttered.
Kevin snorted. “You gotta trust the locals. Dominicans don’t miss with the clippers.”
Ethan stepped in.
Ethan squinted at the faded sign above the storefront.
The red and blue barber pole barely spun. The window was half-covered by a sun-bleachedposter of Iverson from ‘01, and the door creaked every time it opened.
He took a step back. “You sure this the right place?”
Kevin just pushed the door open like it was his uncle’s spot. “Man, relax. One of the dudes at the hotel told me this was the best in the city.”
Ethan glanced up the street. Chain-link fence. Liquor store. Corner boys nodding slow from the steps. He wasn’t scared. He just wanted a damn haircut, not to get jumped. “Feels like we about to get lined up and lined up,” he muttered.
Kevin snorted. “You gotta trust the locals. Dominicans don’t miss with the clippers.”
Ethan stepped in.
The moment the door swung shut behind them, all heads turned.
Three barbers. Five waiting customers. A kid sweeping up hair in the back. Conversations paused like someone hit mute on the world.
“Yo,” someone by the window said, straightening up in his seat. “Ain’t that…?”
Another leaned forward. “That’s Ethan and Kevin damn Durant.”
The old man in the corner with salt-and-pepper dreads gave a low whistle. “Lord have mercy, the NCAA sent royalty today.”
Kevin gave a small wave, eyes scanning for an open chair.
Ethan nodded looking around.
“Y’all hoopers got appointments?” the closest barber asked, dabbing clippers on a towel. His chair was just opening up.
Kevin shook his head. “Nah, walk-ins.”
“Say less. I got you two. Yo, June—” He jerked a chin toward the barber at the end. “Take my guy here.” He pointed at Ethan. “Kid’s got the cleanest highlight tape on earth. Give him something nice.”
Ethan slid into the chair, letting out a breath. “Just a fade,” he said. “Taper in the back. Keep the curls up top.”
June snapped the cape around him. “Say no more.”
Across the shop, a short guy in a Falcons hoodie leaned forward, phone already out. “Yo, I seen that move you pulled in the tourney. Sent that boy to the netherworld.”
A chorus of laughs and “Mmmhmm” filled the shop.
“Appreciate it,” Ethan said, settling back in the chair.
“But I gotta ask,” said one of the guys waiting near the door, folding his arms. “Since y’all in here,what’s y’all top five all time?”
The shop came alive.
Someone yelled, “Don’t start this shit again!”
Another guy near the window clapped his hands. “Hell yeah,answer the question man!”
Kevin chuckled. “Y’all don’t waste no time, huh?”
“Hell no,” said the guy in the Falcons hoodie. “So what’s up? MJ or Kobe? Magic or Bird? Shaq or Dream?”
Ethan grinned. “All-time?”
“Top five, no order,” someone clarified.
Ethan glanced at Kevin. “You go first.”
KD nodded taking his time before answering. “MJ. Magic. Kareem. Shaq. Bird.”
Safe to say no one liked it.
“SHAQ?? Over Russell??”
“Bird in the five?! Hell nah.”
“Where’s Wilt?”
“Man said Kareem like he ever watched him play.”
Kevin leaned back. “I don’t need to see him live to know he’s the all-time scoring leader.”
“Y’all youngins kill me,” an older man near the corner shouted, newspaper folded in his lap.“Ain’t seen no damn tape and think highlights is gospel.”
“Man, shut up, you probably had Dr. J as your GOAT.”
Ethan grinned. “Alright, alright. My five?”
He held up a hand, counting each off.
“MJ. Magic. Kareem. Bill Russell. Larry Bird.”
Groans.
“Here y’all go with Russell again!”
“Eleven rings don’t lie.”
“Yeah, but against mailmen and plumbers!”
The barber trimming Ethan’s sideburns leaned in. “Alright, now current players. Best in the league right now.”
“Easy,” Kevin said. “Kobe.”
“Facts,” someone echoed. “There it is.”
Ethan tilted his head. “Nah. I’m sayin’ Duncan.”
Chairs creaked. Someone audibly gasped.
“TIM DUNCAN?!?”
“Over Kobe??”
“You buggin’ bro. You disrespectful!”
“Duncan mad boring.”
“He wins though,” Ethan said calmly. “Five finals. Three MVPs. Two MVPs. All Kobe got is a scoring title. His three rings don’t even count, he was the Robin to Shaq’s Batman.”
“Talk to ‘em!” yelled an oldhead near the domino table. “That boy get it! Y’all want flash, he want rings.”
Kevin shook his head. “Kobe’s different. He got the mamba mentality.”
Ethan shrugged. “Man fuck the mabma mentality, it just means refusing to take nos and shooting 60 shots.” Of course he didn’t say what he wanted to say. Mebma mentality just means refusing no matter what in any situation. Something Kobe fans don’t like to talk about.
Voices overlapped. One guy stood up pacing, phone forgotten in his hand. Another knocked over a bottle of Barbicide gesturing about Wilt. Someone brought up Elgin Baylor just to derail the whole room.
But through it all, Ethan sat still, clippers buzzing behind his ears, watching his reflection calmly.
They came in for haircuts.
Instead, they lit a match.
And after maybe a decade, people would talk about him here arguing about his placement in history.
