The second preseason game, against Orlando, revealed further dimensions of the Spurs' emerging identity. Wembanyama dominated defensively, altering shots with his unprecedented combination of length and mobility. Vassell demonstrated his developing three-level scoring ability. Role players found comfort within clearly defined parameters.
And Markus orchestrated with increasing command—27 points, 14 assists, a performance that prompted the Magic's coach to remark in his post-game press conference: "Reinhart plays with the poise of a five-year veteran. The vision, the decision-making, the way he organizes their offense... it's special, especially for a second-round rookie."
The compliment reached Markus via team staff monitoring media coverage, but his focus remained on the process rather than external validation. Each game provided new information—defensive coverages requiring specific counters, teammates' preferences and tendencies in various situations, his own capabilities against NBA-level competition.
Between games, practice intensity increased. Pop demanded precision in execution, perfection in fundamentals. Film sessions dissected every possession with surgical detail—footwork flaws, timing issues, defensive positioning errors exposed and addressed systematically.
For Markus, the experience differed fundamentally even more from college basketball. Davidson had emphasized team concepts within a structured system; the Spurs operated at a level where individual excellence within system parameters created multiplicative effects. The standards were higher, the attention to detail more exacting, the consequences of errors more immediately apparent.
After the third preseason game—a narrow loss to Utah where chemistry issues occasionally surfaced as Pop experimented with various lineups—Markus found himself in the practice facility long after most teammates had departed. Shooting routine complete, he sat courtside reviewing game footage on a tablet, searching for patterns and adjustment opportunities.
"Still here?" came a voice from behind him.
Markus turned to find Brian Wright, the Spurs GM, approaching with casual purpose.
"Just reviewing some sets," Markus explained, gesturing to the tablet. "The stagger screen action with Wemby and Vassell has potential, but the timing's still off."
Wright nodded, taking a seat beside him. "Most guys your age are more concerned with their own numbers than team execution."
"Numbers are outcomes," Markus replied. "Process determines outcomes. Focusing on the right process makes the numbers take care of themselves."
A smile crossed Wright's face. "You sound like Pop."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should." Wright gestured toward the tablet. "Mind if I see what you're studying?"
For the next twenty minutes, they reviewed specific sequences together—Wright occasionally offering organizational perspective, Markus providing on-court context. The conversation flowed with natural ease, basketball intelligence recognized and respected on both sides.
As they concluded, Wright's expression shifted subtly. "Markus, how do you see your role developing here?"
The question seemed loaded with unspoken implications. "Whatever the team needs," Markus answered carefully. "Right now that's organizing the offense, creating for others, defending my position. As things evolve, I'll adapt."
"Good answer," Wright nodded. "But I'm asking what you want. Where do you see yourself in this organization's future?"
Markus considered the question's true meaning. "I want to lead," he said finally. "Not just as a point guard distributing the ball, but as someone who elevates the whole operation. Someone teammates trust in crucial moments. Someone who embodies what the Spurs represent."
Wright studied him silently for a moment before nodding once. "That's what we thought."
Before Markus could ask what that meant, Wright stood. "Good work tonight. Big game tomorrow against Miami—their defensive pressure will test your decision-making. Be ready."
Another instruction to "be ready"—the same phrase Pop had used after the Thunder game. Not a coincidence, Markus suspected, though the specific meaning remained unclear.
The Miami game proved transformative. Against the Heat's aggressive trapping defense, Markus displayed complete command—exploiting pressure points, finding release valves, manufacturing advantages where none initially existed. His statistical line—38 points, 13 assists, 4 rebounds, 3 steals—told only part of the story. More telling was the team's offensive efficiency with him at the controls: 130 points against one of the league's premier defensive units.
Wembanyama thrived alongside him, scoring 26 points on efficient shooting, many baskets coming directly from Markus' pinpoint deliveries. Their two-man game had evolved from promising to lethal, defenders caught in impossible choices between containment and rotation.
In the post-game press conference, Pop offered rare public praise: "Markus sees the game differently. His ability to process information in real-time, to make decisions under pressure—that's not something you can teach. You either have that level of basketball intelligence or you don't."
The comment reverberated through basketball media channels, elevating Markus's profile beyond typical rookie attention. Overnight, his social media following doubled.
Ryan called with updates about increasing endorsement interest, including preliminary discussions with major shoe companies.
Through it all, Markus maintained his routine.
Two days after the Miami game, following morning practice and his scheduled weight training session, Markus returned home to find Lisa preparing lunch, the television tuned to NBA TV in the background.
"There's my superstar son," she greeted him with a smile that still carried traces of disbelief at their transformed circumstances. "Making quite the impression on these announcers. They've been talking about you for twenty minutes."
"Preseason overreactions," Markus demurred, grabbing a water bottle from the refrigerator. "Same people will criticize just as quickly when I struggle."
"Humble as always," Lisa chuckled. "Though it is strange hearing them analyze my son like he's a stock investment or something."
Markus was about to respond when the program cut to a breaking news graphic, the host's voice rising with excitement:
"We're getting reports of a major trade developing between the San Antonio Spurs and multiple teams... Confirmations coming in that the Spurs have acquired OG Anunoby from the Toronto Raptors in exchange for Tre Jones, Keldon Johnson, and a future second-round pick... Additionally, separate deal with the New York Knicks sending Doug McDermott and Devonte' Graham to New York for center Mitchell Robinson..."
The words hit Markus with physical force. Tre Jones traded—the starting point guard, the presumptive mentor Markus had expected to learn behind, suddenly gone. Veterans and rotation players rearranged in transactions that altered the team's composition.
His phone buzzed immediately with a text from Vassell: You seeing this? Front office going all in.
Before he could respond, another notification appeared—a message from Pop himself: Team meeting. Facility. 3pm. Important.
"What does this mean?" Lisa asked, sensing the significance beyond typical roster movement.
Markus stared at the television where analysts were already speculating on implications. "It means they're not waiting," he said quietly. "They're building around me and Wemby. Right now."
"Is that good or bad?"
"It's..." he searched for the right word, "Optimitistic. They're putting a lot of faith in what they've seen so far."
Pressure, expectation, opportunity, responsibility—all concentrating into a singular reality that would become clear at the 3pm meeting. The organization was making a definitive statement about their direction and timeline. No gradual development curve, no extended apprenticeship behind established veterans.
The Spurs were declaring their future. And they were entrusting it to a nineteen-year-old point guard who had yet to play a single regular season NBA minute.
—
The team facility's main conference room had never felt so charged with tension. Players sat in various states of apprehension—veterans who had survived the transactions, rookies witnessing their first experience with the business side of basketball, staff members positioned strategically around the perimeter.
At precisely 3pm, Pop entered, followed by Brian Wright and other front office executives. The room fell immediately silent.
"Thank you all for coming on short notice," Pop began, his expression neutral but purposeful. "As you've likely heard, we've made significant roster changes today. Two trades that will reshape our team moving forward."
He gestured to Wright, who outlined the specific transactions in greater detail than media reports had provided. As he spoke, Markus studied the reactions around the room—Vassell's quiet attentiveness, Wembanyama's stoic focus, various role players attempting to determine how the moves would affect their positions in the hierarchy.
When Wright finished, Pop stepped forward again. "These moves aren't made lightly. They reflect our assessment of where this team is heading and how quickly we can get there."
His gaze swept the room before settling briefly on Markus, then Wembanyama.
"Traditionally, we'd take a developmental approach with a young core. Build slowly. Allow natural progression. But what we've seen in summer league and preseason suggests that timeline would be unnecessarily cautious."
Murmurs rippled through the assembled players.
"OG Anunoby brings defensive versatility and championship experience. Mitchell Robinson provides rim protection and rebounding that allows Victor here to play his natural position. These aren't accidental choices—they're deliberate additions that complement our core strengths."
Pop paused, allowing the implications to settle.
"This also means we're asking certain players to accelerate their leadership development. To take on responsibilities earlier than might typically be expected."
Another brief glance toward Markus.
"Specifically, with Tre Jones's departure, we're entrusting the point guard position to Markus Reinhart. Not as a temporary solution or developmental experiment, but as our starter, our floor general, the player responsible for organizing our offense and setting our defensive tone."
The directness of the statement created a momentary silence, all eyes shifting toward Markus, who maintained his composed exterior despite the surge of emotion beneath.
"Questions? Concerns?" Pop asked, opening the floor.
Jeremy Sochan, the second-year forward, raised his hand. "Coach, this is a lot of responsibility to put on rookies, even ones as talented as Markus and Victor. What's the expectation this season? Are we thinking playoffs? Development? Both?"
Pop nodded, appreciating the question's candor. "Fair point. The expectation is growth—individually and collectively. We're not setting specific win totals or playoff mandates. But we're also not accepting the traditional 'rookie learning curve' as an excuse for inconsistency or lack of execution."
He turned to Vassell. "Devin, as our most experienced starter with the team now, your leadership becomes critical. Thoughts on these changes?"
Vassell straightened in his chair. "I think it's bold. But watching Markus run the team these past games, seeing what Victor brings, adding players who know how to win... I'm excited."
More questions followed—practical inquiries about rotations, strategic adjustments, integration timelines for the new arrivals. Pop and the coaching staff addressed each thoughtfully, creating clarity around the path forward.
As the meeting concluded and players began to disperse, Pop gestured for Markus to remain behind. When the room had emptied except for them and Wright, Pop pulled up a chair directly across from him.
"This changes things for you," Pop stated simply. "No safety net. No adjustment period. Starting point guard for a team with serious aspirations."
Markus nodded, processing the full implications. "I understand."
"Do you?" Pop's gaze was penetrating. "Because there's a difference between intellectual understanding and emotional preparation. This puts you in the spotlight every night. Every mistake magnified. Every success creating higher expectations. That's significant weight for anyone, let alone a nineteen-year-old rookie."
The challenge hung in the air between them—not discouragement but a clear-eyed assessment of reality.
"Can you handle it?" Pop asked finally. "Not just the basketball aspects, but everything that comes with the position. The leadership responsibility. The media scrutiny. The pressure in crucial moments."
Markus felt something shift within him—doubt and uncertainty burning away, replaced by clarity and purpose that reminded him of his most focused basketball moments. The external circumstances may have changed, but his internal preparation had been building toward this opportunity his entire life.
He met Pop's gaze directly. "Sir, with respect, you've already made the decision. You wouldn't have traded your starting point guard if you weren't confident in what you've seen from me."
A hint of appreciation crossed Pop's weathered features. "Answer the question, Markus."
Markus took a deep breath, thoughts racing through recent events, past preparations, Hiroshi's teachings, his own capabilities honestly assessed. When he spoke, his voice carried the quiet certainty of someone who had found his purpose.
"I'm going to be the best point guard in the league."
The declaration hung in the air—not braggadocio or empty confidence, but a statement of intent from someone who had spent years methodically building the foundation for this exact moment.
"A year from now? Five years?" Wright asked, testing the assertion.
"I didn't specify a timeline," Markus replied evenly. "But I know what I'm capable of. I know what I've prepared for. This isn't an accident or lucky break—it's the opportunity I've worked toward since I first understood what basketball could be."
Pop and Wright exchanged a glance, some unspoken communication passing between them.
"Then prove it," Pop said simply, standing to signal the conversation's conclusion. "Starting tomorrow. New pieces arriving. Regular season one week away. Time to show everyone what we already believe."
As Markus left the facility, the Texas sunset painted the sky in brilliant oranges and purples, the vastness of possibility stretching before him like the endless horizon.
The organization had placed its faith in him—not as a development project or future consideration, but as an immediate cornerstone.