With the FBA draft coming up, and head coach Jackson Price having returned from being... elsewhere most of the summer, he and assistant coach Randall Yoster meet up to review draft candidates and see who they like.

But, they end up reviewing a bit more than just potential players, it turns out.

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“Thank you, Clarice, and sorry about the late hour. I hope I didn’t wake up Taylor,” Randall Yoster (Border Collie, Asst. Coach) said to Clarice Price (Fisher) with a soft smile.

“Oh, don’t worry, Randy,” Clarice assured him. “Taylor’s probably still up finishing his homework. Do come in, Jack’s in the theater.”

Yoster nodded, crossing the threshold into the Price’s mansion once he’d been properly invited in. “My thanks again, Clarice. And I must say, it’s been nice to see you and Taylor down at the training center. That boy’s really starting to shoot up like a weed! Gonna be tall as his father, I reckon.”

“Well, he’s certainly got the appetite of a growing boy, that’s for sure,” Clarice laughed, taking Randall’s coat. “And despite what Jack says, I’m letting him go out for the basketball team at school, this year.”

“As well he should,” Randall nodded. “He’s what, almost thirteen, now? Physical exercise and teamwork is good for a boy his age. He’s welcome at the training center any time, as are you, Clarice. And if Jack don’t like it, I’ll take his cane.”

Clarice laughed again, shaking her head. “Well, Jack’s due for a lot of changes, having been gone all summer and leaving me with Taylor. But don’t you worry about us. Now, can I get you something to drink before you go join him in the theater? You’ve had dinner, I’m guessing?”

Yoster patted his stomach, not quite as firm as it once was back when he had first met Clarice. “That I did. But some coffee would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Guessing it’s going to be a late night?” Clarice asked with a smirk.

“Reviewing players with Jack; that’s never a short process,” Yoster chuckled.

“Well then, you head on down and get started. I’ll bring a pot of coffee and some snacks before too long,” Clarice replied. “Now, go on, you boys have work to do.”

“I’m-a getting’, I’m-a getting’!” Yoster laughed. With a light hop-skip he started off down the hallway before settling into his usual ambling pace.

The Price’s mansion was large and extravagant, mostly due in part to Jackson’s expensive tastes and his desire to provide the best for his family, but it never pressed on into the realm of the flambouyant. And every now and then, flashes of jeuvenile eccentricity made their appearance, such as the chalkboard under the “Now Playing” sign nailed to the theater door. Yoster stopped, getting a slight chuckle at the words “Fresh Meat!” written in chalk before turning the handle and letting himself in.

The theater lights were dimmed, but by the light of the screen Yoster could see the outline of all twenty-eight seats, and recalled the last time he'd been there. It was for the playoffs, after the Spectrums were out of the running. The whole team had come to watch the games - well, those who could make it, at least - and they'd laughed and joked, ate and drank and made merry. Those were better times than this, as now it was just himself and Jackson Price (Fisher), the head coach, GM and majority owner of the team.

Jackson didn't hear the door open, and Yoster watched him study the player on the screen, making notes on a yellow, lined notepad. On the table before him were a stack of DVDs and Blu-Ray discs, as well as a bowl of pretzels and a bottle of scotch with two glasses. Of the many regrets Randall Yoster had about his work with Price back when he was a player on the Huntville Mayors, having introduced him to fine scotches was one of his biggest. Still, there was no harm in alcohol in moderation, and so the old border collie didn't make a big fuss.

"Any winners so far, Jack?" Yoster called out as he walked down the aisle to the first of four rows of seats, taking a seat beside Pice.

"Oh, hey there, Randy, didn't hear you come in," Price smiled. "Yeah, got a few, I think."

"Li Ho Fook?" Yoster asked, then snagged a pretzel.

"Yeah, he's on the list, but there's a few more," Price replied. "Pour yourself a drink; we're gonna be here for a while."

"Nah, I'll wait," Yoster waved a paw. "Clarice is coming with a pot of coffee soon."

"Oh, that'll be nice," Price nodded.

"Speaking of nice, loving the new brace you got yourself there, Jack," Yoster said.

Price looked down at the carbon fiber and titanium exoframe surrounding nearly all of his right leg, and he knocked on its glossy black surface with his paw. "Yeah, it, well, it really helps. I'm stayin' good on my meds."

Yoster smiled, sinking back into his cushy, leather seat. "Good to hear. Though I will be checking on you once a week, like you agreed."

"I know, I know. I'll be good, Randy," Price smirked. "So, you want to go through all of them, or just the short list?"

"Well, I've got my own list, so let's see how it compares to your short list," Yoster replied.

Price smiled, sipping his scotch. "Sounds like a plan, old man."

For the better part of the next four hours, the pair sat and watched highlight reels and game footage, as well as interviews with the players themselves, and their bio tapes. Clarice brought a second pot of coffee, as well as some cold lamb sandwiches, but left the boys to their work. One by one, the discs from their short-lists were sorted into three piles: rejects, top-notch, and maybe.

Primary focus seemed to be on forwards and centers, but a good backup shooting guard wouldn't be out of the question, either. In the end, though they seemed to agree on their thoughts on each player, until Price pulled out one more disc.

"Saved the best for last, Randy," the fisher said with a grin before slipping it into the drive mounted into the armrest of his seat.

"Who's this? I don't have any more on my list," Yoster asked.

"You'll see. I like this one," Price simply smiled.

The DVD had rather poor video quality, obviously shot with a handy-cam at its beginning instead of a university's professional cameras, and at first it was difficult to tell just who the subject player was. But as soon as he came into focus on the screen, everything suddenly made sense. Yoster's face lost its humor as he watched a tall, powerful fisher playing with solid defense and great effort on the University of Michigan court.

"No, Jack, you can't have him," the border collie said, not even waiting to watch more.

Price leaned back in his seat and he scoffed, "Like hell I can't. He's perfect. We're taking him."

"No, you're not. Not that one, Jack," Yoster growled.

"And why not? You haven't even watched him play!" Price snapped.

"Look at him, Jack!" Yoster shouted pointing at the screen. "Just look! That's why!"

"Yeah, he's another fisher, that's awesome," Price said.

"And that's why you can't have him! I know this kid, Jack, and I know you. I won't allow it," Yoster fired right back.

"Who said I was even asking your permission?" Price growled back. "Look at him. He's my size, he doesn't back down, and he's hungry for that shot to prove himself. I see so much of myself in this kid, I'd be crazy not to take him."

Yoster stared straight into Price's eyes as the video continued to play. "No, Jack. No," he said.

"And why the f*ck not?!" Price roared.

"Because you'll destroy him, Jack!" Yoster snarled back, his hackles raising. "You don't see that kid up there on that screen, that... Scott Paulichek (Fisher, F, Draft candidate), you see yourself up there! But that's not you! Not even close!"

"But he could be! Just think about it!" Price countered.

"I did think about it, from the moment I saw him in the draft pool!" Yoster snapped. "This kid has amazing defense, yes, better than you ever had, but he can't shoot worth sh*t and he doesn't have that spark you did!"

"Then I'll work with him on his shooting!"

"And what about passion? Can you give him passion, too?" Yoster shook his head.

"He wouldn't be playing the game if he wasn't passionate about it," Price said, his voice cold and flat.

Yoster snorted, "Not this one. I know about this kid, Jack. He's in it for the money, for security for his family. He'll do whatever you tell him if that'll keep him in the game longer."

"And that's why he's so perfect!" Price exclaimed.

"For anyone but you!" Yoster shouted. "You'll take that boy and you'll work him so hard that you'll destroy whatever passion he's got in him for this game, and you'll make him into a soulless machine! I know you, Jack! I know how you work! You'll make a good boy into a monster!"

"Where the hell do you get off saying that to me, Randy?" Price snarled, standing up.

Yoster, while nearly a full foot shorter than Price's 6'10" height, stood up and still managed to seem fully in Price's face. "Because I f*cking trained you, you jack*ss! All those slick moves you started pulling halfway through your first season? Those didn't come from your college playbook, those came from me! I made you, you son of a b*tch, and I f*cked you up while I was at it, and I can see the damage it's done!"

Price paused, his mouth hanging open. At last he blinked. "Wait, what?"

Yoster sighed, then slumped back into his seat. "Oh, don't get me wrong, I couldn't just transform you into something else, but I saw something of me in you, and I encouraged that, I brought it out of you, and put into you things that weren't there before. But this kid, this Paulichek, he's not like you. If you go down this path, you'll be ruining a good man who just wants to provide for his family, just to stroke your own ego. Please, Jack, don't do it. If you want a fisher to look after, you've got a son who misses you."

"Don't bring Taylor into this," Price warned.

"Why not? He's your son, I was there when he was born, and I've been at most of his birthday parties. He's played with my grandkids, and he's a good boy. But he needs his father, Jack," Yoster said. "You resented your father for never being there for you, don't make him do the same. He's going out for his basketball team, did he tell you?"

"He's not playing basketball, I've already discussed this with Clarice," Price grumbled. "He's going to focus on his education."

"Sound familiar?" Yoster asked, a fuzzy eyebrow raising.

"Huh?" Price asked.

"Your father did the exact same thing to you. But you rebelled, and b-ball was your way out," Yoster replied. "But Taylor's not rebelling, he's trying to make you proud of him. And he's been coming to the training center. I've seen him play. He's good. Real good. But I think he could be great if he had his dad there to guide him."

Price went silent for a while, sinking back into his own seat. The images of Scott Paulichek playing an iron wall of defense played out on the screen, but Price didn't see them. At last he sighed and pressed the stop button.

"Randy, I appreciate your insight into players," he said, then his tone grew dangerously cold, "But don't you ever try and tell me how to raise my son."

"I'm only trying to help, Jack," Yoster replied. "I am his godfather, after all."

"And I'm his real father!" Price snarled.

"I think we're done, here, Jack," Yoster said, standing up and taking the half-empty bottle of scotch. "Just remember, I'm here because you asked me to be. Both tonight as your friend, and as your assistant coach. But if you keep acting like this, I'm not sure I want to be either of those things."

"Oh, come on, you know I didn't mean it that way, Randy," Price whined.

"Yeah, Jack, you did," Yoster replied. "You need some sleep, so do I. Get to bed; I'll see you tomorrow at the facility. We'll do proper notes on these kids then." Yoster pointed at the stacks of player videos.

Price didn't say anything as Yoster left, instead just sitting there in silence. By the time he left the theater, Yoster was long gone, and Price couldn't stop turning over what his old friend had said. Closer now to sunrise than sunset, the fisher limped down his hall toward his bedroom, though he stopped along the way to gently crack open the door to Taylor's room.

There Price stood, just watching his son's chest rise and fall as he slept so peacefully. In that moment, everything felt safe, felt right. He'd provided for his wife and son, and knew that they would never want for anything, but as he looked closer at Taylor's room, unfamiliar objects and posters began to stand out. There had been changes, Taylor was growing up, and Price knew it. He just wished he knew how to relate with his son, as he had never known how to relate to his own father.

Maybe Yoster had been right. Maybe Taylor should play ball. After all, if he really was good, then in ten years there would be another fisher deserving of an FBA spot.

But that could wait. The hour was late, and Price found himself yawning wide. Quietly closing the door, Price headed on to his own bedroom, where his wife made room for him in bed with little fuss, and he made sure to kiss her good night before succumbing to the realm of dreams, himself.

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