Draft Pick | Dave East

Before the crowds screamed his name, before the league talks and the magazine covers, he met her.

Calista Marchand.

Not the kind of girl you run game on.

She was sharp where it counted, soft only when she wanted to be. Real Brooklyn - pretty in the face, slick with the mouth, and solid with her hands if you stepped wrong. She kept her circle small, her loyalty tighter. The kind of woman who knew how to turn silence into safety and side-eyes into shut-ups.

Men feared her. Girls tried to be her.

She didn't chase, didn't fold, didn't need nobody.

Until Ibrahim Montaigne walked into her life like he had all the time in the world.

He didn't come with sweet nothings or flashy promises - just steady presence. Intent in his eyes, patience in his chest, and something rare behind the way he looked at her. Like he saw through the polish and the fire, like he knew the woman behind the defense.

He didn't try to tame her.
He studied her.
Let her be exactly who she was.

The shift was slow.

She still fought when needed, still had a rep in the streets and in the salon chair. But somewhere between nursing exams and late-night block parties, she started saving parts of herself just for him. The quiet parts. The delicate ones. The ones nobody else got close to.

And when she crossed that graduation stage, RN-BSN stitched behind her name and her grandmother crying in the crowd - he bragged harder than anyone.

Didn't care who was listening.

Forget MVP, forget the championship rings.
She was the win.
She was the headline.

The girl from Brooklyn with spitfire in her lungs, gold in her smile, and a softness only he ever got to see.

This isn't a story about being chosen.
It's about choosing each other.

No fairytales.

Just Brooklyn grit and a love that never let go.