Ant had always been clear about one thing with the people he trusted—loyalty wasn’t a flexible thing to him. It wasn’t just a matter of showing up on the court or playing your role in the locker room. Loyalty meant honesty. It meant transparency, even when the news was uncomfortable, even when the stakes were high. So when the offseason noise started picking up and the usual rumors began to swirl—whispers of possible trades, front office moves, and “restructuring”—Ant wasn’t surprised. He had seen enough seasons, enough storylines, to know the NBA was a business before anything else. But that didn’t mean he’d become numb to it.
He respected the game too much to not care. He respected his teammates too much to not feel something when their names were thrown around like chips at a poker table. But most of all, he respected his own name. And if anyone was going to put it in a headline, it had better come with a phone call first.
So when he sat down across from Shams that afternoon, the message was simple. Direct. There was no preamble, no small talk. Ant looked him square in the eyes and said, “If I ever get traded, you better tell me before I see it on Twitter.”
It wasn’t a joke. Shams smirked at first, maybe expecting a laugh, but Ant didn’t blink. His tone didn’t waver, his expression didn’t shift. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t emotional. He was just setting a boundary in the only way he knew how.
Ant had been through enough already in his young career. He’d come into the league with the usual doubts that follow any top pick—was he mature enough, focused enough, committed enough? Could he lead a franchise, or was he just another highlight reel waiting to fade out? But he’d proven the doubters wrong, and he did it the hard way. He showed up every night. He put in the work. He said the right things even when it would’ve been easier to feed the media machine with drama. He earned respect, not just because of his stats, but because of how he carried himself.
So when trade talks started to brush his name—not even as the centerpiece, but just as a “possibility”—he didn’t panic. He didn’t run to social media with cryptic posts or unfollow his team’s account. He just wanted to make sure that, if the day ever came, he wasn’t finding out from a push notification like everyone else. That was all.
And he knew how the game worked. He wasn’t naive. He knew Shams and Woj and the other insiders had their jobs, had their sources, had their timelines. He knew sometimes things broke fast and there wasn’t time for formalities. But still, there was a right way to do things. At least in his book. So when he said what he said, he meant it. It wasn’t about clout. It wasn’t about trying to control the media. It was about respect.
Shams nodded slowly, taking it in. He understood the message, even if it put him in an awkward position. Journalists lived and died by their scoops. But Ant wasn’t asking for a favor. He was making a request as a man. A simple heads-up. A direct line. A second or two before the world found out, so he could process it, call his family, talk to his agent—something. Anything but seeing his name trending before he even had a chance to breathe.
Ant wasn’t the first player to feel that way, of course. Players all around the league had stories of learning they were traded while in the middle of practice or sitting in a film session. Some heard it on the plane, others from reporters asking for a quote before they even got the call. It was dehumanizing, no matter how you sliced it. But Ant wasn’t going to let that be his story. Not if he could help it.
The conversation with Shams ended cordially. No tension, no drama. Just mutual respect. And in the weeks that followed, the league continued to swirl. Players moved. Picks changed hands. Some deals shocked the fanbase. Others were telegraphed for weeks. Ant kept working. He trained, he studied, he showed up where he was supposed to be. He didn’t chase the rumors; he kept his circle tight and his focus tighter.
Still, he wasn’t blind. He saw the narratives forming. Some fans speculated that maybe the team needed to reset. Others whispered about big names being on the table. Ant’s name popped up occasionally—always as a “what if” or a “hypothetical”—but he kept receipts. He saw who said what, who framed things which way. He didn’t hold grudges, but he didn’t forget either.
And in the back of his mind, he kept thinking about that one conversation. That one line.
If I get traded, I want to be the first to know.
The truth was, Ant didn’t think it would happen anytime soon. He was locked in. The front office knew what he brought to the table. The city loved him. He was a face, a voice, a leader. But nothing was guaranteed. You could be a franchise player one day and packing your bags the next. He’d seen it happen to others, and he’d be a fool to think he was immune.
But that wasn’t fear talking. That was maturity. That was growth. Ant had learned not to trust the surface of things. He didn’t put faith in vague promises or general assurances. He paid attention to actions, to patterns, to energy. And more than anything, he paid attention to how people handled moments of truth.
Because that’s when character shows. Not in press conferences or highlight clips, but in the quiet moments—when the cameras are off, and someone has to make a phone call they don’t want to make. That’s what mattered to him.
And if Shams—or anyone else—decided to drop that tweet before he got the call, well, that said everything Ant needed to know about the industry. About the loyalty people talked about but didn’t always practice. About the difference between being informed and being respected.
The season ahead would be a big one. Whether he stayed or got moved, Ant was going to be Ant. That meant showing up, playing hard, and leading with integrity. He wasn’t going to change who he was just because the business side of the league got messy. But he did want clarity. And that conversation, as brief as it was, had been a step toward it.
In the end, it wasn’t really about a scoop. It wasn’t about who got the news out first or who broke what story. It was about one man asking another for the courtesy of a moment. A few seconds of dignity before the noise kicked in. A little bit of humanity in a world that often forgot these guys were more than just assets and cap space.
Ant wasn’t asking to control the narrative. He just wanted to hear it before the hashtags. And really, that wasn’t too much to ask.
He didn’t know what the future held. He didn’t know how the team would look in a year or who would be wearing the jersey next to him. But he knew who he was. And that counted for something. Maybe everything.
So when the next trade season came around, and the speculation started again, Ant didn’t flinch. He didn’t make statements. He didn’t tweet. He didn’t need to. He’d already said what needed to be said.
And if the call ever came, it wouldn’t catch him off guard.
Because he’d already made it clear:
Respect me enough to tell me first.
