The arena looked different when you were on the floor.
From the bench, the lights felt distant. Everything beyond the hardwood blurred into static. But now, as Zoran stepped onto the court with 9:43 left in the first quarter, the brightness hit him like a camera flash. Thousands of eyes. Dozens of cameras. And one giant scoreboard tracking every mistake in real time.
His jersey didn't feel like a dream anymore.
It felt like weight.
CJ McCollum brought the ball up. The Pelicans were running a tight motion set, trying to isolate Ingram at the elbow. Zoran called the switch early, rotated off the pick, and shaded left just as Ingram pivoted.
The ball didn't even reach him.
Deflection. Dinwiddie grabbed it.
Fast break. One pass. Zoran caught it in stride and rose, flipping it off the glass with a soft touch before Herb Jones could close.
Two points.
No celebration. No stare-down.
He just sprinted back on defense.
On the next timeout, Jason Kidd clapped him on the back—not hard, just enough to be felt.
"Stay grounded. Keep cutting. You're seeing the floor well."
Zoran nodded. "Watching film paid off."
Kidd smirked. "It always does."
The assistant coaches murmured among themselves. Bryan Gates passed along a tablet with tracking metrics. Zoran had the best plus-minus on the floor so far.
But no one wanted to say it out loud. Not yet.
It was still early.
By halftime, he had logged 11 minutes, 6 points, 2 steals, and 3 assists. His impact wasn't loud—it was mathematical. Efficiency. Clean rotations. Safe passes. Smart reads.
The game wasn't about highlights.
It was about leverage.
And that's exactly how Zoran played.
In the locker room, while everyone refueled and refocused, he sat quietly by his locker. Spencer Dinwiddie leaned over, sweat still beading off his brow.
"You don't get flustered, huh?"
Zoran looked up. "Only thing that rattles me is poor spacing."
Dinwiddie laughed. "You're a damn robot."
"No," Zoran said, "I just know what I'm here for."
He meant it.
He wasn't trying to be the spark.
He was trying to be the solution.
When he checked back in late in the third, the Mavericks were down by eight. Valančiūnas had been bullying them on the boards, and the energy was dipping. That's when Zoran made the read that changed the game.
On a missed free throw, he darted inside before anyone boxed out, ripped the rebound from behind Ingram, and kicked it straight out to Klay for a transition three.
Bang.
Next possession, he ghosted behind the defense off a backdoor cut. Dinwiddie found him. Layup.
The Pelicans called timeout.
The crowd started chanting again.
It wasn't his name. Not yet.
But it was noise. And noise meant they were paying attention.
By the final whistle, the Mavericks had clawed back and won by three.
Zoran's stat line: 12 points, 5 assists, 4 steals, 1 turnover. +10 plus-minus.
It wasn't historic.
But it was solid.
And more importantly—it was noticed.
As he walked off the court, Coach Kidd gave him a nod.
"Keep playing like that, and we won't need to talk about your contract situation again."
Zoran didn't smile.
He just nodded and walked straight to the locker room.
This was only game one.
And he had no intention of fading back into the background.