November 1st, 2024 – Dallas, TX
The morning after the win against Miami wasn't quiet.
Zoran stood by the window of his new apartment. Nothing extravagant. A mid-level unit near Uptown—bare, still with boxes in the corner. He hadn't unpacked the air fryer yet. But the place had space, natural light, and, most importantly, it was his.
His 10-day contract wasn't paying millions, but it was paying enough. Just enough to feel like he had footing. Just enough to upgrade from the team-provided hotel room.
On the counter, his phone buzzed every few seconds. Mentions. Hashtags. Twitter clips of the one-legged floater. A repost of the transition finish over Bam. A couple of fan edits calling him "Mini Kawhi."
He scrolled without expression. Then locked the phone and turned to his pull-up bar. Three sets before breakfast.
The grind was still the grind.
At the Mavs' practice facility, the energy was different. Not tense. Just sharper.
Max Christie nodded at him during warm-ups. Dante Exum gave him a dap that lingered half a second longer. Even Spencer Dinwiddie, who usually kept his distance, offered a rare compliment.
"That was some clean footwork yesterday, kid. You working with a trainer?"
Zoran shrugged. "Just paying attention."
Anthony Davis was already on the side bike. Not cleared yet, but getting close. Kyrie wasn't there today—team said he was doing film breakdowns with the coaching staff upstairs.
Jason Kidd called them in.
"Media's heating up. Don't let it get in your heads. Stay locked. Zoran—nice work last night. But don't get comfortable."
Zoran nodded. "Never do."
The assistant coach—Sean Sweeney—motioned for Zoran as the group broke out for drills.
"You're making noise, man. Keep this up and we'll have a real conversation soon. Maybe even after the 10."
Zoran didn't let himself react.
"Cool," he said simply.
SYSTEMTemporary Attribute Extension: Floor General Lite – Extended for 72 hours.New Trigger: Consistency Reward – If you record 3 games with a positive +/- and assist-to-turnover ratio above 3.0, new passive may unlock.Current Progress: 2/3.
He blinked as the data scrolled briefly in the corner of his vision. Still subtle. Still his secret.
This was how he stayed ahead. Not flashy. Efficient. Unshakeable.
Later that day, a short segment aired on ESPN.
"Zoran Vranes. 19 points, 6 assists, 4 rebounds, 3 steals in 30 minutes. Not a fluke. He's been solid through three games. But the question is—what happens when the injured guys return? Do the Mavs let him walk, or do they carve out a role?"
Kendrick Perkins chimed in. "Man, I watched the tape. That kid plays real ball. He ain't out there hunting highlights. He's about buckets, IQ, defense. Real system guy."
Stephen A. was less convinced.
"Look, I get it. It's a cute story. Kid on a 10-day. But Dallas is Kyrie's team when he's healthy. And Luka—well, Luka ain't there anymore, but they still gotta fit Davis back in. You keeping this kid means someone else loses minutes. That's the business."
Zoran didn't watch the segment live. He was on the team bus, earbuds in, rewatching clips from the last three games—his own footage.
Footwork. Shoulder angles. Defensive reads.
He scribbled notes on his phone.
"Heat trap: early at hash. Outlet pass timing must be tighter. Reaction lag = 0.3 sec."
He paused, thumb hovering over the screen. Then typed:
"Kyrie watching. Davis watching. Stay clean. No showboating. Results only."
The Mavericks weren't practicing the day before the next game. Kidd wanted fresh legs. Zoran took the opportunity to hit a private gym.
One of the team assistants, Malik, had given him a quiet tip. "361 Degrees reps are scouting you. Don't be shocked if they make a call soon."
Zoran raised an eyebrow.
"They offered equity to a couple guys overseas. Might see you as a long-term play."
Zoran nodded. He wasn't big on shoes. But equity? That meant respect. That meant they saw more than a marketing campaign. They saw blueprint potential.
That night, he FaceTimed his mom.
She answered in Spanish, face half-lit by a hallway light. "Mi campeón. Vi el partido. Estás mejorando."
"Gracias, mamá."
"¿Estás comiendo bien?"
He tilted the phone to show his sad meal prep containers.
She rolled her eyes. "Voy a enviarte recetas."
He smiled. A real one this time.
After they hung up, he turned off the lights, sat on the floor, and leaned against the wall.
He wasn't dreaming anymore.
He was building.