The moment Donovan heard that Dawson planned to put Brown on a drug regimen, even he was startled enough to rush over in person.
By the time he arrived, Connors stormed up to him, fuming.
"This is the guy you introduced us to? We're paying him all this money, and his big idea is drugs? If that's the plan, why the hell do we even need him?"
Earlier, Connors had thought spending twenty thousand to hire Dawson was a bargain—a sign he'd found the right man. But now, he felt like he'd been swindled.
He honestly believed Dawson had some secret, foolproof method to control weight.
A so-called Weight Wizard, right?
Turns out, more like a Potion Wizard.
If it was just about sticking a needle in Brown, he could do that himself without spending a dime. Why pay Dawson to do it?
"Calm down. Let me ask him first," Donovan said.
He could understand Connors' anger. Truth be told, Donovan himself didn't quite get why Dawson would resort to drugs.
Sure, they worked fast—but the side effects could be nasty.
Ignoring Connors for the moment, Donovan pulled Dawson aside and asked straight out if there had been some kind of misunderstanding.
"Billy, let me ask you one thing: do you honestly think it's possible to add ten pounds of muscle in a month—naturally—while keeping the same athletic performance?" Dawson shot back.
Donovan was stumped.
One month to gain ten pounds? That's not impossible… as long as you skip heavy training. Stuff your face all day and you can do it.
But if you keep the intense workouts going, the scale inevitably drops.
And the weight they wanted wasn't fat—it was muscle. Natural muscle gain is painfully slow.
On the flip side, if they cut training just to bulk up, it'd wreck Brown's athleticism, making the whole thing pointless.
"I know it's hard… but drugs?" Donovan said hesitantly.
"It's not hard—it's almost impossible."
Dawson's tone was final. Then he turned back toward the group. "Tell me, how many guys in the NBA don't use something? You think all those players going bald before 25 were just born unlucky?"
In pro sports—hell, in any elite competition—no one is truly clean.
From basic supplements like multivitamins, protein powder, creatine… to testosterone, anabolic steroids, HGH… and all the way to full-blown PEDs—every athlete uses something, in varying degrees, to boost performance.
Basketball and soccer get off light compared to other sports since skill matters more. A PED won't magically make your jumper fall, and it might even mess with your touch.
Most basketball players use them for building muscle, increasing stamina, and speeding up recovery.
Otherwise, how do you think Karl Malone and the other muscle-bound monsters got that ripped?
Or how some guys play all 82 games every single year without breaking down—just "natural talent"? Please.
In a league where performance decides everything—how much you earn, how long you last—using something to extend your peak is the cheapest, most reliable shortcut there is.
"I get that you're worried about side effects," Dawson continued. "But drugs are only a support. They don't replace training. You still have to put in the work—more work, actually."
The drugs just made the gains come faster.
"To put it simply—same amount of training, say a hundred points worth. Without drugs, you might get ten points of actual results. With drugs, you multiply that several times over.
"There's always some risk. But weigh that against the reward—Brown's only got one month until workouts and the draft. The chance to boost his performance and secure a high pick outweighs the downsides. It's like cramming before finals. Temporary push, big payoff."
The logic hit home. The four of them, who'd been bristling moments ago, exchanged uneasy looks.
"Let's discuss," Connors said, jerking his head for the others to follow.
Donovan stayed behind, sighing. "Dawson, I get your point. I just… can't shake the feeling this isn't right."
It felt like cutting corners. Like cheating. And the risks were real—plenty of athletes had ruined themselves chasing quick gains.
Dawson shook his head. "Billy, if you gave me three to five months, I wouldn't even think about drugs. But with only one month? You know that's not enough."
Losing weight was easy—cut food, up the workouts, and ten pounds melt away.
But gaining weight, gaining muscle, and keeping peak athleticism? That took "technical assistance."
"Relax. It's just a boost. I'll keep the dosage under control. The real work will still be in the training."
In fact, he'd spent hours simulating and adjusting the drug plan, balancing maximum results with minimum side effects.
Not far away, the four were still arguing.
Kwame Brown stood off to the side, looking lost.
After a moment's hesitation, he walked over to Dawson.
"Sir… can I trust you?" he asked quietly.
Dawson's instinct was to say of course. But when he met Brown's wide, earnest eyes, he realized the weight of that question.
Instead, he threw it back at him: "Brown… do you trust me?"
Brown tilted his head, thinking it over seriously, then nodded.
They'd only known each other a day, but Brown could tell Dawson was the real deal—and people who were the real deal were usually worth trusting.
Dawson clapped him on the back, smiling.
This kid… maybe a little too innocent.
Nineteen years old, technically an adult—but still just a kid.
Yesterday, Donovan had worried out loud about whether Brown was ready for the NBA. Looking at him now, Dawson could see the concern was justified.
The NBA wasn't just basketball—it was an adult world full of pressure, politics, and business. It could eat someone like Brown alive.
The discussion wrapped up.
"Alright. We'll do it," Connors said at last, his tone grudging. "But it stays quiet."
"No problem," Dawson replied. He'd expected this outcome. The lure of a top draft slot was too strong.
He pulled out his phone. "I'll have the stuff sent over. And you're covering the cost."
Good gear didn't come cheap.
Luckily, Dawson had spent four years in Gainesville, even working part-time in a gym during breaks. He had connections.
He'd actually contacted his supplier yesterday and even scanned the meds into his system to confirm their effects before running simulations.
"You want us to pay extra?" Connors's voice shot up like a cat whose tail got stepped on.
But seeing Dawson's Well, duh expression, he grudgingly nodded. "Fine. But hear me, Dawson—we're paying, we're agreeing to your plan, but we need results in a month. I'll be watching everything. If anything goes wrong, I'll shut it down—and you won't see a single cent."
"Relax," Dawson said with a smirk. "We both want the same thing."
Connors wanted Brown to make his career. Dawson wanted the same—along with the paycheck.
Once Connors left to arrange the purchase, Dawson motioned for Brown to start warming up.
"Before we begin, there's one thing you need to understand," Dawson said. "The core principle—supercompensation."