"Do you have an opinion?"
Ben Holland locked eyes with Darren Collison, his expression suddenly sharp. "Are you questioning my tactical judgment?"
"No, no," Collison waved his hands frantically. Mbah a Moute also shook his head at once.
"Then get to practice!"
Holland's bark sent both of them scrambling away.
In the NCAA, the head coach's authority far outweighed that of the NBA. No star player could ever strong-arm his coach here.
Player turnover was too high. Star athletes often treated college basketball as nothing more than a springboard—shine bright, grab NBA scouts' attention, declare for the draft.
But playing time dictated whether you could shine, and playing time lay entirely in the coach's hands.
So if you wanted to make money down the road, you obeyed. Cross the coach, and no matter how much talent you had, you'd ride the bench. No playing time, no exposure—your career fizzled right there.
Collison and Mbah a Moute, of course, dared not challenge Holland directly. They slunk away, frustrated.
A moment later, they huddled together with point guard Jrue Holiday.
"Holland must be insane," Holiday scoffed. "He's really starting that guy? The one who can't even dunk?"
"Who knows," Mbah a Moute shrugged. "Get ready for USC to laugh us off the court. I don't see even a shred of hope."
Collison leaned in, lowering his voice but speaking with emphasis. "Listen. If Snoop Dogg embarrasses himself on the floor and Holland subs us in, we don't bail him out. We let the team take a beating. Only a humiliating loss to USC will force the board of trustees to wake up and give Holland the dressing-down he deserves. That way the coaching staff remembers just how important the UCLA Three Musketeers are."
Mbah a Moute and Holiday exchanged glances, then both nodded.
Collison, Mbah a Moute, and Holiday—the Bruins' so-called "Three Musketeers"—were all NBA-caliber prospects. Inside the program, they carried themselves with obvious superiority, respecting only Kevin Love among their teammates.
But things were shifting.
Since Snoop Doug had joined, everyone noticed a new trio emerging.
Kevin Love, Russell Westbrook, and Doug—UCLA's fresh "Three Horses." Unlike the old guard, they were humble and approachable.
Doug in particular had already bonded deeply with Wright, Leonard, and others, becoming fast friends within days.
So when the three walked into the gym together, teammates looked up and greeted them warmly.
"Hey, Snoop," Leonard teased. "Think Leon Bob's gonna carry you upside down and gift-wrap you for USC today? Want us to inflate some balloons so you have something soft to land on?"
The room erupted in laughter. Everyone enjoyed watching Bob's eccentric training methods, especially when Doug was the guinea pig.
Doug shot back: "Better worry about yourself, man. I heard your girlfriend's been spending a lot of time with the football team's quarterback. Don't expect us to storm the field for you when you need backup."
Leonard laughed it off. "Outdated intel. I switched girlfriends before 11 p.m. last night. I'm with Lucy now."
Tall, handsome, a varsity basketball player—Leonard's charm made his romantic life effortless. He averaged just 3.2 rebounds a game but could easily spot five new girlfriends in a day—his instincts sharper in love than on the glass.
"Poor Lucy," Doug deadpanned.
After the banter, he went off to warm up.
When he returned, the team nutritionist was handing out personalized meals, tailored to each player's body type.
Most guys got beef, milk, high-protein staples.
Doug's tray: one tomato, a slice of whole wheat bread, and a glass of plain water. No milk, no meat.
He stared at it, dumbfounded. This feels like punishment.
Just then, Bob appeared. "Based on your current muscle composition, this is your custom plan. Eat."
Doug sighed and dug into his tomato, silently thanking himself for scarfing a hot dog burger earlier.
Across the room, Holland frowned. "Are you sure that's all Snoop should have?"
"Yes," Bob replied. "The others need to bulk up with protein. But Puppy doesn't—he already has NBA-level strength and weight. What he needs is to balance his fast-twitch and slow-twitch fibers. Vegetables and coarse grains give him satiety without unnecessary mass. It's perfect."
…
"USC's loaded this year," an assistant coach lectured on the team bus. "They landed O.J. Mayo, the nation's No. 1 high school player, plus DeRozan and Taj Gibson. Even with Nick Young off to the NBA, they're stronger than last season."
Game footage rolled on the overhead screen as he spoke.
Doug wasn't sitting. Bob made him stand in the aisle, training his balance as the bus moved.
For most people, trivial.
For Doug, a battle. Every bump or brake forced him to summon every ounce of strength just to stay upright.
Watching him wobble, the assistant coach furrowed his brow. This guy's a starter? What a joke.
Meanwhile, Coach Holland leaned back with eyes closed, lost in thought.
Someday I'll be head coach, he swore to himself. I'm sick of being sidelined, ignored, overruled.
Just then, he noticed Doug watching him. Irritated, he snapped: "What is it, Snoop?"
"O.J. Mayo really is the top high school player in the country?" Doug asked.
The bus exploded with laughter.
Collison muttered loudly enough for all to hear: "Clueless about basketball."
He wanted to embarrass Doug.
But instead, the laughter died out. The others had been laughing with Doug, never at him—they didn't want him humiliated.
Finally, the assistant coach smirked. "Let me enlighten you, Snoop. O.J. Mayo is the first high school superstar since LeBron James. Back at Rose Hill Christian, the whole basketball world tracked his every move. In high school, he was untouchable—speed like Wade, strength like LeBron, finesse like Kobe, passing like Nash, drives like Iverson."
His words dripped with reverence.
But Doug was a science student at heart, trained in precision.
"Relative to high school players, maybe," Doug replied calmly. "But watching his tape, I don't see elite athleticism. His vertical and speed look maybe three-quarters of Russell's. He does have a jump shot, good handles, and strong fundamentals. But his wingspan is short, his height isn't special, and his passing instincts are average. He's stuck between being a 1 or a 2."
Doug concluded plainly: "In my eyes, he's no Westbrook."
The bus fell silent.
Every eye turned to him, stunned.
Doug sat unfazed, like the child who dared to point out the emperor had no clothes.
Head high, voice steady.
A science student should always be rigorous.