When Doug walked onto the court for warmups, he noticed a camera crew across the floor filming O.J. Mayo nonstop.
"See that? That's superstar treatment," Westbrook said with a touch of envy. "They're shooting a whole documentary just on him. He already had one back in high school."
"Filmed the whole time? He's not afraid of losing?" Doug asked, puzzled.
"He rarely loses," Westbrook's eyes sharpened. "But tonight, I'm going all out to beat him."
For Barrs.
He whispered it to himself.
At that moment, a group of middle-aged men clutching folders appeared courtside, their sharp gazes scanning the floor.
With their arrival, Collison and his crew visibly picked up their intensity. Kevin Love stepped out to the three-point line to showcase his range, while Westbrook slashed into the paint like lightning, exploding skyward—BOOM!
He nearly shoved his whole forearm into the rim.
That violent dunk put his speed, bounce, and power on full display.
Doug could clearly hear the scouts gasp.
He smiled faintly. Good luck, Russell.
Meanwhile, Leon Powe came over to help Doug stretch.
Doug's stiffness shocked him. Powe practically had to drape his full weight over Doug just to loosen his left leg. Then the right. Then his waist.
By the end of it, Powe was drenched in sweat.
"Since I started training you, my weight's dropped to 86 kilos. I honestly don't know if you're the one in special training, or if it's me." He panted hard.
Doug just laughed, stood up, shook his waist, and felt far looser than yesterday—especially thanks to that surprise tumble on the bus, which seemed to sharpen his core control.
As he was loosening up, a plump middle-aged white man walked over.
"You a UCLA player too?" he asked.
"You don't have to treat me like one," Doug answered with a smile. "I'm just here to work out."
So he nodded and extended a hand. "Edward. Independent scout."
"Nice to meet you." Doug shook politely. "You can call me Snoop."
"Alright, Snoop. Mind if I ask you about Russell Westbrook? You know, he's exploded onto the scene, breaking all kinds of expectations. I'd like to know more about his habits—training, lifestyle, anything."
"Oh, he's one of the hardest workers you'll ever meet. Nobody at UCLA spends more hours in the gym. And he plays with real faith, you know what I mean? He doesn't hoop for money—he plays basketball for basketball's sake."
Doug leaned in, eager to hype up his brother. "And off the court, you'll never see him picking fights. As a point guard, he doesn't need to flap his arms or shout—he gets along with everybody."
"Of course, he has flaws too."
Doug suddenly grew serious.
Edward perked up. This is crucial.
"His fashion sense is awful. Always wearing these wild, loud-colored outfits. You have to write that in your report—NBA GMs need to be prepared."
Doug said it with grave conviction.
Edward's pen froze mid-note. He felt ridiculous. Fashion sense? What does that have to do with basketball?
"So, aside from clothing taste, Westbrook has no weaknesses in your eyes?"
"Exactly." Doug nodded firmly, then doubled down: "Just wait. He's going to destroy O.J. Mayo tonight."
Edward blinked. This kid just lost all credibility. Westbrook destroy Mayo? Absurd. Mayo was a consensus top draft pick—maybe even No. 1 overall. If anyone could "destroy" him, the whole NCAA would be full of lottery locks.
Edward had been invited by several playoff-bound teams—the Spurs, Lakers, Jazz, Rockets. Since they held no lottery picks, he was here to scout late first-round prospects. He thought Westbrook fit that profile.
But now this kid was saying Westbrook would blow up Mayo? And that wasn't even the end of it.
"By the way, Snoop, what position do you play?" Edward asked out of courtesy.
Doug pointed to himself calmly. "Center. Starting center tonight."
Pffft!
Edward couldn't hold it in—he burst out laughing.
This kid was absurd. Saying Westbrook would torch Mayo, and claiming himself a starting center when he wasn't even his height or build.
"Be honest," Edward chuckled, "do you even understand English?" He suspected Doug hadn't grasped the questions at all.
"Of course," Doug replied earnestly. "Even I can't believe it, but yes—I really am tonight's starting center."
"Alright, Mr. Center. I'll be watching. If you grab one offensive rebound, I'll put you in my report. Who knows, maybe some NBA team will notice you."
Edward said it with a straight face, though it was pure nonsense.
Doug answered just as seriously: "Might disappoint you. My assignment tonight is boxing out and shot-blocking. Coach didn't tell me to rebound. Besides, I'm not considering the NBA right now."
Edward nearly doubled over with laughter. He decided this absurd fellow had untapped talent for stand-up comedy.
It had been ages since he'd laughed this hard.