By the time classes started, Kobe already felt like he'd lived half a day.
School moved slow.
Painfully slow.
He sat in his desk, answering questions without thinking, solving problems before the teacher finished explaining them. The material wasn't hard—it was basic. Stuff he'd mastered decades ago. He kept his head down anyway, careful not to draw attention.
That wasn't the point.
While the teacher talked, Kobe opened his notebook—not the one for class. The other one. The real one.
He wrote in short bursts.
Names first.
McGrady.
Billups.
A few others he knew would matter, even if nobody else did yet.
He didn't write explanations. He didn't need to. He knew how things played out. Who peaked early. Who needed the right system. Who got overlooked.
Then the ideas shifted.
Post-career stuff.
Storytelling. Branding. Control. He sketched out early versions of what would eventually become Granity—content that didn't depend on the league or the media. Ownership. Longevity beyond basketball.
All of it sat quietly on paper while the room buzzed with pencils and whispers.
At lunch, the conversations around him felt small. Jokes he'd heard before. Arguments that didn't matter. He smiled when he needed to. Spoke when spoken to. Played the role.
Inside, he was already years ahead.
When the final bell rang, kids poured out like they'd been released from something. Plans for later. Rides home. Noise.
Kobe went the other way.
The library was quiet. Old-school quiet. Dusty shelves. Wooden tables scarred from decades of use. He liked it immediately.
He pulled books on athletic training. Old magazines. Articles on European soccer conditioning, Olympic sprinters, rehab protocols used by pros who played forever.
He read critically.
What worked.
What was outdated.
What translated to basketball.
He took notes. Adjusted ideas. Crossed things out.
Nothing fancy. Just fundamentals done right.
When he finally closed the book and stood up, the sun was already dropping low through the windows.
Kobe slung his bag over his shoulder and headed for the door.
No rush.
No noise.
Just another quiet decision made right—and another brick laid for a future he wasn't leaving to chance this time.