As Brian stepped off the court, the echoes of the crowd's cheers still filled the gym, but he was already mentally moving on. His performance had spoken for itself—no need for extra celebration. His teammates, however, were still buzzing with adrenaline, exchanging excited words, patting each other on the back.
The reporters, already stationed near the exit, wasted no time.
— "Brian, that was an incredible display! You took over the game completely in the second half. What was going through your mind?"
He scoffed, barely slowing his stride.
— "Nothing special. Just handled business."
— "Some are already calling this one of the most dominant high school performances of the year. Do you think there's anyone at your level?"
Brian finally stopped, turning his head slightly toward the reporter. His icy blue eyes locked onto the man, and the smirk on his lips was pure arrogance.
— "If there is, I haven't seen them yet."
No more questions. He walked past them, leaving them scrambling to jot down his words, turning to each other with knowing looks. Another headline written before they even left the building.
Inside the locker room, his teammates were still hyped. One of them, a shooting guard who had played well in the first half before fading in the second, shook his head in disbelief.
— "Man, I swear, every time I think I've seen the best you can do, you just level up again."
Brian chuckled, unzipping his bag and pulling out a fresh shirt.
— "Maybe you just have low expectations."
The locker room erupted into laughter, but the shooting guard wasn't even offended. He knew Brian well enough to take the jab in stride.
As Brian changed, his phone buzzed. He casually glanced at the screen.
Unknown Number.
Again.
He unlocked it.
"Not bad. But I expected that. Show me something unreal next time."
Brian's fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second before typing a response.
"You talk like you know something I don't."
The reply came almost instantly.
"Maybe I do. Or maybe I'm just waiting to see if you're as special as everyone says."
Brian exhaled slowly. He wasn't used to people questioning him. They could hate him, envy him, even fear him—but doubt? That was new.
He typed back.
"Keep watching. You'll figure it out soon enough."
This time, there was no immediate response. He locked his phone and leaned back on the bench, eyes narrowing slightly.
Who the hell was this?
---
A few days later, Brian was back on the court, but this time, it wasn't under the bright lights of a packed gymnasium. It was an exclusive invite-only scrimmage, held at a private facility downtown. Some of the best young players in the country were here—ones with real talent, ones who were projected to go pro.
And Brian was about to remind them why he was on a different level.
The moment the game started, it was clear he had their attention. Defenders picked him up full court. No one wanted to be the guy who got embarrassed by Brian Moser.
Too bad for them.
The first defender tried pressuring him high, hands reaching, feet moving quickly to cut off angles. Brian read his stance in an instant. A subtle shift of weight, a hesitation dribble, and then—boom.
He was gone.
Blowing past the defender like he wasn't even there, he crossed into the lane, barely slowing down as the help rotated over. The big man inside went up to contest, arms raised, body bracing for impact.
Brian didn't adjust.
He elevated, meeting the defender at the peak. And then, like gravity itself bent to his will, he hung in the air just a fraction longer—long enough for the defender to start descending before him.
The dunk was vicious. The ball slammed through the hoop, bouncing off the hardwood with a sharp thud. The gym went silent for half a second before the eruption of voices.
Brian landed smoothly, stepping over the fallen defender, looking down with zero emotion.
— "Should've jumped higher."
No time for reactions. The other team inbounded quickly, trying to push the pace before Brian's defense could set. But he was already reading their next move.
When the point guard tried a quick pass up the sideline, Brian anticipated it perfectly, shooting into the passing lane like a predator pouncing on its prey.
Steal. Fast break.
Two defenders back. It didn't matter.
One quick crossover sent the first one stumbling. The second one tried to recover, backpedaling desperately as Brian closed in.
Too slow.
A euro step to the right, then an explosive push-off to the left, and Brian was free. Another dunk, this one clean and effortless, hanging on the rim for just a second before dropping back down.
The game was his. Everyone in the gym knew it.
On the sideline, a scout murmured something to another observer. Brian didn't need to hear them to know what they were saying. He had seen it a hundred times before.
"This kid is different."
No.
They still didn't get it.
He wasn't just different. He was inevitable.
As the scrimmage continued, his dominance only grew. He hit deep threes like they were layups. He locked down elite scorers, making them look ordinary. Every possession felt like a masterclass in how the game was supposed to be played.
When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard showed another undeniable truth—Brian Moser had once again left no doubt.
And as he grabbed his bag and walked toward the exit, his phone buzzed.
He already knew who it was.
Unknown Number.
He smirked before opening the message.
"Now that... that was interesting."
Brian's fingers tightened around the phone. His smirk widened.
Finally.
Someone worth his attention.