Brian stared at the message for a moment, then tucked his phone back into his pocket, his smirk lingering. Whoever this person was, they weren't just watching—they understood. They recognized something beyond what the reporters, scouts, and even his so-called rivals could see.
And that meant one thing.
They were worth finding.
As he stepped out of the gym, the night air hit him, cool and refreshing. The city was alive, buzzing with the sounds of distant traffic, laughter, and the occasional blare of music from a passing car. His teammates were still inside, probably hyping each other up, posting highlights, reveling in what had just happened.
Brian didn't need any of that.
He had done what he always did—dominated.
But now, there was something new. A question hanging in the air. A challenge, even if it was just a whisper.
Whoever this person was, they wanted to see more.
Fine.
They'd get more.
As he walked down the street, his phone buzzed again. This time, it was a number he recognized.
A scout.
He answered, keeping his tone bored.
— "Yeah?"
The voice on the other end was energetic, excited even.
— "Brian! That scrimmage? Unreal. Everyone's talking about it. You don't just play the game—you own it. Listen, I've got something for you. Big opportunity. Private showcase. Only the best. NBA scouts. Overseas contracts. The real deal. You in?"
Brian rolled his eyes slightly. This guy was acting like he was some unknown talent trying to prove himself. As if he wasn't already the best player in the room every time he stepped on a court.
Still…
— "Where and when?"
— "New York. Next weekend. Invite-only. But for you? It's already set."
Brian exhaled slowly, considering it. He didn't need exposure. He didn't need to "prove" anything to anyone. But if the best of the best were going to be there…
It might be entertaining.
— "I'll be there."
— "Good. And Brian?"
— "What?"
— "Don't just show up. Put on a show."
Brian hung up.
He always did.
---
The week passed quickly. His daily routine didn't change—train, dominate, ignore the noise. But in the back of his mind, he kept thinking about the unknown number. They hadn't messaged again since their last cryptic comment, but he knew they were watching.
Let them.
By the time he landed in New York, the city was buzzing with basketball energy. The showcase wasn't just a local event—it was the event. Top high school players, elite college stars, even some international phenoms were showing up. The kind of players people whispered about as future legends.
Brian didn't whisper.
He declared.
The gym where the showcase was being held was high-end, with polished courts and VIP seating. The moment he walked in, heads turned. Some players recognized him immediately. Others had only seen the highlights.
It didn't matter. They'd all remember after today.
He kept to himself during warm-ups, stretching, getting loose. Around him, the best prospects in the country were showing off—deep threes, flashy dunks, slick ball-handling drills. Trying to prove something.
Brian just waited.
The first game tipped off, and immediately, the energy changed. These weren't just regular high school matchups. Every player on the court was either a five-star recruit, a future lottery pick, or an international sensation. There was no dead weight.
Except, to Brian, there was.
They all thought they were special. That their talent made them different.
They weren't ready for him.
The first time he touched the ball, the defender in front of him squared up, eyes locked. He was good—strong frame, quick feet, solid instincts. A real talent.
Brian didn't hesitate.
A quick jab step to the right. The defender reacted, just slightly.
That was enough.
Brian exploded left, the first step so fast that the defender barely had time to reach. He was already gone, gliding into the paint, where a 7-footer was waiting.
Perfect.
Brian went up, cocking the ball back as if he was about to hammer it down. The big man jumped to contest, reaching high, ready to meet him at the rim.
And then Brian did something impossible.
In mid-air, he switched hands, twisting his body slightly, avoiding the defender's outstretched arms. With ridiculous control, he floated past, finishing a smooth left-handed layup off the glass.
The gym lost it.
Even some of the other players on the bench were shaking their heads, laughing in disbelief.
The game continued, but Brian had already sent a message. Every possession, he dictated the pace, slicing through defenses, drilling deep shots, making elite defenders look like amateurs.
By halftime, scouts were whispering to each other, frantically taking notes. Coaches leaned in, analyzing his every movement.
Brian noticed.
And he didn't care.
The only thing that mattered was who else was watching.
As the second half started, he checked his phone on the sideline. One new message.
Unknown Number.
"Better. But you're still holding back."
Brian's smirk returned.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and stepped onto the court.
Time to stop holding back.
---
The second half was different.
If the first had been dominant, the second was destruction. Brian didn't just win his matchups—he obliterated them. He danced through defenders, his movements effortless, precise. Step-back threes with a hand in his face? Splash. Euro step past two defenders? Easy. A crossover so sharp it sent a defender stumbling backward? Inevitable.
But it wasn't just the scoring.
His presence dictated everything. Opponents hesitated before passing, terrified of his reach. Guards adjusted their shots mid-air, afraid of getting blocked. His teammates, some of the best prospects in the nation, played better simply by being on the floor with him.
When the final buzzer sounded, the scoreboard didn't just show a win.
It showed dominance.
As he walked off the court, his phone buzzed one more time.
"Now we're getting somewhere."
Brian chuckled, gripping the phone tightly.
Whoever this was, they weren't just watching.
They were waiting for something.
And now?
So was he.