The gym was filled with an eerie silence, the kind that only happened when something rare was about to unfold. Kevin Durant stood at the top of the key, palms resting on his knees as he took deep breaths. Across from him, Brian Moser dribbled the ball lazily, his movements fluid and effortless, like a predator sizing up its prey.
No one spoke. No one dared to.
This wasn't just a game.
It was a moment.
A test.
Durant had played against the best—LeBron, Curry, Kobe. But Brian was something different. He wasn't just a phenom. He wasn't just an elite athlete. He was something beyond explanation.
Durant had to know.
Had to see it for himself.
— "First to eleven?" Brian asked, his voice carrying an edge of amusement.
Durant nodded, stretching his arms.
— "Your ball."
Brian caught the inbound pass, spinning it on his fingertips before dropping into a low stance. He studied Durant's posture, the positioning of his feet, the slight tension in his shoulders.
Every micro-adjustment told a story.
Durant was prepared.
It wouldn't matter.
---
The second Brian moved, Durant knew he was in trouble.
The burst of speed was unnatural. One instant, Brian was standing still. The next, he was gone—accelerating past Durant like a blur. Durant reacted, using his length to try and recover, but Brian's precision was unreal.
Two dribbles. A sharp cut. Then elevation.
Brian soared toward the rim, his body twisting in midair as he switched hands, avoiding the reach of Durant's outstretched arm. He finished with a smooth, effortless layup off the glass.
— "1-0."
Durant exhaled, shaking his head.
This was going to be different.
---
Durant checked the ball and took his time. He dribbled methodically, analyzing Brian the same way Brian had done to him. Then, without warning, he attacked.
A hard drive to the right. A shoulder bump to create space. Then he pulled up for a jumper.
It should've been an easy bucket.
But Brian was there.
He didn't fall for the bump, didn't give an inch. His hand was up, perfectly timed. The ball left Durant's hands—and Brian deflected it midair.
The gym let out a collective gasp.
Brian didn't hesitate. He grabbed the loose ball, sprinted back beyond the arc, and launched a deep three without breaking stride.
The shot was pure.
Nothing but net.
— "4-0."
Durant clenched his jaw.
The murmurs in the gym grew louder. They had never seen anyone—anyone—do this to Durant.
He adjusted, using his experience. He faked a drive, pivoted into a fadeaway, and sank it smoothly.
— "4-1."
Brian smirked.
— "There you go."
---
What followed was an all-out war.
Durant started leveraging his height, using his length to get off difficult shots. He drained a contested three, then followed it with a crafty up-and-under in the post.
Brian responded with ease.
His footwork was flawless, countering every move. When Durant pressed, Brian broke through with lightning-fast crossovers. When Durant sagged off, Brian drilled threes in his face.
The score climbed.
6-3.
7-5.
9-7.
Durant had closed the gap, but barely. Every point he earned felt like a battle. Every point Brian scored felt inevitable.
The air in the gym was thick with tension.
Brian had the ball again.
Two points from victory.
He dribbled slowly, rocking back and forth, watching Durant's stance. His eyes flicked downward—barely noticeable. But Brian caught it.
Durant was expecting a drive.
Brian smiled.
Then he struck.
A violent crossover sent Durant stumbling. Brian immediately stepped back beyond the arc, barely even looking as he released the shot.
The ball arced high, spinning perfectly.
Swish.
Game.
The silence in the gym lasted only a second before erupting into chaos.
Durant let out a deep breath, hands on his hips. He wasn't angry. He was impressed.
Brian walked up, bouncing the ball once.
— "Still think I need help?"
Durant chuckled, shaking his head.
— "Nah. You're the truth."
Brian grinned.
He already knew that.