November 4, 2024 — American Airlines Center, Dallas, TX
Fourth quarter.
The Mavericks were down eleven. The energy in the huddle was brittle—thin smiles, cold glances, a few forced claps. Coach Kidd had drawn up a set, but even that felt obligatory, like a professor giving homework to a room of students already thinking about summer break.
Zoran didn't look at the play. He already knew it.
He was watching Dinwiddie, who hadn't said a word to him since that aborted third-quarter possession. Washington was nursing a sore shoulder. Davis was rubbing at his knee but hadn't spoken either. Kyrie remained seated in the far corner, legs stretched out, nodding occasionally like a monk in meditation.
This wasn't a team tonight.
It was a group of players sharing a jersey.
SYSTEM"Challenge Accepted: Fourth Quarter Control"Temporary Boost Activated: Stamina Efficiency +2 | Court Vision +1Duration: 12 minutes
Zoran's eyes didn't change, but his chest did—a slow inhale, sharp, controlled. He stood up, stripped off his warm-up, and walked to the scorer's table. Kidd gave him a simple nod. No instructions needed.
"Play your game," the coach said.
So he did.
The ball found him.
At first, it wasn't through design. Just fatigue. Dinwiddie lost a handle, and the ball rolled into Zoran's hands. He took two dribbles, stepped into a clean elbow jumper.
Swish.
Next trip down, Davis kicked it out of a double. Zoran didn't hesitate—he zipped a pass to the corner where Hardy finally buried a three.
Crowd stirred.
Then came the momentum shift.
Christie tapped a pass loose from Ivey, and Zoran was already gone—three steps ahead, catching the outlet and finishing with a reverse euro that brought the Mavericks within five.
Timeout Detroit.
But the tension wasn't in the score.
It was on the bench.
Dinwiddie threw his towel harder than necessary. Gafford wouldn't look at Zoran. And for the first time all night, AD muttered something audible:
"Let him cook."
It wasn't loud. But it echoed.
Zoran sat in his seat, sipping water slowly. The system pinged again.
SYSTEM"Clutch Efficiency Rising. Keep composure."Minor Attribute Boost – Ball Handling +1 (Last 6 mins)
He didn't smile. He didn't need to.
He just stood up when his number was called again.
The Mavericks clawed back. Zoran kept his decisions clean—screen rejections, quick reads, smart cuts. He wasn't padding stats. He was slicing through indecision like it was tape on a film reel.
And then, with under a minute left, it came.
The possession that defined the night.
Down four. Shot clock winding. The play Kidd called broke down completely. Washington got trapped. Christie hesitated.
Zoran clapped.
Hard.
"Ball!" he barked.
They listened.
He got it at the top of the key. One jab. One head fake. A skip-pass fake. The defender blinked.
Then Zoran rose and buried a three from 26 feet.
The arena popped.
One-point game.
Detroit inbounded and hit free throws. The Mavericks didn't score again. Final: Pistons 112, Mavericks 109.
But that wasn't what anyone was talking about as the buzzer sounded.
They were talking about him.
Not the box score—though it was strong.
Zoran Vranes Final Line:Points: 17Assists: 6Rebounds: 3Steals: 1FG: 7/103PT: 2/3FT: 1/1+/-: +6Minutes: 28
No celebration. Just a pat on the back from Kidd and a soft nod from Kyrie as Zoran passed by.
That night, the locker room was a quiet mess.
Dinwiddie had a towel over his head. Washington barely looked up from his phone. AD didn't speak at all.
And Zoran?
He dressed slowly, deliberately, like a man packing his own bags before someone else asked him to.
The team's silence wasn't neutral anymore.
It was hostile.
He didn't go home right away.
Instead, Zoran drove to an empty park on the edge of Dallas—a court with flickering lights and a chain net. He locked the car and dribbled in the dark, hoodie over his head, no music, no cameras.
Just sneakers and asphalt.
He shot for almost an hour. Midrange. Corners. Pull-ups. Free throws. It was ritual. His own kind of therapy.
When he finally sat down on the bench at half-court, drenched in sweat, the system whispered again.
SYSTEM"Internal Conflict Ongoing – Recommending Mental Recovery Protocol"Optional Focus Exercise: Review past 3 games. Identify 3 positives.Reward: Emotional Resilience +1 (Temporary)
Zoran ignored the prompt.
Not because it was wrong—but because it was too clinical.
He already knew the truth.
He liked this team.
He liked these fans.
He wanted to stay.
But they weren't showing the same love back.
And that realization hurt more than the loss.
The next morning, practice was subdued.
The players ran drills. Kidd kept rotations short. AD sat with the trainers. Kyrie was watching, as always, and when Zoran passed by him on the sideline, he finally spoke up.
"You alright?"
Zoran paused.
"I'm good," he replied, voice calm.
Kyrie studied him. "You don't sound like it."
Zoran cracked the smallest smile. "I'm learning to wait for silence to mean something."
Kyrie chuckled. "Smart. Just don't let the silence convince you it's the truth."
Zoran nodded.
Then walked away.
Back home, he opened his sketchpad again.
Not a play this time.
Just a blank page.
And at the top, he wrote in bold letters:What if this isn't the team?
He stared at it.
No answer came.
But he didn't erase it.
Because for the first time… he wasn't sure.