Dallas had scheduled a light shootaround the next morning, but Zoran showed up an hour early.
The gym was quiet, the kind of quiet that only existed before a team's rhythm had been set for the day. The janitor nodded at him from the sideline. Zoran nodded back, then walked to the far court. His bag slid off his shoulder with a soft thud, and he pulled out his ball, laced up his shoes, and started his pre-practice routine.
Crossover, jab step, spin finish. Elbow jumper. Relocation three.
He wasn't angry. He wasn't trying to prove anything—not to Jason Kidd, not to Nico Harrison. Not even to himself.
He just didn't know what else to do.
His body moved because silence had no weight on muscle memory.
By the time the rest of the team filtered in, he had already worked up a light sweat. Klay Thompson clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. Anthony Davis said nothing but gave a brief nod.
Kyrie, still in street clothes but moving a bit more easily, leaned against the scorer's table.
"You always start this early?"
Zoran glanced over. "Only when I don't know what else to say."
Kyrie smirked faintly. "That's poetic. You write, Vranes?"
Zoran paused. "Sometimes."
Kyrie didn't push further. Just watched him take a few more threes.
Practice was short. Emphasis on spacing, ball movement, and transition defense. Zoran ran the second unit with Hardy, Max Christie, and Powell. They looked sharp—crisp rotations, clean reads. But Kidd didn't stop drills to call anything out. No praise. No critiques.
Afterward, players peeled off to lift or hit the cold tub. Zoran toweled off and went to the film room out of habit. The assistant video coordinator, Malik, was rewatching defensive possessions from the Jazz game.
"You mind if I sit?" Zoran asked.
Malik waved him in.
They watched five plays in silence. Two broken rotations. One missed box-out. One delayed help. One perfect trap—Zoran's, resulting in a steal.
"You made the right read here," Malik offered.
"Didn't matter."
"It does. Even if nobody says it."
Zoran didn't reply.
He took the long way back to the hotel again, walking instead of driving. This time, a few fans recognized him. A teenage girl with a Luka jersey asked for a selfie. Her friend asked why Zoran didn't play the fourth quarter last night.
"I don't know," he said honestly.
She blinked. "But you were good."
He smiled slightly. "Thanks."
Back in his hotel room, the walls felt closer.
He turned on music—Bulgarian instrumentals again. He wasn't in the mood for lyrics.
Then came the buzz. Not his phone.
A knock.
Zoran opened the door to find his agent, Marko Stoichkov, standing there, rain on his shoulders.
"You weren't answering texts."
"I was watching film."
Marko walked in, set his bag down, and sighed. "The Magic reached out."
Zoran straightened. "Orlando?"
"They're monitoring you. Asking questions about availability. Supposedly one of their GMs has you on the radar. Said something about a rotation spot becoming available."
Zoran didn't speak for a second. "Starter?"
Marko nodded slowly. "That's what they floated. They need a guard with a high IQ. Someone low usage who can play off Wagner and Banchero. They love your efficiency."
Zoran crossed his arms. "So what's the issue?"
Marko's face darkened. "The issue is that Nico blocked it before it could become real. He hasn't waived your rights. Said they're still 'evaluating the internal situation.'"
Zoran's breath slowed.
"Why block it if they don't plan to re-sign me?"
Marko's silence said everything.
That night, Zoran didn't sleep. He watched the city through his window, watching cars blur past in yellow and red light.
He still wanted to believe in Dallas. In the squad. In the chemistry that flickered during wins.
But if Nico was going to hold him hostage—
—then maybe silence wasn't indifference.
Maybe it was control.
Mavericks Record: 4–2.
Zoran Vranes: 17.0 PPG, 3.8 APG, 55.6% FG.