As the last shot swished through the net, Aleksandar finally noticed the presence standing by the gym doors.
Two figures.
One was Vinnie. The other... a man he didn't recognize.
Tall. Built like a professional. Calm, but with an aura that made Aleksandar's instincts sharpen. Whoever he was, he wasn't here for small talk.
Their eyes met Vinnie's and Aleksandar's and the silence between them cracked as Vinnie finally spoke.
"Small fry," Vinnie began, his tone flat but unmistakably focused. "This here is Francesco. He plays in the first division of the WBA. He's been with Milano for five seasons, and last year, he was a candidate for Defensive Player of the Year."
Aleksandar's heart skipped a beat.
First division? Milano? DPOY?!
"You're probably wondering what that has to do with you," Vinnie continued, pacing forward like a general readying his soldier. "Well, since our flight back to Serbia leaves in a few hours... you and Francesco are going to play one on one. First to 11. Winner takes the ball. 1s and 2s. This is your final test."
Aleksandar's breath caught in his chest.
This wasn't just another drill.
This wasn't a scrimmage.
This was judgment.
Vinnie stepped closer. His voice dropped to a whisper just for Aleksandar.
"Do you understand now... what I meant by 'alone with your thoughts'?"
"If not" he patted Aleksandar on the back, once, firmly. "you're about to."
He turned away, nodding to Francesco.
"Let's begin."
Francesco walked forward, offering his hand with a faint smile. "Nice to meet you. I'm Francesco."
Aleksandar took it automatically, but his mind was spinning.
He's tall. Maybe even taller than Hao... Can I even score on him?
But before he could get lost in that spiral, he heard Vinnie mutter something to Francesco in Italian.
Aleksandar didn't understand a word.
But Francesco's nod... and the slight shift in his posture...
It told him everything.
Vinnie hadn't asked him to go easy.
Quite the opposite.
Francesco pick up the ball and, with a smooth flick, tossed it toward Aleksandar.
"Your ball. You start," he said calmly, a faint smirk on his lips. "Wouldn't be fair otherwise."
That smug confidence it irritated Aleksandar more than he wanted to admit. Fair? You think giving me first possession is charity? He clenched his jaw, masking the frustration boiling beneath his skin.
But deep down, a small voice whispered: Weren't you acting the same way... just a few weeks ago?
He pushed the thought aside.
Now wasn't the time.
Aleksandar walked slowly to the three point line. He took the ball in both hands.
One bounce toward Francesco who caught it and tossed it right back.
It had begun.
The gym fell into silence, the only sound echoing: the thump of the ball against hardwood and the squeak of sneakers grinding against polished floor.
Aleksandar began his dribble, calm, centered.
His left foot jabbed right sharply his body shifting with intent.
Francesco reacted.
Got him.
Aleksandar snapped the ball from right to left, his hips sinking low, launching into a powerful crossover. His sneakers burned against the floor as he surged left toward the rim.
And then
Tap.
A sensation. Barely noticeable. Like the wind brushing against his fingertips.
But something was wrong.
The ball was gone.
His momentum stuttered. His eyes darted down.
Francesco stood just ahead calm, composed holding the ball with both hands.
"My possession," he said, his voice completely neutral.
Aleksandar stood frozen, stunned.
How...? That move breaks ankles at home. He didn't even flinch...
The shift in energy was immediate.
Now it was Francesco's turn.
He stepped back to the arc, cradling the ball like a veteran who had done this a thousand times. A quick jab step right. Then another. Aleksandar didn't bite. He stayed grounded, focused.
But Francesco was only testing.
In one motion, Francesco dropped his left shoulder slightly shielding Aleksandar with his off arm and accelerated to the right, pushing off like a sprinter.
Aleksandar tried to cut him off.
But the gap had already been created.
Francesco's body positioning was perfect, his dribble tight, his pace composed but lethal. As they neared the rim, Aleksandar reached desperately but Francesco's forearm held firm, not illegal, just enough to keep him at bay.
Then...
A soft layup off the glass.
It kissed the backboard and dropped through the net.
1-0.
Aleksandar stared up at the hoop, breath caught in his throat.
Francesco didn't speak. He simply walked back to the arc, retrieving the ball for the next play.
He didn't need to say anything.
His body language screamed it loud enough:
You're in my world now.
The ball was back in Francesco's hands.
Aleksandar narrowed his eyes, sweat already trickling down his temple. His breathing was steady but shallow, tension coiling in his legs like springs ready to snap.
Francesco didn't waste a second.
He exploded right.
That same calculated movement his off hand shielding the ball like a wall of steel, his feet precise, his steps measured but powerful.
Not again, Aleksandar thought, shifting quickly to keep up.
But Francesco was already one move ahead.
After just a few strong strides, he slammed his shoulder subtly into Aleksandar's chest just enough to send him stumbling a half step back. It wasn't a foul. It was physics, perfectly controlled aggression.
Then... Francesco stopped.
So suddenly it was like the court froze.
His body leaned back.
His feet staggered.
And then step back.
A masterful separation. One smooth, calculated bounce backward.
And in that breathless moment, he rose.
Effortlessly.
His form at the peak of the jump was almost picturesque elbow tucked, wrist relaxed, eyes locked on the rim with a veteran's calm.
He's shooting off the glass? Aleksandar realized, just a moment too late.
Thump.
The sound of the ball kissing the backboard.
Then the inevitable swish.
A clean finish. Almost surgical.
Aleksandar didn't even have time to process it. No trash talk. No words.
Just the cold, ruthless efficiency of someone who had done this hundreds of times under bright lights, in real games, under real pressure.
2-0.
Aleksandar's feet felt heavier now. His pride? Dented.
But beneath the surface of frustration... something else was starting to stir.
This wasn't just a test of skill.
It was a test of will.
He looked up at Francesco, who stood calm and quiet at the top of the key, bouncing the ball with a rhythmic thud.
And standing near the baseline, arms crossed, expression unreadable was Vinnie.
His voice from that morning echoed in Aleksandar's mind:
"When you're alone with your thoughts... that's when you learn who you really are."
"Now show me how bad you really want this."
The gym felt colder now. The silence louder.
He wasn't just playing against Francesco anymore.
He was playing against every doubt, every sleepless night, every time someone told him he wouldn't make it.
The next possession was about to begin.
But this time...
he wasn't stepping back.