Pre-draft workouts in the NBA are rarely about measuring height or wingspan—the scouts already have those numbers burned into their databases from the Combine. These sessions are about the "eye test." They're about seeing how a player moves, how they handle pressure, and whether they have that intangible "aura" that translates to winning.
In the Knicks' locker room, Luke Thorne sat on a wooden bench, meticulously lacing his Nikes. He stomped his feet to lock his heels in, took two sharp hops to test his tension, and then clapped his hands together.
"Let's go, Steph. Time to take over."
Stephen Curry shoved his gear into a locker and slung a towel over his shoulder. He looked at Luke and gave him a firm nod. "Let's."
Outside on the main court, the atmosphere was thick with ambition. Twelve players in total had been invited—the "shortlist" for the New York front office. Luke scanned the room. Aside from himself and Steph, he recognized nearly every face from the college circuit: DeMar DeRozan, Brandon Jennings, Tyler Hansbrough, Danny Green, and even the towering Hasheem Thabeet.
Luke noted with a mental smirk that several of these guys were destined for legend status in overseas leagues later in their careers, but right now, they were all hunting the same American dream.
The group was split into two tiers: the "Lottery Targets" like DeRozan and Steph, and the "Role Player Targets" like Luke, Danny Green, and Patrick Beverley—the guys the Knicks were eyeing for their 38th pick.
Mike D'Antoni stood at the center circle, his voice booming through the rafters. "Alright, enough talk. We start with the shooting drills. Spot-up, off-the-dribble, and off-the-screen. Mid-range and beyond the arc. Let's see who actually put in the work."
Luke noticed a flicker of tension in Steph's jaw. "Steph, don't overthink it," Luke whispered. "You're a marksman's son. This isn't just practice; it's your DNA. Go out there and remind them who you are."
Steph flashed a confident grin, his nerves vanishing as quickly as they'd appeared. "Don't worry, Luke. Sacramento was a fluke. Today, they get to see the Curry family legacy in real-time."
"Steph! You're up first," D'Antoni called out.
The drill began. A trainer stood under the rim, ready to feed the ball. Steph stepped to the first spot.
Swish.
He moved to the wing.
Swish.
For the next five minutes, the only sound in the MSG Training Center was the rhythmic, violent snapping of the nylon net. Snap. Snap. Snap. He didn't just make shots; he destroyed the rim's confidence. D'Antoni's eyes widened, his mouth slightly agape. He had coached Steve Nash—a three-time member of the 50-40-90 club—but even Nash didn't look this effortless in a vacuum.
Steph hit his final programmed shot, but D'Antoni wasn't finished. "Roger! Keep feeding him!" the coach barked at the trainer. "Steph, don't stop. Keep shooting!"
The streak continued until finally, after a staggering run of consecutive makes, the ball rattled in and out.
"How many was that?" D'Antoni whispered to Kenny Atkinson.
Atkinson looked down at his clipboard, stunned. "I stopped counting after eighty, Coach. It had to be over a hundred."
In the peanut gallery, the other agents were staring at Jeff Austin with pure envy. Austin just shrugged, a smug smile playing on his lips. "That's not just skill. That's a gift."
When it was Luke's turn, he didn't have Steph's supernatural touch, but his year of "liver-bursting" training paid off. Thanks to his 6'8" frame and a smooth, repeatable release, he finished in the top tier of the shooters. He wasn't a "microwave" like Steph, but he was a metronome—reliable and consistent.
"Alright, enough shooting," D'Antoni announced. "Five-on-five. Twenty-minute scrimmage. I want to see how you play when the lungs start burning."
Luke and Steph were placed on the Red Team alongside DeRozan and Hansbrough. Across from them on the Blue Team stood the defensive menace Patrick Beverley and the explosive Jonny Flynn.
As they took the court, Luke leaned into Steph. "Give me the rock at the top of the key. You just focus on the movement."
Steph looked surprised—Luke was usually the finisher, not the initiator—but he trusted his brother. "You got it."
Steph brought the ball across half-court and immediately whipped it to Luke at the high post. Luke caught it, his vision instantly expanding as the [Floor Generalship] skill activated. He saw the lanes, the defenders' feet, and the timing of the screens.
Jerebko set a hard screen for Steph. Jonny Flynn, a physical freak, fought through it quickly, leaving Steph only a split-second window.
In one fluid motion, Luke flicked a crisp, overhead pass. It didn't just reach Steph; it landed perfectly in the pocket of his shooting motion. Steph didn't even have to adjust his feet.
Swish.
Steph doubled back, high-fiving Luke with a look of genuine shock. "Since when did you start passing like a point guard?"
Luke grinned, feeling the hum of the system in his veins. "People evolve, Steph. How was the delivery?"
"Perfect," Steph said, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Do it again."
Luke felt a surge of satisfaction. With his [Open-Look Sniper] skill, he was a threat to score, but with Draymond Green's "Point-Forward" vision, he was becoming the Architect of the game. He wasn't just a 3-and-D player anymore. He was the engine.