The Blue Team took the offensive.
Jonny Flynn pushed the pace across half-court before whipping the ball to Brandon Jennings. In a gym crowded with guards, Jennings had been forced into the small forward slot—an assignment that put the 6'1" lefty directly across from Luke Thorne.
Jennings didn't look worried. He sized up Luke's 6'8" frame, confident that his elite quickness could punish the "big man" in a classic mismatch. He held the ball at his waist, eyes scanning for a chink in Luke's armor, but he found nothing. Luke's stance was textbook—disciplined, balanced, and suffocating.
Jennings decided to explode. He put the ball on the floor, attempting to blow past Luke's hip before the big man could react.
He never got the chance.
In a flash of movement, Luke's long arm snaked out like a cobra. Thwack. He poked the ball clean away before Jennings could even complete his first dribble.
"Kenny, what's Thorne's wingspan again?" D'Antoni asked, his voice low with intrigue. "I remember it being impressive, but that was pure instinct."
Atkinson didn't even need to look at his clipboard. "Seven-foot-two, Coach. He's got fifteen centimeters of reach on his actual height. It's a literal gift from God."
A wingspan that much longer than a player's height was a rarity, even among the league's elite. It turned a good defender into a nightmare.
"Honestly," Atkinson continued, "that stop alone justifies the 38th pick. He just stripped a lightning-fast guard who's nearly twenty centimeters shorter than him. That shouldn't be physically possible."
"No, no! Look at the transition!" D'Antoni pointed. "It's not just the defense. Look at the outlet pass!"
Luke had already secured the loose ball. Without a second of hesitation, he launched a full-court bullet toward a sprinting DeMar DeRozan.
"Look at that lead," D'Antoni whispered, mesmerized. "The ball is finding the man. DeRozan doesn't have to break his stride; he doesn't even have to think. All he has to do is run."
DeRozan tracked the ball perfectly into his shooting pocket. He took two massive steps, wound up his right arm, and unleashed a thunderous windmill dunk that rattled the backboard. In 2009, DeRozan was known for one thing: being a high-flying human highlight reel.
"Nice finish," Luke said, high-fiving DeRozan as they jogged back. DeRozan offered a rare, shy smile. "Great pass, man. It landed right where I needed it."
"Keep that energy," Luke encouraged. He knew DeRozan battled quiet insecurities and internal demons; a little positive reinforcement went a long way for the future "King of the North."
The Blue Team pushed back. This time, Jonny Flynn wasn't passing. He lowered his shoulder and used his compact, muscular frame to bully Steph toward the rim. It was a "strength versus finesse" battle, and Flynn powered through for a tough layup.
Steph rubbed his chest, grimacing. "The guy's a damn animal," he muttered.
Flynn was indeed a physical freak—a man who had once played 67 minutes in a six-overtime college game. That kind of engine was pushing his draft stock into the lottery.
But the Red Team responded instantly. Steph brought the ball up and dumped it back to Luke at the top of the key. Luke stood at the arc, the "Architect" of the floor. He directed traffic with a few sharp hand signals, waiting for the defense to shift.
Suddenly, DeRozan made a sharp back-cut toward the baseline. Luke didn't wait. He lofted a high, arching lob toward the rim—again, placing the ball exactly where only his teammate could reach it.
Hasheem Thabeet, the 7'3" tower, was caught out of position on the right side. The ball sailed to the left. DeRozan took flight, caught the lob in mid-air, and hammered it home.
"Kenny, do you know who he reminds me of?" D'Antoni asked, his eyes never leaving Luke.
"Who?"
"The 'French Magician,' Boris Diaw. Except... this kid is an Eastern Magician."
Diaw had been the versatile engine of D'Antoni's Suns—a forward who could pass like a point guard and defend multiple positions. Seeing that level of court vision in a rookie small forward was a revelation.
"What if we take them both?" D'Antoni mused. "Think about it. They've played together for a year. They have the chemistry. With Steph's gravity and Luke's vision and defense... we could rebuild the Suns in New York."
Atkinson nodded slowly. "If we get them both, we aren't just drafting players. We're drafting a system."
By the time the twenty-minute scrimmage ended, the gym was buzzing. Steph had put on a clinic, scoring 20 points and hitting 5-of-7 from deep. But Luke's stat sheet was the one that looked like a Swiss Army knife: 5 points, 7 assists, 3 steals, and 2 blocks.
"Incredible work," Jeff Austin said, meeting them on the sidelines. He had seen the expressions on the coaches' faces. The shock had turned into genuine hunger.
D'Antoni walked over, his eyes fixed on the agent. "Jeff, can we have a word in private?"