Chapter 248: A Frightening Talent
The first layup sequence was clean. Off the right foot, soft release off the backboard. No wasted motion.
The second looked nearly identical.
The third was performed left-handed, mirroring the first two almost perfectly despite the technique having been explained less than a minute earlier.
Several players exchanged glances.
The free throws were even more alarming.
A senior teammate spent several minutes explaining the shooting rhythm, knees, elbow alignment, follow-through, hold the wrist.
Stan listened, then he casually stepped to the line.
Four of his first five shots dropped cleanly through the net. The fifth spun around the rim before bouncing out.
He paused for a second, adjusted the arc slightly, and made the next eight in a row.
By then, the players watching from nearby had become noticeably quieter.
The three-point line was where they genuinely stopped pretending everything was normal.
Stan was shown the spot, shown the form.
And politely informed that most beginners didn’t even bother attempting shots from this range during their first session.
He nodded, set his feet and released.
The first shot missed long. The second rattled in. The third dropped cleanly. Out of six attempts, he made four.
Then he adjusted something, whether it was the angle of release, the amount of force, or both, nobody could tell.
The next five went in. One after another.
By the time Zack began running him through basic pick-and-roll actions, the rest of the team had gradually shifted from coaching him to watching him.
Not because he was suddenly an elite basketball player. Because he clearly shouldn’t have been progressing this fast.
His footwork improved every few possessions. His passing became sharper. His positioning grew more natural.
Each correction only needed to be explained once before it disappeared from his game.
The most unsettling part was how quickly he began understanding spacing.
Where teammates wanted the ball. When a passing lane was about to open.
How defenders naturally shifted when someone attacked a particular angle.
He wasn’t reading the court like a veteran yet. But he was learning at a pace that made everyone uncomfortable.
Stan himself wasn’t particularly surprised, he could feel what was happening.
Strength control had become second nature months ago. He no longer needed to consciously regulate how much force he used. His reflexes tracked moving bodies with the same slightly dilated sense of awareness he had experienced during the Red Serpents incident.
Compared to reading six armed men in an abandoned building, reading a basketball court wasn’t especially difficult. Not even close.
So no, he wasn’t surprised that he was adapting quickly.
He was, however, slightly amused by how visibly his teammates were trying not to stare.
Zack finally called for a water break after nearly forty minutes of drills and pulled Stan aside toward the bench.
"Stan."
"Yes?"
"Be honest with me. Genuinely. As your friend."
"Alright."
"You have never played basketball before."
"Never seriously."
"Like pickup games? Messing around with friends?"
"A handful of times. Years ago. Nothing structured."
Zack stared at him. "Bro."
Stan shrugged and took a sip of water.
"Bro." Zack said again, still couldn’t come in terms with it.
"What?"
"You’re moving like someone who’s been playing for years."
"I don’t think that’s true."
"It absolutely is." Zack pointed toward the court. "I am literally watching you absorb plays we’ve spent weeks learning and execute them correctly on the second attempt. That’s not normal."
Stan shrugged.
"You’re the one who told me I’d be good at this when you invited me."
"I said that to flatter you into showing up."
"And now?"
"Now I think I accidentally told the truth."
Stan laughed. "You undersold me."
"Stan."
"Yes?"
"For real." Zack leaned forward. "Is there anything you’re bad at?"
Stan considered the question.
"The acting. The films. The business stuff. Now this. Every time I turn around you’ve picked up another skill and somehow become good at it immediately." Zack shook his head. "I’m serious. Is there any field you’ve stepped into recently where you weren’t instantly ahead of people who’ve been doing it for years?"
Stan thought for a few seconds. "Probably."
Zack waited.
"I just haven’t found it yet."
For a moment, Zack simply stared at him. Then he lowered his head into his hands.
"I genuinely don’t know whether to be inspired or upset."
"Inspired."
"I’m settling on upset."
Stan chuckled. A few seconds passed before Zack looked up again.
The disbelief was still there, but now it was mixed with something more thoughtful.
A realization.
’With talent like this, Stan could have played competitively. Regional tournaments. National tournaments. Maybe even international ones.’
Given enough time and training, the possibility wasn’t difficult to imagine.
But the thought collapsed almost as quickly as it formed.
Because Zack remembered who he was talking to.
Most people chased sports because they wanted opportunity.
Scholarships, recognition, money, careers.
Stan already had all of that.
As far as Zack knew, his friend was already a multi-millionaire. He didn’t need basketball. He didn’t need fame. He didn’t need any of the doors that talent like this would normally open.
Zack, of course, had no idea that Stan’s actual net worth had long since crossed into twelve-digit/billion territory.
If he had, the admiration might have evolved into something closer to existential surrender.
He let out a long breath.
"Honestly," Zack said quietly, "if I hadn’t offered you that deal, you’d never have stepped onto a court."
"Probably not."
"You would’ve gone your whole life without finding out you were good at this."
"Maybe."
"The team would’ve never known."
Stan smiled slightly. "Then it’s a good thing you offered the deal."
Zack looked at him for a second before laughing despite himself.
"Yeah."
He pushed himself to his feet. "Yeah, it is."
Then he clapped Stan on the shoulder.
"Come on. Let’s run the offense one more time before we call it for the day."
Practice continued. Every now and then, Stan found his attention drifting toward the cheerleaders’ section across the gym.
He could feel the eyes on him. Sophie’s most of all. Maya’s too was quicker, sharper, often looking away a fraction of a second after he noticed.
And there were others now as well. A few stolen glances between routines.
A few lingering looks whenever they thought he wasn’t paying attention.
Sophie caught his eye during a brief pause between drills and smiled.
It was a small smile, private and warm.
The kind of smile that belonged to a woman watching her man excel at something new and enjoying the sight far more than she would ever admit publicly.
Stan found himself smiling back before turning his attention to the court again.
Maya caught his eye twice. The first time, she looked away so quickly it was almost impressive, immediately bending down as though she had suddenly remembered something urgent about her shoe.
Stan pretended not to notice. The second time was different. This time she held the look. Not long but just long enough.
He could sense something in that gaze, there was determination in it. A quiet stubbornness and maybe a hint of jealousy and possessiveness.
The unmistakable message of someone refusing to retreat.
’I’m here. I’m watching. And I’m not going anywhere.’
