The Play

The morning was still dark when Diego's eyes fluttered open. A faint buzzing filled the air, the sound of murmuring voices and footsteps echoing through the vast dormitory halls. The heavy scent of polished wood and faint traces of sweat from last night's brief shootaround lingered. He groggily pushed himself upright, rubbing his face before noticing something strange—a small weight on his chest.

A badge was pinned just above his heart.

His fingers brushed over the fabric, feeling the cool metal underneath. It bore the flag of Spain beside his name:

DIEGO GARCIA

SPAIN

Diego frowned, glancing around. The entire dorm was stirring, players waking up and realizing the same thing—every single one of them had a badge. Some yanked it off, others studied it quietly. Across from him, Berg Johansen from Norway sat up, staring at his own badge in confusion.

"The hell is this?" Berg muttered in his thick accent.

Diego stood and stretched, cracking his neck. "No clue."

But before anyone could ask further, the speakers in the dormitory crackled to life. A deep, authoritative voice rang through the air.

"All players, report to the main stadium immediately. Your first trial begins now."

Muffled curses, the rustling of blankets, the stomping of feet—everyone scrambled to get ready. Within minutes, they were all heading down the steel corridors, their sneakers echoing against the floors.

The main stadium was nothing short of breathtaking. Towering stands encircled a massive central court, the polished wood gleaming under blinding stadium lights. The sheer size made it feel larger than any professional arena Diego had ever seen.

A massive screen flickered to life above them. The same deep voice returned.

"Welcome to your first official trial. Today, each of you will play in a one-on-one match against another competitor. The results will determine your initial ranking. Win or lose, this is your chance to make a statement."

Diego crossed his arms, scanning the crowd. Some players looked unfazed, some grinned confidently, but others... others looked terrified.

The screen shifted, now displaying a list of matchups. Names scrolled by in a rapid blur before finally locking in place:

(Spain) vs. (Thailand)

(Russia) vs. (USA)

(Norway) vs. (Nigeria)

(Japan) vs. (Argentina)

(Saudi Arabia) vs. (France)

The list went on and on, matching up nearly everyone.

Nearly.

Because one name was missing.

A single figure stood near the back, arms crossed, head tilted slightly downward. He had broad shoulders, long limbs, and an aura of complete stillness—like a predator waiting in the shadows. His badge read:

RAFAEL SOUZA

BRAZIL

He had no opponent.

The project intentionally left him out.

A ripple of realization spread across the players. A few exchanged glances, whispering among themselves. If they didn't give him a match, that meant one thing—he was too dangerous for a first-round opponent.

Diego exhaled through his nose. So this guy's the one to watch.

A hand suddenly clapped on Diego's shoulder.

"Looks like we're up, amigo," a smooth, accented voice said.

Diego turned to see Peitra Adulyadej, a lean, sharp-eyed player from Thailand, flashing a smirk. His black hair was slicked back, and there was something almost too casual about the way he carried himself.

"Guess so," Diego replied, rolling his shoulders.

Peitra's grin widened. "Hope you don't cry when I break your ankles."

Diego chuckled, shaking his head. "Big talk for someone who's about to get cooked."

Peitra laughed, a short, sharp sound. Then, leaning in slightly, his tone dropped—his words turning sharper.

"You better be ready, Garcia. 'Cause when we step on that court… I ain't holding back."

Diego met his gaze, unflinching.

"Good," he said. "Neither am I."

***

The tension in the air was thick. Voices mixed together in different languages—English, Spanish, Norwegian, Russian, Mandarin—each overlapping in a chaotic mess. Diego and Berg stood near the edge of the crowd, watching as players sized each other up, some laughing, some stretching, others completely silent.

Berg shuffled uncomfortably beside Diego, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His nervous energy was impossible to miss.

"This is crazy," Berg muttered, glancing around. "So many people... I didn't expect it to be like this."

Diego smirked. "What, you thought it was gonna be a friendly summer camp?"

Berg let out a weak chuckle but shook his head. "I dunno, man. I knew it was gonna be serious, but this? 195 players from different countries... It's overwhelming."

Diego understood. It was one thing to know you were talented, another to stand in a sea of players just as hungry as you, if not more. He clapped Berg on the shoulder. "Relax. Just hoop."

Before Berg could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed through the stadium. A figure emerged from the far end, moving with an almost theatrical confidence.

The man was tall, wearing a sleek black tracksuit, his presence immediately drawing attention. He strode into the center of the crowd, raising his hands into the air like a performer commanding the stage.

A strange wireless headset rested over his ears.

"Listen up!" his voice boomed through the speakers. "From now on, language will no longer be a barrier!"

Murmurs spread among the players. Diego frowned. What's this guy talking about?

The man continued. "These headsets you see here? They're designed to translate speech in real time! No more broken English, no more confusion. If someone speaks Russian, and you're Italian, you'll hear it in Italian. If someone speaks Japanese, and you're French, you'll hear it in French. No more limitations—only pure competition."

Silence. Then, a few skeptical glances.

Diego turned to Berg, who looked just as confused. "That... doesn't sound real," Berg whispered.

"It does if you got money," Diego muttered.

Moments later, staff members moved through the crowd, passing out identical headsets to each player. They were lightweight, sleek, barely noticeable once worn. Diego slipped his on, adjusting the fit behind his ears.

"Test it out," the man in black said.

Across the room, a player from Germany muttered something in his native tongue to a Russian player. Diego had no idea what was actually being said, but in his ears, it translated instantly to:

"Man, I hope we don't have to fight for food too."

The Russian player laughed. "You and me both."

Diego raised an eyebrow. Damn. This thing actually works.

Berg blinked, then grinned in amazement. "Okay… this is kinda cool."

Diego smirked. "Told you. Money makes anything possible."

Now able to speak naturally, the two resumed their conversation, their words flowing easily without pauses or misinterpretations. Berg seemed far more relaxed now, no longer hesitating before speaking.

They talked about their home countries, the different styles of basketball they were used to. Diego learned that Berg had been playing since he was seven but never had the chance to face real competition outside of Europe. Diego, on the other hand, had been fighting for recognition since the day he picked up a ball.

Eventually, the speakers crackled back to life.

"All players, listen up!"

The massive screen above them lit up once more, displaying the schedule for the first trial.

"There are twenty courts inside this stadium. Each game will last fifteen minutes. Forty players will play at a time. Once their game is done, the next batch will step in. No substitutions. No excuses. Play hard, or go home."

A ripple of tension ran through the crowd. This was it. No more warm-ups, no more getting used to the environment. The competition was starting now.

The list of names shuffled on the screen. Diego's eyes flicked upward, scanning the board.

His name was there.

BATCH 1

Court 6: Diego Garcia (Spain) vs. Peitra Adulyadej (Thailand)

A slow grin spread across Diego's face.

"Guess I'm up first," he muttered.

Across the court, Peitra had already noticed. He smirked at Diego, cracking his knuckles.

Diego rolled his shoulders, shaking out the tension. His heartbeat picked up, adrenaline creeping in.

It was time.