Chapter 11: The Waiting Game (RE)

The morning after the final preseason game, Zoran woke up before sunrise.

No alarm. No system ping. Just muscle memory and anticipation.

The cheap mattress in his team-provided apartment groaned as he sat up. The ceiling above him was cracked and off-white, and the A/C sputtered every few minutes like it was choking. His duffel bag was still half-packed from the flight back.

He stared at his phone. No new messages.

No call.

No answer yet.

He wasn't surprised. Coach Kidd and the staff had been quiet after the game. Just the usual nods and half-phrases. No promises. No guarantees.

Zoran didn't expect one. That wasn't how this worked.

He got dressed, tossed on a hoodie, and slipped out the door. The Dallas air was dry, cold for October. He liked it that way. The chill sharpened things. Made the mind clear.

He jogged to the nearest park court—not one of the fancy gyms downtown, but an old community spot behind an elementary school. The rims rattled. The paint was faded.

Perfect.

He warmed up alone, letting his body wake up. Ball handling drills. Pull-ups. Footwork.

[SYSTEM PULSE DETECTED]

TRAINING MODE - XP BOOST ACTIVE

+6% Skill Retention

+4% Shot Form Correction

+2.5% Stamina Recovery Rate

The system hadn't said much after the Pelicans game. Just a small message:

PERFORMANCE THRESHOLD MET

STATUS: UNDER REVIEW

Under review.

That's all he was right now. A file in an email chain. A name on a staff meeting agenda. A maybe.

He wasn't the type to sit around waiting.

By the time the sun broke the rooftops, Zoran had already put up 500 shots. Sweat clung to him like armor. His forearms stung from repetition. He stayed until a group of kids came by for morning recess.

Only then did he head back, phone buzzing in his pocket.

A message from Jazz, one of the Mavericks' player personnel coordinators:

Come by the facility at 1. Bring your stuff.

The gym was quiet when he arrived. No team practice today. Just trainers and a couple guys rehabbing injuries. Jaden Hardy nodded at him in passing, ankle still wrapped tight. Dwight Powell gave him a polite, knowing smile.

Zoran went straight to the locker room. He didn't ask questions.

Coach Kidd and Nico Harrison were waiting.

"Zoran, take a seat," Kidd said. His tone was neutral, but his eyes were reading everything—Zoran's posture, his breathing, his reaction.

Zoran sat.

Nico spoke next. "We'll keep it straight. You did your job in preseason. You played like someone who's not trying to get by—but someone trying to take a spot."

Zoran didn't speak. Just nodded once.

Kidd leaned forward. "We're in a weird spot. Injuries everywhere. Half our core rotation is out. Gafford, Exum, Lively, P.J. Washington, Dante Exum… it's a mess. We don't want someone flashy. We want someone who doesn't mess up."

Nico interjected, "That's you. We're extending you into the season. Your 10-day contract officially starts now—with opening night."

Zoran's shoulders didn't move. His eyes didn't shift. But in the stillness, there was steel.

"I understand."

Coach Kidd held up a sheet of paper.

"Opening night, Friday. You'll be active. Minutes aren't guaranteed. But the chance is. Just do what you've been doing."

The news broke on Twitter an hour later.

@ShamsCharania: The Dallas Mavericks will begin the season with undrafted rookie Zoran Vranes on a 10-day hardship contract. Sources say the team values his efficiency and high-IQ play amid early-season injuries.

That tweet lit a spark.

Clips from the Pelicans game began circulating again. Fans debated in forums and spaces. Some liked his game—sharp, quiet, disciplined. Others doubted.

"It's just a placeholder."

"Who?"

"He won't last past ten days once Gafford's back."

Zoran didn't answer any of it. He stayed in the gym. Ran reps with assistant coach God Shammgod, whose quiet approval came through in one phrase after a pick-and-roll session:

"You play like someone who knows film better than film knows itself."

That night, back in his apartment, Zoran opened the envelope that had come in earlier that morning.

His first NBA paycheck was officially processed.

The numbers didn't impress him. The reality did.

It meant it was real now. No more tryouts. No more waiting.

He pulled out a scrap of paper from his hoodie pocket. The same one he'd been scribbling goals on since Summer League invites had ghosted him.

He crossed out one line:

Make the league.

And underlined the next one:

Prove you belong.

The regular season started in two days.

The 10-day countdown had begun.