Chapter 51 – Pressure Without Whistles

📅 November 13, 2024 – Orlando, FL

The early morning light barely cracked through the tinted glass of the practice facility as Zoran stepped in. No coaches. No players. Just the squeak of his own sneakers and the mechanical hum of the lights overhead.

He sat on the locker bench in silence, staring at his phone. An old headline hovered on the screen:

"Magic quietly lock in Zoran Vranes to 2-year, $12.32 million deal. Source: team sees him as foundational piece."

It was dated a few weeks back. The media had moved on.

He hadn't.

There was no pride. No warmth. Just a vague heaviness in his chest — like something he couldn't fully name had shifted.

He locked the screen and shoved it into his duffel. Then he rose, picked up a weighted ball, and started moving through his passing drills, alone.

Two hours later, the team trickled in for practice.

Suggs walked in with his hoodie up, earbuds in. Franz followed, yawning. Paolo didn't say a word — just slapped the hand sanitizer pump and made his way to the far hoop.

It wasn't anger. It was fatigue. And silence.

They ran through the sets anyway. Not crisp, not sharp — but serviceable. Until Wendell fumbled a drop pass from AB and slammed the ball into the wall hard enough to rattle the backboard.

"No one's cutting! We're just standing around!" he shouted.

No one responded. Not even Coach Mosley, who simply blew his whistle and reset the drill.

Zoran stood at the top of the arc, hands on his hips. He hadn't said a word since warmups. But his jaw was tight now, clenched like it was holding something back.

After practice, he showered quickly and walked upstairs to the film room. He asked the assistant to queue up the Boston game again. The room was empty, quiet.

He watched three plays in a row where he made the right decision:

A baseline skip pass that led to a missed open three.

A pick-and-roll dime that bounced off Wendell's fingertips.

A transition swing that Paolo dribbled off his foot.

Zoran paused the film.

He rewound it. Played it again. Still the same.

"It's not enough to do your part if no one else hits theirs," he thought.

For the first time in weeks, he let himself feel it.

Frustration.

Not the outward kind. Not screaming. Not pouting.

But the quiet, eating kind — the kind that sinks into your ribs and stays there, whispering that maybe it's not all under your control.

That evening, he sat on his hotel bed, fingers running across the edge of a legal pad covered in scribbles and stat breakdowns. None of it made him feel better.

He picked up his phone and called Spain.

His mother answered on the third ring. "Hola, mi amor."

Zoran didn't smile, but his voice softened. "Hey, Mama."

She asked about his day, about how he was sleeping, about his teammates. He gave her short answers.

"They're… figuring it out."

She chuckled. "So diplomatic."

There was a long pause.

"You know," she said gently, "your father used to have stretches where nothing would land. Weeks where he did everything right, and the ball just didn't drop."

Zoran didn't speak.

"That's where he said you find out if you really love the work," she finished.

Still, he said nothing.

"Anyway," she added, lightening, "don't forget to eat something that isn't from a vending machine tonight."

"I won't," he said.

And for once, he meant it.

That night, Zoran opened his notebook.

He stared at the blank page for nearly a full minute before writing one line:

"Stability isn't enough if nothing moves."

He closed it, leaned back, and let the dark take the weight from his shoulders.