Chapter 52 – Quiet Cracks

📅 November 14, 2024 – Orlando, FL

Zoran sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, phone in hand. The ESPN clip was still paused at the five-second mark, thumbnail frozen on Kendrick Perkins mid-rant.

He pressed play.

"I'm tellin' y'all — that kid in Orlando, the one they call Zoran Vranes — he's not loud, not flashy, doesn't even talk trash. But every time I check the tape, he's there. The Constant. That's who he is. You take him out, and the Magic start tripping over themselves. That's a rookie? Man, that's a stabilizer."

Zoran didn't react. No grin. No eye-roll. Just silence.

He watched it again.

Then he saved it to his bookmarks and slid the phone face down onto the nightstand.

The practice court was unusually tense.

Paolo was locked in, throwing down dunks in warm-ups with more force than necessary. Wendell grunted after every rebound, jaw clenched tight. Even Anthony Black, usually loose, didn't say much during stretches.

Coach Mosley broke the silence.

"Boston's gone. Philly's next. You want to play reaction ball, go ahead. Or—" his eyes scanned the room, "—we set the tone. Your choice."

They ran 4-on-4 drills with emphasis on switch coverage and secondary movement. Zoran kept quiet. But the details started leaking through.

Second set. Franz was late on a backdoor pass.

"Two seconds slow," Zoran said, softly but sharp. "You were floating."

Franz exhaled through his nose, frustrated, but next rep, he cut sharper. Clean layup. No words exchanged.

Next set, Suggs misread a switch. Maxey would've punished it in a real game.

Zoran tapped him on the chest. "Talk. You're not talking."

Suggs didn't push back. Just nodded once and called out the next screen himself.

After practice, the locker room air felt different.

Not lighter — but looser.

AB flopped into the chair beside Zoran and nudged him with his elbow. "Stoneface."

Zoran glanced sideways. "What?"

"That's your new nickname. Doesn't matter if you hit a game-winner or get dunked on — you look like someone just asked you for the weather."

Franz leaned in from across the aisle. "Nah. He's The Metronome. Always on tempo. Always the same tick."

"I still like Z," Wendell offered from his locker. "Simple. Classic. Like Tim Duncan."

Zoran didn't respond. But his lips twitched. Barely.

They noticed.

Later, while most guys were in the showers or watching film, Zoran stayed back in the weight room.

He loaded the bar quietly. No music. Just the clink of plates and the low rumble of A/C.

On his sixth set of bench, he paused between reps, breath steady.

"You're not there yet," he muttered to himself. "Not even close."

He didn't say it like a rebuke. More like a reminder.

On his way out, one of the trainers passed by and smirked. "What are you doing, lifting the whole league?"

Zoran didn't answer. Just nodded once and kept walking.

That night, back in his hotel, he sat at the small desk with his notebook open. The pages had started filling faster lately.

He wrote:

+ Mind is ahead of body.

+ Need one voice on defense. Might be mine.

+ Be early. On screens. On reads. On expectations.

Then, underlined twice:

"Tomorrow, I show them what standard looks like."

He clicked his pen closed, set it down, and turned off the lamp.

Outside, the Florida night was humid and still. But inside, something had begun to stir.