Chapter 15 – Momentum

December 23rd.

Michael woke up to chaos.

His phone, still a decade behind the times, was flooded. Texts. Missed calls. Screenshots. Clips.

The game-winner from the night before had made it onto Bleacher Report, Overtime, even a SportsCenter late-night segment.

"Michael Schmidt. 6'9. High school sophomore. Orchestrated a comeback and hit the buzzer-beater against a nationally ranked team. Remember the name."

He put the phone down. Pulled on his hoodie. And went straight to the gym.

The gym was empty. Cold. Just how he liked it.

[System Message: Overnight Scout Interest +4] [Progress: 11.66%]

He worked on fadeaways from the elbow. One dribble. No dribble. Off a spin. Off a jab.

[Skill Consistency Bonus: +0.2%]

The sound of the net was sharper that morning. Like every make was a message.

Back at school, everything felt different.

Teachers who'd never spoken to him now smiled and nodded. The principal pulled him aside to say how proud she was. Opposing players in the hallway didn't talk trash anymore—they watched.

Even Jamal, who'd always played it cool, gave him a nod of real respect during warmups.

"You got next. I see it."

Michael didn't reply. He just passed him the ball and stepped into the next shooting drill.

The next two games were blowouts.

Michael barely played the fourth quarter in either. But in the time he was on the floor? He was lethal.

21–8–6 in Game 1. 26–7–4 in Game 2.

[Progress: 12.14%]

At one point, he got bored and started setting back screens to free up other shooters. Coach Alvarez noticed.

"Trying to be a point forward now?"

Michael smirked. "Trying to win without showing the whole playbook."

Coach nodded. "Smart."

But it wasn't just smart. It was strategic. Because the next game on the schedule?

Bayfront Academy.

Undefeated. Ranked. Physical.

The type of team that wanted to humiliate upstarts.

Michael knew what they were coming for.

But he wasn't worried.

[System Notification: Next Opponent—Bayfront Academy – High Threat Level Detected] [XP Multiplier Increased]

He looked down at his hands. Calloused. Steady.

He tightened his laces and whispered:

"Let's make it hurt."