Date: October 31, 2024
Location: Dallas, Texas
Two games into his 10-day contract, Zoran Vranes wasn't just holding his own—he was making waves. Not with highlight-reel dunks or viral quotes, but with something harder to deny: efficient, mistake-free basketball.
And that, ironically, was the most dangerous thing about him.
The league could ignore a one-hit wonder. It could laugh off a flashy scorer who couldn't defend. But someone who made the right play every time? Who guarded like a vet, ran the offense like he belonged, and didn't let his emotions get ahead of him?
That was a problem.
Jason Kidd was in the film room late, flipping through sequences from the game against New Orleans. Zoran's defensive rotations were clean. His off-ball cuts were timed with precision. No gambling, no wasted movement.
"He's playing like he's been in the league five years," Kidd murmured.
Assistant coach Sean Sweeney leaned over. "Front office is already buzzing. Half want to extend him. Half think he'll fall off in a week."
Kidd chuckled. "They'll need to decide fast. This kid isn't just 'filling in.' He's raising the baseline."
Zoran, meanwhile, was in the Mavericks' practice gym alone, again. It was nearly midnight.
Most players were either home or out. Zoran? He was shooting midrange reps off the dribble, breaking down Miami's zone coverage on an iPad between sets.
The Heat were up next. Physical. Veteran-laced. A team that wouldn't hand anything over easy.
Perfect.
Zoran didn't want it easy.
He wanted proof. That what he was building was real.
That morning, his bank app pinged. His first official NBA deposit had cleared.
$55,460 before taxes. Around $33,000 after.
Zoran stared at the number. He wasn't the kind to get emotional over money—but it still hit different.
He called a realtor he'd spoken to earlier in the week. Booked a visit to a small apartment five minutes from the arena. No luxury complex. No skyline views. Just clean, quiet, and private.
If the contract extended, he'd move out of the team hotel. If it didn't… well, he'd still be in Dallas until the end.
But he wasn't thinking about failure.
Not anymore.
At practice, the vibe was changing.
Dinwiddie had stopped joking as much. Klay Thompson watched Zoran with more scrutiny during drills. Even Anthony Davis, now easing back into workouts after his injury, gave him a nod after one particularly smooth assist during 5-on-5s.
That was the thing no one talked about.
When you were a nobody, they clapped for your success.
When you started becoming somebody, they watched a little harder.
After the session, Zoran sat at his locker, towel over his head, when Kidd approached.
"You're gonna draw attention soon."
Zoran didn't lift his head. "Already feel it."
Kidd nodded. "Good. Means they're paying attention."
Pause.
"You've got eight days left on your deal. Don't try to be something you're not. Keep doing what you do. Quiet. Smart. Sharp."
Zoran finally looked up. "I will."
Kidd cracked a rare smile. "I know."
Outside the gym, a local reporter caught wind of the internal Mavericks debate.
"Sources tell us Dallas is split: keep a rising contributor or clear the way for the returning vets? Either way, they need to decide fast."
Zoran didn't see the article.
He was back in the gym that night. Shooting floaters. Working on his weak-side help rotation. Watching Jimmy Butler film—not to imitate, but to understand.
He didn't want to be flashy.
He wanted to be inevitable.