February 13th.
Michael didn't see the article until homeroom.
It was Jamal who slid his phone across the desk. "You made ESPN's mid-season top ten prospects list."
Michael glanced at the screen. There he was—#4.
Just below two five-star guards and a 7'1 center with freakish wingspan.
The caption underneath his name read:
Michael Schmidt (6'9 G/F) – The most polished wing in the country. NBA frame. Killer instinct. A true floor general with Michael Jordan's mindset in a Kevin Durant frame.
Michael stared at the phone for a long second.
Then he handed it back, face unreadable. "Cool."
Jamal raised a brow. "That's all you gotta say?"
Michael let out a sharp exhale through his nose and leaned back in his chair.
"I've been breaking myself to be better every day. Lifting. Watching tape. Living in the gym. And they still don't see me as number one."
Jamal nodded slowly. "So... you mad?"
Michael smirked, but there was no humor in it.
"I'm not mad. I'm done waiting for people to catch up."
But the attention came fast.
Reporters at practice. Unwanted interviews. College recruiters now sat courtside with clipboards like vultures.
Duke. Kentucky. Kansas. Michigan State.
Coach Alvarez kept it simple.
"No distractions," he warned. "Let the rankings chase you. Not the other way around."
Michael nodded outwardly, but internally, it gnawed at him.
He didn't want cameras. He wanted clarity. He didn't want praise. He wanted proof.
And then came the thick, heavy envelopes. D1 offers. Full rides. All of them real now.
In the middle of all this, they had a game against Halston Prep.
Undersized. Chippy. Annoying. And the perfect team to capitalize on a distracted leader.
Michael came out flat.
Missed jumper. Lazy turnover. Half-hearted closeout.
Coach pulled him early second quarter.
"You good?"
Michael rubbed his temples, breathing hard.
"It's just—" he stopped, then hissed, "—it's loud. Not them. Everything else. I can't even think out there."
Coach sat beside him.
"You need to block out the noise. They're not watching because you're perfect. They're watching to see how you handle imperfection."
Michael clenched his jaw, fists tightening around his jersey.
"I don't want to handle it. I want to bury it."
Coach met his gaze. "Then bury it the right way. With buckets. With defense. With calm."
Second half: Michael returned with steel in his veins.
He didn't force shots. He moved the ball. He fought for boards like they insulted him.
No highlight reel. Just grind.
Final score: 70–58. Michael: 16 points, 11 rebounds, 6 assists, 2 blocks.
Halston's coach shook his head in the postgame line.
"You make the right play every time. That's rare."
Michael, still flushed with heat, gave a tired nod. "It's not about flash. It's about control. And I'm still learning that."
[System Notification: Trait Reinforced – Emotional Discipline Tier I → Tier II][Progress: 20.68%]
That night, in his room, Michael sat with the ESPN article open again.
He read it twice.
He didn't smile.
He just stared at the words until they blurred, then grabbed a notepad and scrawled across the top:
"What #1 Actually Looks Like."
And below it, one more line:
"I will never be ranked beneath someone I can cook."
Because he wasn't chasing attention.
He was chasing control—and revenge.