March 8, 2007 | Austin, Texas - University of Texas
The gym buzzed like a live wire.
Sneakers squeaked against the polished hardwood echoing across the gym.
Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long reflections on the waxed floor. The air stank of sweat, heat, odor, and whatever other mystery funk college players manage to produce.
March Madness was a week away, and everyone in the gym was chasing a spot in it whether for the experience and fun of it or a shot at the NBA.
Some smiled nervously, barely keeping it together. Others stayed quiet, stretching and getting themselves ready.
No one was in the mood to laugh or joke around as they had five days left until the eyes of the entire country was on them.
On the sideline stood the main character of our story, Ethan Cross.
He leaned against the cinderblock wall with a towel hanging loose around his neck, a 19 year old Caucasian kid built at 6'5 with a lean frame, long arms, big hands, and blue eyes under black hair.
[Image > Here]
He wasn't the tallest on the floor, but he was one of three players in the country who had the full attention of the basketball world. As the next big thing, a level of talent where entire teams tank for, a talent general managers clear entire rosters for.
The level of talent.
But Ethan wasn't thinking about March Madness or his future. His mind had drifted far from Austin.
He rubbed the back of his neck, sweat cooling against his skin. The gym noise dulled, falling into a kind of tunnel.
His thoughts were back with the headlights about his past.
The truck came fast. Too fast to swerve, too fast to pray. One second, he was crossing the street after a team dinner in Milan, the next second glass shattered around him. A horn. A scream. His body thrown into blackness.
Twenty-four years old.
That's all he got.
And it wasn't glamorous. He'd spent his career overseas, bouncing from team to team across Europe and South America. Cramped apartments, late checks, half-empty gyms. He'd gone from sleeping on planes to icing knees in a Belgrade locker room, praying for anyone to notice. The NBA always felt close until it didn't.
No glory.
And then: nothing.
When he opened his eyes again, he was screaming.
A baby in a hospital in Washington D.C.
Same city. Same mother. Same pale green walls from photos he remembered.
His mother held him, sobbing with joy. He cried, too. Not because he was a baby. But because he remembered everything. And somehow, impossibly, she was alive again.
Then the voice came.
Booming. Inside his skull.
"You have been reborn with the talents of Allen Iverson and Kyrie Irving."
Just one sentence. That was it.
He never heard the voice again.
Motherfucker, he got isekaied but he couldn't be happier.
But from that moment on, everything changed.
As a toddler, a basketball felt like an extension of his body compared to his first life. By kindergarten, he was doing moves he'd spent his first life practicing for years. Except now he didn't have to try.
The ball clung to his fingers like it wanted to be there. Crossovers that used to take hours to drill now snapped out instinctively from his new talents and experience. Everything just came so naturally.
Allen Iverson's fire.
Kyrie Irving's wizardry.
In his hands combined that with his personal experience and mentality, he quickly became a rising talent.
By the time he was thirteen, scouts were already hovering. By fifteen, ESPN had his mixtapes on repeat. By seventeen, they were comparing him to Durant, to Oden, to Iverson but taller with somehow better handles.
They called him the next AI.
"Yo, Ethan!"
Ethan looked up.
Kevin Durant was walking over, hoodie half off, long frame moving easy despite his size being 6'9"and unguardable since eighth grade. Same age. Same city, same town. Same grind. D.C. boys turned killers on the court.
Now was KD 6'9 no, Ethan knew his exact size but he wasn't going to reveal his best friend's secrets to the rest of the world.
They'd played together since middle school from dusty rec gyms to national showcases. KD with that high release and that calm, killer look. Ethan with street-magician handles, MJ-tier shotmaking, and the vision of a top guard. Their games clicked like bread and butter.
Durant tossed him a ball underhand.
"You tryna meditate or you good?"
Ethan caught it without looking. "Just thinkin'. Big week."
Kevin raised a brow. "You thinking? That can't be good for your brain."
"Man, shut up," Ethan said, firing the ball into his stomach. "You better hope coach doesn't bench your ass."
J.D. Lewis, perched on a ball rack, scoffed. "Man, here y'all go again."
A.J. Abrams from the corner: "Every day, it's something new with those two. I honestly feel bad for whoever has to guard Ethan."
More laughter followed. Someone threw a towel. Somebody else did the fake SportsCenter sound.
But the noise died when Ethan stood up straight and looked around the gym. "For real though," he said. "Y'all wanna get drafted?"
A few heads turned. The energy shifted.
"Play well in this tournament, scouts take notice. They already watchin'. You show out in March? You move up. Period." He let that sink in.
"No team's tryna draft a dude who coasted while his squad carried him. So don't come out here half-steppin'. You do good, we all shine. You slackin'? You gonna feel it. I promise."
Nobody spoke. Not because they were scared because he wasn't wrong.
He was just stating facts. And everyone knew it.
Ever since Ethan and KD showed up, everything shifted. Practice got louder. The gym got packed. Reporters hovered like flies. NBA scouts started camping out in the bleachers.
For the first time in a long while, everyone was watching the Longhorns. They'd always been a big program, just never this big.
ESPN. Bleacher Report. Nike. Even NBA stars were posting about them.
But nobody was watching them, the others.
It was always Kevin and Ethan.
Every headline. Every camera. Every quote.
They were grateful, yeah. The team had never gotten this much attention. But that spotlight only pointed one way. And the rest of them? Just silhouettes in the background.
Kevin moved like a winged guard trapped in a center's frame. He pulled up from 30 feet and it looked like a warmup.
And Ethan, that kid had the ball on a string. His crossovers made defenders blink twice. His stepbacks looked like choreography. His shots barely touched the rim.
They were... different.
Not just talented.
Unfair.
But none of that was said because like Ethan said, they also brought benefits as long as they did good, their drafts stocks would go up. They would get the attention they needed.
"Alright, bring it in!"
Coach Rick Barnes' voice boomed across the gym like a starter pistol. Sneakers squeaked to a halt as players hustled toward midcourt, forming a loose semi-circle around the old-school coach.
"Scrimmage. Ten minutes. I want to see execution. I want to see chemistry. And I want to see hunger."
That last word hung in the air.
"Hunger," he repeated. "Because in a few days, we're heading to the tournament. And only twelve of you are coming with me."
The gym fell quiet.
Just like that, the room got colder. Nobody smiled. Nobody joked. You could feel it, some would make the cut. Some wouldn't.
Twelve spots. For a roster chasing a national title.
Everyone knew the starters were safe. But safe didn't mean relaxed, not with Ethan and KD on the floor.
Coach clapped once, sharp and final. "Blue team. White team. Let's go."
As players split up, the gym buzzed with electricity. Not just from the team but from the crowd.
The gym was packed. It was always packed since the two highers joined but today was extra packed as students knew training would be harder with March madness coming so who knows they might see something extra.
Students leaned against the walls, phones out. Some of the football team even showed up for the show.
When KD and Ethan ended up on opposite teams, the room leaned forward.
Blue Team:
Kevin Durant (SF)
D.J. Augustin (PG)
Damion James (PF)
Connor Atchley (C)
J.D. Lewis (SG)
.
White Team:
Ethan Cross (PG)
A.J. Abrams (SG)
Jerome Hunter (SF)
Matt Hill (PF)
Dex Thompkins (C)
The gym stilled as Connor Atchley stepped into the circle for the Blue Team, squaring up across from Dex Thompkins of the White.
Coach Barnes stood with his arms crossed, whistle in his mouth, watching like a sniper.
Tweet.
The ball went up.
KD soared.
Of course he did. Like it was nothing. His reach wasn't human. He tapped it cleanly over Dex's outstretched fingers.
But he didn't tip it to Ethan. Not today.
He slapped it back to D.J. Augustin instead. Message received.
Let's hoop. Ethan thought getting excited. Besides his mom, there was nothing more than the sport of basketball.
D.J. called the first set, a floppy into a stagger screen for KD on the wing.
J.D. Lewis spaced out to the corner. Damion James crashed into the lane. The ball found KD on the right elbow.
He turned over his shoulder, rose up with that high, impossible release and splashed a fadeaway over Jerome Hunter.
The crowd murmured.
2–0.
Ethan nodded from the other side, already bringing the ball up.
He crossed halfcourt slow, eyes scanning, mind already five steps ahead.
'Alright. They're icing the screen. KD's cheating high. J.D. wants to help but he's flat-footed.'
"Clear out," Ethan barked.
He isolated D.J. up top. Just rocking the ball in place.
Then he snapped, hard right, behind-the-back, into an inside-out left. Stutter. D.J. bit just enough.
One step. Burst. Ethan was at the rim.
Connor rotated late but Ethan didn't care.
He went left and under, flicked it off the glass at a brutal angle.
2–2.
KD brought it up himself this time.
He hit the gas early, three hard dribbles, snatched it back into a stepback three.
Hand in his face. Didn't matter.
5–2.
Ethan got the inbounds.
He faked a drag screen, blew by the trap with a spin, then Euro'd around Damion James and glided into a left-handed finish.
The gym gasped.
"Yo! WHAT?!" someone yelled from the stands.
Phones were out. The camera flashes started.
'He's good today. Real good.' Kevin rarely got rattled. But he could feel Ethan's rhythm building like a heat check that wouldn't cool down.
KD motioned for an iso at the wing. Faced up Jerome. One jab. Two.
He didn't go around him.
He went through him.
Two dribbles. Shoulder bump. Baseline fade.
Bucket.
7–4.
Next play, Ethan called a ghost screen with A.J. Abrams. The defense switched, poor Atchley stuck out on the perimeter.
Mismatch.
Ethan danced once, twice, then stepped back from 28.
Splash.
7–7.
The gym was losing it now.
Students were standing on benches, elbows digging into each other's sides just to get a better view. Shoulders were pressed against the cinderblock walls. People leaned over the railings above the court like they were watching a prizefight. Some had phones up, others didn't even bother, their eyes were glued to the court like they couldn't risk missing a second.
In the student section, someone yelled out, "HEZI! TWEEN! HEZI! BROOOO—" right as Ethan shifted gears into another crossover that sent his defender sliding back two feet like he was on ice.
Another student turned to her friend, eyes wide, both hands pressed to her mouth.
"Wait, did you get that? Did you film that?"
"I swear to God I got it. I'm posting this right now on Facebook."
"That's going viral in like... five minutes."
One of the football players near the baseline couldn't stop pacing.
"Nah," he muttered, shaking his head. "That's not real. They ain't even playin' the same game as the rest of them. You can't even build them in 2K.
On the court, it was pure humiliation disguised as basketball.
Ethan picked J.D. Lewis clean at the top of the key. Didn't even reach, just read him. One second the ball was in J.D.'s hands, the next, Ethan was gone.
Full court, no hesitation.
Two defenders angled in to stop the break. Ethan sliced through them like he already knew where they'd be, a eurostep between bodies, wrong footed finish off the glass.
The crowd lost its mind.
Back on defense before the ball was even through the net.
KD answered instantly.
Off a quick hit-ahead from Augustin, he curled into a screen on the right wing. Took the handoff, planted, rose off one foot and faded.
Top of the key. Hand in his face. Didn't matter. His release was too high, too smooth, too fast.
Net.
Clean.
The noise didn't stop.
It couldn't stop.
Every time Ethan touched the ball, the crowd leaned forward, hands twitching toward their phones. Every time KD rose up, the gym fell silent.
J.D. Lewis was breathing heavy now, bent over slightly on defense. 'You can't guard Kevin Durant one-on-one, he thought, frustrated. You just can't. He's too damn tall, too damn long, and his handle's way better than it should be at that size. You close out high, he drives. You give him space, he pulls up. You fight over the screen, he fades. And the worst part? He never talks. Doesn't flex. Doesn't smirk. He just kills you. Silently.'
He looked across the floor at Ethan, who was calling for another isolation.
But Ethan? Ethan's worse.
At least when KD scores, he just scores. He makes you feel small but Ethan makes you feel stupid.
He doesn't just go by you, he breaks you. Spins you in circles. Freezes your knees. Makes the crowd laugh while you hit the deck.
And J.D. had seen it. Everyone had.
Ethan had already broken multiple ankles this season in games. Legit, full-on ankle-breakers.
People didn't want to guard him. Not because he'd score but because he'd turn you into a damn joke.
Jerome Hunter switched onto KD near the corner, trying to body up. It didn't work.
KD took two dribbles, bumped once, created space with a subtle shoulder, then floated a high arcing shot over Jerome's outstretched hand. Bucket.
He's not even jumping that hard, Jerome thought, shaking his head. He's just… tall as hell and perfect with it.
Back on the other end, Ethan attacked again.
Called for a ghost screen. Atchley switched out. Mismatch.
Why me, Atchley thought, sagging off instinctively.
Ethan stepped into a hesitation dribble. Quick cross. Then back. Then pulled from deep, logo deep.
Swish.
Coach Barnes didn't even look surprised at the range. He'd seen this before. Every practice. Every game. Every time the lights came on.
It was routine now and still unreal.
Coach Daniels leaned in beside him, arms crossed, voice low. "He's in that zone again."
Coach Hayes was scribbling furiously on his clipboard, head down, tracking every possession like it mattered.
"Cross is seven for seven," he said, not looking up. "Seventeen points. Four dimes. One steal. One block."
Daniels checked the other sheet. "Durant's got fifteen. Four boards. Couple assists. Still hasn't turned it over once."
Barnes didn't answer right away.
He just stared out at the court at the kid with black hair and ice in his veins, and the long, fluid sniper who looked like he was born mid-jumper. "They're not college players," he said. "Not really."
Daniels turned slightly. "You mean yet?"
Barnes shook his head, slow.
"No. I mean they already aren't."
His eyes never left the floor.
He still remembered the calls. The first film sessions. That surreal moment when both commitments came in, back to back.
Ethan Cross and Kevin Durant. The two best high school players in the country.
Both picked Texas.
He still didn't know how the hell he pulled it off. Despite the promises of freedom and being able to grow and learn without being hindered by tactics and systems he still hadn't thought he receive the two commitments from two of the best players.
Hell, if you asked him straight up, he'd tell you both were already better than Oden and he'd mean it.
Ethan was eighteen years old and leading the nation in scoring at 28.4 points per game. Six-point-two assists. Nearly six rebounds. Two and a half steals. He was first in offensive rating, first in usage, third in efficiency.
And he guarded every position. The kid played like he already had experienced the Pros.
Durant wasn't far behind. 26.7 points. 8.9 rebounds. Improving every week. Together, they weren't just the best duo in college basketball.
They were a problem.
Not just for the Big 12.
For everyone. And soon the NBA.
Every possession felt like a war.
Ethan rotated to swat a drive at the rim, then immediately led the break the other way, slicing through traffic, finding A.J. Abrams in the corner for three.
Next trip, KD launched from 30 feet in transition. Didn't even watch it drop. Everyone else in the gym did.
Still net.
Ethan caught himself watching Kevin for a moment smiling.
It had all paid off. Every brutal morning. Every 6 a.m. shooting drill in half-lit gyms. The ball-handling circuits that left their fingers numb, raw, blistered. The endless film sessions. The footwork breakdowns that lasted hours. The summer days spent chasing perfection with pro trainers.
The All-American games. The FIBA U18 tournament. Nike camps. The runs with NBA vets during the offseason during Camps by the different brands.
Even Kobe had pulled them aside after his Nike training camp was for personal training once in LA.
Kevin had always been special. Probably one of the top five greatest talent the league had ever seen in history.
But this version?
This KD was better than the one Ethan remembered from his first life in college.
The handle was tighter. The defense more locked in. The shooting deadlier, faster, more confident.
He was hunting.
This Kevin, Ethan thought was gonna break the league.
And this time, Ethan would be right there with him.
On the court, no one smiled. No one trash talked during the game
Ethan didn't point. KD didn't pump his fist.
Just two killers trading blows.
Scrimmage clock winding down.
Tied 28–28.
Coach Barnes clapped once.
"White ball. Last shot."
The crowd roared.
Ethan caught the inbounds. Full court.
No timeout.
D.J. tried to pick him up early. Ethan split the trap.
Atchley came to hedge but it was too late.
Behind the back. Left.
Jerome sprinted to the corner.
Ethan didn't pass.
One hard dribble past half court.
He rose.
Stepback. 30 feet out.
Splash.
"OH MY GOD—"
"HE'S INSANE."
"RUN THAT BACK."
Final Score:
White 31 – Blue 28.
.
I am well aware that this chapter shares some similarities to NBA: Basketball Legend but this is a original. The only thing similar is KD and the mc going to the same college but even than that's different as I'm sure you can tell as one isn't chinese and isn't a bum.
I made this story because I was reading the Basketball Legend story which is a translation of a chinese story and it really shows with all the glaze of China and Yao Ming which just pissed me off. I also had several issues with the story in original. So I decided to say fuck it, let me try writing a original basketball story in this god damn site filled with translations that aren't even done well.