NBA: GIANT KILLING

"You still have the guts to be this cocky?" Alabama's No. 66 sneered, his expression mixed with anger and surprise as he glared at Oliver. 

He just received a heavy blow and the kid didn't just survive it, he even had the gall to be snarky.

Just as he was about to lunge forward to teach Oliver a harsher lesson, a teammate yanked him back. 

The coach hadn't sent them in to start a brawl—he had sent them to neutralize Oliver, to whittle him down with subtle, calculated aggression. A direct assault would only expose their intentions. 

"Pathetic." Oliver made sure they heard him, his voice dripping with disdain. 

With the strength of peak Bron  coursing through his body, there was no one he feared. 

After all, this was the player who was called 'The King'—a man whose physique had earned a title whispered with reverence:

"The Chosen One."

If anyone doubted it, they were welcome to test their mettle. In the end, they would learn who truly held dominion over this court. 

"Are you alright?" Gorin rushed over, concern flickering in his eyes. 

Oliver shook his head, his expression calm. But in his gaze, Gorin glimpsed something else—a fire, untamed and unyielding, blazing in the depths of his soul.

"Kid, take a breather." 

Coach Boeheim called out, motioning for Oliver to come off the court. At that moment, the outcome of the game seemed almost trivial compared to protecting his player.

What Boeheim had just witnessed was enough. 

Oliver was an anomaly, a rare gem. If cultivated properly, his potential was limitless. 

He could not—would not—allow that promise to be extinguished here. 

"Coach, trust me. I can handle this." 

Oliver met Boeheim's gaze with an unshakable resolve. This was the moment. This was where his legend would begin. 

Boeheim hesitated, about to insist, but the sheer conviction in Oliver's eyes made him falter. 

No words would sway him. 

"...Fine, kid. But for God's sake, protect yourself."  

Oliver nodded, acknowledging the command. 

As soon as he stepped back onto the court, No. 7 and No. 9 closed in, once again ensnaring him in their trap.

Alabama had staked their strategy on one fatal assumption—that Oliver's build, his strength was lacking. 

'A small body like his couldn't possibly withstand relentless collisions.'

Once or twice, perhaps. 

But every time? 

Oliver dribbled slowly, methodically, his eyes scanning the floor. No. 12 and No. 66 lurked near the paint, their focus razor-sharp. The perimeter defenders, however, sagged slightly—a chink in their armor. 

They were setting a trap. 

The moment Oliver slashed into the lane, the big men would seal the walls shut, caging him in. 

From there, it would be an execution. 

Oliver's left hand moved in a quick, almost imperceptible gesture—a silent command to Gorin. 

Gorin understood instantly. He cut hard, shaking his defender, and barreled toward the top of the key, planting himself on No. 7's left side. 

Oliver saw his chance. 

In the blink of an eye, he exploded forward, slicing through the gap like a blade. 

No. 7 and No. 9, already sluggish in lateral movement, slammed into Gorin's screen, too late to react. 

Oliver surged into the paint, each stride a blur, his steps precise, controlled. 

At the free-throw line, he veered right. 

No. 66 anticipated the move and lunged forward, arms splayed, prepared to grab him mid-air. 

But then— 

Oliver vanished. 

Or at least, that's how it seemed to No. 66. 

Oliver's first step had been right. But in a lightning-fast deception, his second step cut left, his body shifting impossibly quick. 

A feint so sharp, it felt like the earth had slipped beneath No. 66's feet. 

"Watch out!" 

"Shit!" 

No. 66 flailed, trying to recover—but his weight betrayed him. He stumbled, his massive frame crashing onto the hardwood. 

The crowd gasped. 

"What the hell?" 

"How did he change direction in mid-air?!" 

"That was—Ginóbili's Euro step!" 

"My God!" 

But Oliver hadn't used Ginóbili's classic move. 

This was Harden's Euro step—it was so deceptive, a lot thought it was a travel.

A subtle hesitation, a manipulative footwork that toyed with his opponent's sense of balance—and then a fatal strike. 

No. 66 collapsed. 

And Oliver? 

Instead of going for the layup, he did something utterly audacious. 

He lobbed the ball—against the backboard. 

"What the hell is he doing?!" 

"Did he just... mess up?" 

A ripple of confusion swept the arena. 

"Beautiful! He screwed up!" 

On the sidelines, Klins leapt from his seat, elated. 

A mistake like this—a reckless error—surely, Boeheim wouldn't tolerate it! 

But in the next instant— 

Gorin came soaring from the perimeter, a specter in flight. 

He leapt—his body a coiled spring— 

And slammed the ball through the hoop. 

A dunk. A thunderous, rim-rattling dunk. 

The camera caught the moment in perfect clarity: 

Gorin, mid-air, his muscles taut like iron cables. 

No. 66, sprawled on the floor, his face frozen in disbelief. 

Oliver, standing nearby, a small, knowing smirk curling on his lips. 

A masterpiece. 

"OH. MY. GOD!" 

"I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!" 

"THE COORDINATION! THE EXECUTION! PERFECTION!" 

No one had noticed Gorin lurking beyond the arc. 

No one—except Oliver. 

He had driven toward the basket, back turned to Gorin, yet he had known exactly where his teammate would be. 

And in that split second, he had dared—Dared!—to send the pass blindly. 

"It's him." 

Boeheim's hands clapped together sharply. 

A true point guard. 

A general who could see the battlefield from every angle. 

Oliver wasn't just a starting-caliber player. 

He was a star in the making. 

On the court, Gorin embraced Oliver. 

"You set me up for the highlight of my life." His voice was full of admiration. 

Oliver simply grinned. 

Mo Williams brought the ball upcourt, but Oliver shadowed him, step for step. 

Then— 

A flicker in his peripheral vision. 

No. 66 was charging forward. 

Williams took the opening and drove. 

Oliver reacted instantly, ghosting past No. 66's screen and closing in on Williams. 

Seeing the trap, Williams passed out—right into No. 66's hands. 

The towering forward roared, launching himself for a dunk. 

"Look out—!" 

SMACK. 

The ball never reached the hoop. 

Instead, it was swatted—erased from existence. 

Oliver's voice rang out: "Fast break!" 

As he sprinted down the court, No. 66 clutched his head in seething disbelief. 

"Damn it. Him again." 

And then— 

Oliver rose for a dunk of his own. 

Williams jumped to challenge him. 

Their bodies collided—and only one man fell. 

Oliver remained, soaring higher. 

And with an earth-shaking tomahawk slam, he sealed his dominance. 

The arena erupted. 

And on the sidelines—Boeheim smiled. 

A star had been born.

___________________________________

Hello everyone!

Finally, 10 chapters. How are you liking the story so far? Any comments? I would love to hear your thoughts! If it's not an inconvenience, I would deeply appreciate if you left some reviews!

Anyway, I both have school and a job so my schedule is kinda packed, but I'm on my last year so some days I find myself without any classes. During those, I usually just lie down on the bed and roll around. It's hard to find some motivation to do things when your body wants you to rest.

With that being said, I kinda found a way to fool myself to work. If this story gets 100 power stones by the time this week ends, I'll upload an additional 5+ chapters! I'll drag my ass on the chair and edit the shit out of the chapters. It's some form of positive reinforcement for me to actually do something instead of melting under the covers so this is a win-win for all of us (I think)! If we fail to do so, Imma still add some chapters depends on how we energetic I would feel. Soooooo my fate is in your hands!

Thank you so much for your support everyone! Have a great week ahead!