Word count: 2821 Stackhouse took the first possession in no hurry.
He bounced the ball once, backed beyond the arc, and waited for Kobe to settle into his stance.
Kobe already knew what was coming.
Stackhouse liked to establish his strength early, forcing defenders to respect the drive before showing them everything else.
The jab step wasn’t designed to create space.
It was designed to make the first slide just a little heavier.
Kobe slid with it anyway.
Then Stackhouse exploded left.
Kobe anticipated the shoulder before it arrived, turning his body to absorb the contact instead of taking it square.
The read was right.
Stackhouse simply carried more weight through the collision, and Kobe gave up half a step.
Half a step was enough.
Stackhouse reached the rim and finished softly off the glass.
1–0, Stackhouse.
Kobe accepted the check and settled into a relaxed stance, bouncing the ball twice before lifting his eyes to Stackhouse.
The expression never changed.
No lean.
No giveaway.
Kobe eased toward the baseline with a slow, deliberate probe, more interested in Stackhouse’s reaction than the drive itself.
Stackhouse slid with him effortlessly, matching every step while keeping the same cushion between them, never crowding, never retreating.
Kobe pulled the ball back out and snapped into a quick crossover, not expecting to beat him, only wanting to see if he’d reach.
Stackhouse never moved.
His hands stayed disciplined, his feet balanced beneath him, refusing to surrender even an inch of position.
Kobe had his answer.
He rose into a one-legged fadeaway from just inside the arc.
The space came from patience, not speed.
The jumper dropped cleanly through the net, and Kobe landed exactly where he had taken off before calmly jogging back beyond the arc.
1–1.
Stackhouse caught the ball and nodded once.
“Nice move.” He checked it back and attacked immediately.
Two hard dribbles carried him toward the lane.
A quick hesitation forced Kobe to settle his feet before Stackhouse lowered his shoulder and drove through the opening.
Kobe met him outside the paint, turning his body to absorb the contact instead of taking it square.
The angle was right.
Stackhouse simply drove through it.
The contact created just enough space for him to extend with his left hand and lay the ball softly off the glass.
2–1, Stackhouse.
Kobe caught the ball as it dropped through the net and walked it back beyond the arc.
On the next check, he turned his back immediately, backing Stackhouse toward the mid-post instead of attacking off the dribble.
The first shoulder bump tested the balance.
The second tested the footwork.
Stackhouse held his ground both times.
On the third, he leaned slightly toward the middle to take away the turnaround.
On the third bump, Kobe felt Stackhouse lean toward the middle.
He planted his left foot, spun baseline, and slipped underneath the rim before Stackhouse could recover.
Using the basket to shield the defender, he stretched to the opposite side and laid the ball high off the glass.
2–2.
Stackhouse caught the check with an easy smile.
He dribbled once with his left hand, keeping the ball high on his fingertips before rocking into a series of quick jab steps.
Kobe stayed balanced, refusing to bite on the first two.
The third barely moved him.
Stackhouse rose without warning.
The jumper came so quickly that Kobe’s hand was still coming up as the ball left his fingertips.
The shot dropped cleanly through the net.
3–2, Stackhouse.
He caught the ball as it fell and walked it back beyond the arc.
This time Kobe shaded his left shoulder, ready to cut off the drive before it started.
Stackhouse saw it immediately.
Instead of attacking, he lowered his shoulder and backed Kobe toward the mid-post.
Each dribble was controlled, forcing Kobe to give ground an inch at a time.
When Kobe leaned into the contact, Stackhouse planted his inside foot, spun over his right shoulder, and faded away.
Kobe contested as high as he could.
Kobe’s contest fell inches short.
The jumper splashed through the net.
4–2, Stackhouse.
The conversations around the gym faded.
Trainers stopped rolling basketballs onto the racks.
Assistants lowered their clipboards.
One by one, people drifted toward the court, drawn less by the score than by the quality of the basketball unfolding in front of them.
Kobe caught the check and took his time walking beyond the arc.
He wasn’t chasing the score.
There was too much game left for that.
He bounced the ball once and watched Stackhouse settle into his stance.
The feet stayed active.
The hands stayed disciplined.
No reaching.
No gambling.
Exactly the defender Kobe remembered.
Kobe stepped forward just enough to make Stackhouse slide with him before pulling the ball back out.
Another step.
Another slide.
Stackhouse stayed square, refusing to open his hips.
He shifted Stackhouse one step toward the middle before rising into a quick pull-up.
The jumper caught nothing but net.
4–3.
On the next check, Stackhouse bounced the ball once and looked up at Kobe.
“You ever lose one of these?” he asked, quietly enough that no one else could hear.
Kobe met his eyes.
“You are asking the wrong person.” A grin tugged at the corner of Stackhouse’s mouth.
The ball came alive.
Stackhouse attacked with the same rhythm that had carried him through the opening possessions, a sharp jab followed by a hard drive to his left.
This time, Kobe beat him to the spot.
He slid early, cutting off the lane before Stackhouse could turn the corner.
Stackhouse immediately shifted to his counter, crossing back toward the middle.
Kobe stayed in front.
For the first time all game, Stackhouse couldn’t get downhill.
He gathered, took one retreat dribble to create space, and rose into a fading jumper from well beyond his preferred range.
Kobe contested without leaving his feet too early, extending only as Stackhouse released the ball.
The shot caught the back rim and bounced high into the air.
The gym let out a collective breath.
Kobe secured the rebound with both hands and carried the ball back beyond the arc.
He let the silence settle for a moment, his breathing steady as he bounced the ball once against the hardwood.
Stackhouse lowered into his stance again, ready for another drive.
Kobe gave him one.
A hard dribble to the left pulled Stackhouse across the lane before Kobe planted and changed direction.
Stackhouse recovered quickly, but not quickly enough.
Kobe rose smoothly from fifteen feet, balanced from the moment his feet left the floor until they touched down again.
The jumper dropped cleanly through the net.
4–4.
Kobe slowed the next possession even further, turning his back and backing Stackhouse toward the mid-post.
Every dribble carried a purpose.
He bumped once, then twice, changing the angle each time, looking for the slightest shift in balance.
Stackhouse refused to give him one.
His feet stayed underneath him, his chest square, forcing Kobe to keep working.
Kobe spun toward the middle.
Stackhouse beat him there.
Without forcing the shot, Kobe gathered, pivoted back over his left shoulder, and faded from the baseline.
The release felt clean, but the ball caught the back rim before bouncing harmlessly away.
Stackhouse secured the rebound and carried it beyond the arc without rushing.
He bounced the ball once and looked at Kobe.
“Got any other tricks?” Kobe smiled faintly.
“I’ve got a few.” Stackhouse nodded, still smiling.
A hard first step sent him left, just as he had several times already.
Kobe slid with him, taking away the lane before Stackhouse could reach the paint.
Stackhouse never hesitated.
He planted hard, stopped on balance, and rose into a pull-up before Kobe could close the final inch of space.
The jumper barely disturbed the net.
5–4, Stackhouse.
Stackhouse checked the ball back with the same calm rhythm he had carried since the opening possession.
There wasn’t an ounce of wasted movement in his game now.
Every dribble had a purpose.
Every counter flowed naturally into the next.
Kobe finally saw it.
And he intended to break it.
Kobe caught the check and attacked left with conviction, forcing Stackhouse to slide hard to cut off the lane.
The instant Stackhouse committed his hips, Kobe planted, pushed off his outside foot, and retreated behind the arc in one smooth motion.
It wasn’t enough to lose the defender entirely.
The half-step of separation was all Kobe needed.
He rose without hesitation.
The jumper dropped cleanly through the center of the net.
5–5.
Kobe checked the ball and attacked again, refusing to let the pace change.
He drove hard to his left before snapping into a turnaround at the elbow.
Stackhouse stayed attached the entire possession, contesting without reaching.
The jumper caught the back rim and kicked long.
Stackhouse secured the rebound with both hands and cleared beyond the arc before Kobe could pressure him.
Now it was his possession again.
He wasted no time.
One hard dribble drew Kobe toward the lane.
Feeling the contact, Stackhouse spun off Kobe’s shoulder in the same motion and floated the ball high over the outstretched contest.
The shot settled softly through the net.
6–5, Stackhouse.
From there, the game settled into something neither man could fully control.
Possession after possession, they forced each other deeper into their bags.
Kobe answered power with footwork, finding angles instead of space.
Stackhouse answered patience with strength, getting to his spots through contact and knocking down shots that would’ve been good defense against anyone else.
The score climbed one basket at a time.
7–5.
7–6.
8–7.
Every answer earned a rebuttal.
The rest of the gym slowly stopped existing.
The trainers abandoned the ball racks halfway through collecting them.
Clipboards hung forgotten at the assistants’ sides.
The veteran point guard folded his arms and leaned against the scorer’s table, watching with the same intensity he’d defended with earlier.
The veteran wing shook his head after one particularly difficult fadeaway and muttered something that made the big laugh under his breath.
Damon and Silas had stopped sitting altogether.
Damon stood with his hands on his hips, following every possession as though he might be called back into the game at any moment.
Silas rested both forearms on the back of a folding chair, smiling every time Kobe found another answer.
John Lucas hadn’t written anything in several minutes.
His notebook remained open in one hand, but his attention never left the floor.
No one talked anymore.
No one needed to.
The game spoke for itself.
Stackhouse buried a pull-up over a hand in his face.
9–7.
Kobe refused to let him pull away.
He attacked the rim on the next possession, absorbed the contact, and finished high off the glass before Stackhouse could recover.
9–8.
Stackhouse attacked immediately, looking to end it, but Kobe met him chest-to-chest outside the lane.
Stackhouse tried to power through the contact, spun back toward the middle, and faded away over an outstretched hand.
The jumper caught back iron.
Kobe secured the rebound and cleared beyond the arc.
The gym didn’t make a sound.
Kobe slowed the possession, refusing to rush.
One hard dribble.
A hesitation.
Another dribble.
Stackhouse stayed disciplined, waiting for the drive.
Kobe never gave it to him.
He rose from just inside the free-throw line and buried the jumper.
9–9.
Kobe kept the ball.
He attacked again, trying to strike before the momentum disappeared.
This time Stackhouse stayed attached through every move.
Kobe worked into a fading turnaround from the baseline, but the shot spun off the front rim.
Stackhouse pulled down the rebound, cleared beyond the arc, and wasted no time.
One hard dribble created the angle he wanted.
Kobe recovered well enough to force a difficult pull-up, but Stackhouse elevated over the contest and watched it fall cleanly through.
10–9, Stackhouse.
Game point.
John Lucas lowered his notebook.
The veteran point guard folded his arms across his chest.
The wing leaned forward, his grin gone.
The big rested both hands on his knees.
Damon and Silas stood side by side near the baseline, hardly breathing.
Stackhouse bounced the ball once.
“You’ve got one last chance to stop me.” Then he attacked.
He came downhill with the same force Kobe had felt all afternoon, shoulders lowered, driving left.
Kobe slid with him, chest square, refusing to give up the lane.
Stackhouse spun back toward the middle, looking for the same opening that had carried him through the game.
The opening wasn’t there.
Kobe stayed attached.
Stackhouse gathered for the floater.
Only then did Kobe leave the floor.
His fingertips caught the ball just after it left Stackhouse’s hand, changing its path without fouling.
The ball struck the front rim, bounced straight into the air, and drifted toward the free-throw line.
A sharp gasp swept through the gym.
Kobe ripped the rebound out of the air and carried it beyond the arc.
Kobe bounced the ball twice.
Stackhouse took one step toward the paint, expecting a drive.
But Kobe rose from well behind the three-point line.
The ball left his fingertips cleanly.
And climbed almost to the lights before falling straight through the center of the net.
10–10.
Stackhouse caught the ball beneath the rim and tossed it back.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“I didn’t think you had that kind of range, my mistake.” Kobe caught the check and settled into his stance.
Three slow dribbles echoed through the gym.
Stackhouse crouched lower than he had all afternoon, ready for the crossover, ready for the turnaround, ready for the fadeaway, and now ready for a three.
Kobe attacked left.
Stackhouse slid with him.
Kobe snapped the ball back across his body, forcing Stackhouse to change directions a second time.
The lane disappeared.
Kobe gathered the ball with both hands.
Stackhouse saw the gather and committed, planting himself in front of the rim.
Then Kobe did something he’d never seen before.
Instead of stepping toward the basket, Kobe took a long stride across Stackhouse’s body, carrying the ball with him as if he were driving straight through the defender.
Stackhouse shifted to absorb the contact.
There wasn’t any.
Kobe’s second step carried him back across the lane, slipping around Stackhouse’s outside shoulder in one smooth motion.
It looked like he had walked.
“What the—” By the time Stackhouse turned, Kobe was already on the other side of him, gliding toward an empty backboard.
Kobe extended beneath the rim and laid the ball softly against the glass.
The ball kissed the square.
Then dropped through the net.
11–10.
Game.
Nobody moved.
The veteran wing finally broke the silence.
“What the hell was that?” he said, staring at Kobe instead of the basket.
The veteran point guard laughed once and shook his head.
“I thought he traveled.” “He didn’t,” the veteran big answered, still watching Kobe.
“I just…
I don’t know how he got around him.” Near the scorer’s table, one of the assistants looked at the coach beside him.
“Have you ever seen that before?” The other assistant slowly shook his head.
“Not like that.” Damon let out a low whistle.
“I swear he was trapped.” “So did I,” Silas replied.
“Then he just…disappeared.
Took one right out of the Houdini playbook.” Another trainer leaned over one of the abandoned ball racks.
“Was that legal?” John Lucas finally spoke.
“It was.” Every head turned toward him.
Lucas never took his eyes off Kobe.
“He gathered before the first step.” The trainer frowned.
“So what was it?” Lucas folded his notebook shut.
“I don’t know.” Across the lane, Stackhouse was still standing where Kobe had left him.
He looked once at the rim.
Then back at Kobe.
A slow smile spread across his face.
He walked over, still shaking his head.
“What do you call that move?” The gym quieted again.
Even the assistants waited for the answer.
Kobe looked down at the basketball in his hands, turning it slowly between his fingers.
“When I was a kid in Italy,” he said, “I’d watch younger players using different versions of it in gyms and on playgrounds.
They all came up with it for the same reason.” Stackhouse tilted his head.
“What reason?” “None of us were the biggest guy on the court.” Kobe rolled the ball between his hands.
“We needed a way around the older players instead of through them.” Stackhouse folded his arms.
“So you made it your own?” Kobe nodded while bouncing the ball once.
“Every time it didn’t work, I’d change something.
I lengthened the first step, cleaned up the balance, and kept working on the timing.
I just kept refining it until it felt like mine.” Stackhouse nodded toward the basket.
“And the name?” Kobe smiled to himself.
“I call it the Eurostep.” Stackhouse let out a short laugh.
“That’s it?
Just the Eurostep?” Kobe nodded.
“It always felt like one step carried me from Europe…
and the next carried me to America.” .
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Hello Timekeepers, I’m back after a short two-day break, and we’re officially back to the regular upload schedule!
This week, you can expect 5 new chapters, so there’s plenty more Kobe coming.
As always, if we hit our community goals,
I’d also love to hear what you thought about this chapter: What did you think of Kobe vs.
Stackhouse?
Did you expect the final move?
What’s your favorite moment from the scrimmage and the one-on-one?
Thanks for reading, and I’ll see you in the next chapter!