Fresno State.
Players’ dorm.
Rex had one leg crossed over the other, scrolling Twitter with pure satisfaction.
In the short time since the final horn, his DMs had completely collapsed.
Half the messages were interview requests from every major sports outlet in the country.
The other half were increasingly unsubtle invitations from blondes and Latinas across all fifty states.
Campus Twitter, the school basketball group chats, every major college-ball forum—nine posts out of ten were about him.
He allowed himself a quiet internal smirk.
Join Fresno, coast through the entire regular season like a man on vacation, then flip the switch for two March Madness games and go from complete unknown to national obsession.
The speed still surprised even him.
The dorm door flew open with a kick.
Paul George stormed in clutching a clunky laptop like it contained state secrets, eyes blazing.
“Rex!
You gotta see this.
I found pure gold.” He lowered his voice and locked the door behind him for dramatic effect.
Rex’s expression lit up instantly.
“Bro, that spicy already?
Tokyo’s newest release or the wild European stuff?” George froze mid-step.
A massive eye-roll followed.
“Shit, Rex.
Is that really how you see me?” “I room with you.
I know exactly how you see yourself.” College-age Paul George, like most guys their age, kept a strict daily schedule: one in the morning for energy, one at night for sleep.
Rex had heard the evidence more times than he cared to remember.
“Damn it, this is DraftExpress, you degenerate.
Fresh 2010 NBA mock draft page.
Just updated.” “Oh.
Mock draft.” Rex’s interest dropped off a cliff.
“Get your ass up and look at your ranking!” George shoved the screen into his face.
Rex squinted.
1.
John Wall (Kentucky) 2.
Evan Turner (Ohio State) 3.
DeMarcus Cousins (Kentucky) 4.
A.J.
Thompson (Texas Tech) 5.
Rex Valen (Fresno State) Directly beneath him sat Georgetown’s star big, Greg Monroe—the so-called heir to the Monroe Doctrine.
“Oh my god, Rex, do you even understand how insane this is?” George was yelling louder than if he’d cracked the top five himself.
“Two March Madness games!
Two!
And you’re already inside the top five of the lottery!” “That’s never happened before.
Not in NCAA history.
Not in NBA draft history.” “And you just buried Greg Monroe under your foot.
I played against that dude last year.
I know exactly how good he is.” “These experts are still being too conservative…” Rex stared at the ranking with pure boredom.
“I’m not even the first overall pick?” Then the corner of his mouth curved.
“Monroe, huh?” He remembered.
Next round.
Sweet Sixteen.
Fresno State versus Georgetown.
The mock had placed them back-to-back for a reason.
Free marketing for the matchup.
Rex swung his legs off the bed, pulled on a hoodie, and shot George a look.
“PG.
Gym.
Now.
I just had a vision.
Brand-new combo.
Extremely violent.
Extremely us.” George blinked.
“Brand-new… position?” “Less talking.” “Fuck—wait up!” Two hours later the Fresno State practice gym echoed with the sound of repeated rim destruction.
Paul George stood frozen, mouth open.
“Rex… if we actually pull that off in a game, I swear the crowd is going to lose its mind like someone just unlocked a secret character.” “And Monroe?
Big, slow-footed centers like him are going to have nightmares.” Meanwhile, in Dallas.
Mark Cuban sat in the Mavericks’ general manager’s office, rubbing his temples while the phone on his desk screamed at him.
“Mark!
Listen to me right now!
Get on the phone with Fresno State and lock down that kid immediately!” Jason Kidd’s voice on the other end sounded like a man who had just hit the lottery.
“If you get him to Dallas this summer I will average fifteen assists next season.
I swear on everything.” Dirk Nowitzki leaned in, tone deadly serious.
“Mark, he is not the next Yao.
Completely different player.
He has more raw force than peak Shaq and he moves laterally like a small forward.
Missing him would be the stupidest decision Dallas makes this decade.
Same level of regret as Jordan not going number one.” Cuban stared at the phone like it had started speaking Mandarin.
As one of the most basketball-obsessed owners in the league, he had caught the rumors about the ” tyrant.” But his entire focus had been locked on the current roster’s title window.
College kids who hadn’t even entered the league yet barely registered.
“Dirk.
Jason.
Did you two drink the bad beer at American Airlines Center last night?” Cuban laughed and shook his head.
“A center that strong?
Yao is already the peak of what yellow big men can be.
I can’t picture anyone from that background surpassing him.” “He is not the next Yao Ming.” Nowitzki’s voice was iron.
“He is better.” Cuban sucked in a sharp breath.
He had spent years collecting international bigs.
He knew exactly what peak Yao looked like—two-way dominance, soft touch, paint control that ranked among the best in the new century.
And Nowitzki had just claimed a college freshman was already past that standard.
“Dirk.
You sure you’re not exaggerating?” “I’m not exaggerating.
I’m stating facts.” Nowitzki didn’t hesitate.
“If I were you I’d open a browser right now and search the American Airlines Center game from last night.
Watch the film.
Then we can talk about whether packing every pick we own to trade up for him is worth it.” The call ended.
Cuban, still half-skeptical, opened his laptop and typed the name into the search bar.
The first video that loaded carried a title designed to cause heart attacks: **God Descends on American Airlines Center — Monster Snaps a Professionally Reinforced Rim on the Opening Tip** “Snaps the rim?
Is the kid running a side hustle as a maintenance worker?” Cuban muttered the words under his breath and clicked play.
Three seconds later he launched out of his chair so hard his knee smashed into the marble edge of the desk.
Pain shot up his leg.
He didn’t care.
On the screen a 7’1″ frame in Fresno’s number 91 jersey moved with violence that looked illegal.
“Holy shit…” “That power.
That explosion.
That core strength…” “Whoever ends up dating this guy is going to need physical therapy for life.” By the time the full highlight package ended, Mark Cuban was gone.
Completely, irreversibly gone.