It was cold outside, but Michael's name was heating up.
Two weeks after the Fall Circuit, his highlights were still making the rounds. No mainstream attention yet, but the regional scouting blogs had started to circulate his clips.
"Michael Schmidt – 6'9 SG/SF – Fluid footwork, elite timing, terrifying upside." "One of the most polished raw prospects we've seen in years."
Polished and raw.
Michael snorted when he read it. People were just making up phrases now.
But he didn't deny it: his game was evolving.
[Progress: 4.71%][Attribute Sync Improved: Footwork Fluidity +1]
At school, things shifted.
JV players started saying "what's up" in the hallway. Kids he didn't know asked if he was going D1. Teachers pulled him aside with quiet encouragement.
Even Jamal, the ever-skeptical guard, started passing him the ball more during practice.
"You still talk too much," Jamal muttered after practice one day.
Michael grinned. "I'm not the one yelling when I miss."
The tension between them didn't vanish—but it morphed. From rivalry to edge. Iron sharpening iron.
The first official high school game was a week away.
Coach Alvarez scheduled a closed-door scrimmage against a ranked private school for tune-up.
Their gym was sleek. Digital scoreboard, spotless floors, players with tailored warmups.
Michael showed up in his usual hoodie, same scuffed shoes.
They sized him up. One kid whispered, "Who's the tall dude?"
By tip-off, they were grinning. Confident. Unimpressed.
That lasted exactly two possessions.
Michael clamped their starting shooting guard on the first drive, blocked his pull-up, then snagged the ball and pushed in transition.
He eurostepped between two defenders and laid it in off glass.
"Yo—what?"
Next time down, he caught it in the corner, pump-faked, took one sidestep, and drilled the three.
Swish.
No celebration. Just backpedal. Eyes locked.
[Progress: 4.98%][Skill Link Active: Stop-and-Shoot Tier I]
He was hitting a rhythm.
By the second quarter, he called for the iso.
"Clear out."
Coach didn't even stop it.
The defender pressed up.
Michael crossed left, exploded right, snatched it back into a jumper.
Bucket.
"Heat check," he muttered, half to himself.
By game's end, he'd dropped 31 points, 7 rebounds, and 3 assists. The scrimmage wasn't recorded, but word spread.
"He cooked them." "Didn't miss in the second half." "Six-nine and moving like that? Different."
Coach Alvarez pulled him aside before they left.
"They're gonna start game-planning for you now," he said.
Michael just nodded. "Good."
[Progress: 5.26%]
He didn't want it easy.
Easy never made legends.