By the time Monday rolled around, Michael had already logged over 20 hours on the court.
His body felt alive. His instincts sharper. And every now and then, the system would chime in quietly:
[Progress: 1.64%][New Skill Calibration Unlocked: Post Fade Fundamentals]
The moves didn't just feel familiar—they felt baked into his bones. He'd watch old MJ clips on the library computer and immediately replicate the footwork. His height gave him an edge Jordan never had, but the grind? That was all him.
He wasn't just taller Jordan. He was hungrier.
Tryouts were packed.
Over thirty kids. Coaches with clipboards. Some of the returning varsity players stood on the side, already wearing smug expressions. One of them, a wiry guard with a buzzcut, elbowed his teammate.
"Who's the tall kid?"
"Looks soft."
Michael heard them. Didn't even blink.
Coach Alvarez—a stocky man with a clipboard and a whistle that never left his mouth—looked over the group.
"Fifteen spots. Three guaranteed from last year. You want a jersey? Show me something."
They started with drills.
Layup lines. Shooting corners. Defensive slides. Three-man weave.
Michael didn't flash right away. He blended in just enough. But every movement was clean. Sharp. Efficient.
Then came scrimmage time.
Five-on-five. Coaches called names.
"Schmidt, you're on blue. Take point."
The moment he stepped onto the hardwood, it shifted.
Buzzcut tried to press up on him at halfcourt.
Michael didn't hesitate.
He jabbed, stepped back—fadeaway.
Nothing but net.
"Hold up—" Buzzcut said.
Next play, Michael locked in on defense. Cut off the drive, slid over the screen, poked the ball loose, and dove for it.
[Progress: 1.77%]
He popped up and dished a no-look pass in transition for an easy layup.
The coaches scribbled.
He posted up on the next play. Pump fake, up-and-under, soft off glass.
Buzzcut looked flustered now. "Dude, what even is this?"
Michael finally spoke.
"Basketball. You play it?"
Gasps. Snickers.
Someone whispered, "He talks like he's 30."
Coach Alvarez blew the whistle.
"Again! Reset teams."
Michael didn't just dominate—he elevated everyone on the court. The passes, the spacing, the timing. He played like someone who'd done this under pressure. On bigger stages. Like someone who wasn't just trying to make the team—he was trying to own it.
By the end of the scrimmages, Coach Alvarez called for a huddle.
"I ain't making final cuts today," he said. "But some of y'all stood out. Schmidt—where'd you play before?"
Michael shrugged. "Nowhere special."
Coach nodded slowly. "Yeah? Well, you looked like someone who belongs at D1 already."
Buzzcut scowled. Michael just smiled.
[Progress: 2.03%]
After the others had left, Coach pulled him aside.
"You ever think about prep ball? Travel circuits?"
Michael gave him a look. "I think about the league."
Coach Alvarez didn't laugh. Didn't scoff.
He just nodded. "Keep playing like that, you might get there."
Michael walked out under the fading autumn sun, backpack slung over his shoulder.
The grind was just beginning.
But today proved one thing:
He wasn't just back.
He was here to take over.