Chapter 29: Scored from Deep
Back at the court, Nash sauntered in like he owned the block. Which, he kinda did now.
The game going on was your typical streetball chaos, guys yelling, sneakers squeaking, some busted Bluetooth speaker coughing up half a beat, half a melody.
But the second Nash stepped into view, something shifted.
Heads turned. Conversations trailed off mid-word. That passive he got from the Tier boost hit like pheromones in a closed room. People didn’t just notice him, they felt him instantly.
"Yo, that’s him," someone muttered.
Then louder, from three angles at once:
"Blaze!"
"Yo Nash, you killed out there!"
"Dawg, I heard you cooked Blacklist!"
"Yo, where were you? You missed the celebration games."
He barely made it ten paces before the swarm hit. Compliments flew like confetti, hands reaching for high fives, back pats, shoulder grabs, like he was the MVP of a finals game.
It was a new kind of feeling. For someone used to be a ghost playmaker, being treated like a superstar was inimaginable.