"This kid's got some arrogance."
Michael Jordan raised a brow, sitting up a little straighter. Then the corner of his mouth curved.
"But, I like it."
The GOAT was a pure-blooded battle maniac. Nothing thrilled him more than dismantling opponents, body, mind, and spirit. In his era, only a rare handful dared face him head-on. Most had no choice but to live forever in his shadow, ringless, crushed beneath the weight of his dominance.
Snoopy hadn't expected such an eruption from Arco Arena. Nearly twenty thousand fans rose to their feet, roaring at once.
On the floor, his teammates instinctively spaced out, clearing the lane, creating a stage just for him.
And across from him, Brook Lopez's rage boiled over.
A projected lottery pick. The only true old-school center of his class. And yet… some no-name underclassman had the audacity to call him out?
"You think a few boards and a couple dunks make you king?"
Brook snarled, crouching low. He slapped the hardwood hard, just like his idol used to do. A declaration of pride. A king's warning: I will not be disrespected.
The crowd roared even louder.
Snoopy smiled, heart hammering with adrenaline. He loved this feeling.
He started dribbling. His handle was basic, the kind a defender could pick off with ease. But Brook didn't bite. He backed into the paint, step by step, walling off the rim.
Fans blinked in confusion.
Wasn't this supposed to be a blazing clash, muscle against muscle? Instead, what they saw looked like slow-motion dribble. Snoopy dribbled in. Brook retreated. Push, pull. Nothing flashy.
"What the hell is this?" some groaned.
Then, just as Snoopy reached the restricted area, he suddenly gathered the ball. His shoulders twitched upward, a pump shot!
Brook leapt, arms wide, smothering him in shadow.
On the sideline, Jordan groaned, covering his eyes. He couldn't watch.
On commentary, Bill Walton exploded.
"What's he doing?! He's walking straight into a trap! Didn't Ben Holland teach him anything—"
But Walton never finished.
Because in the very next heartbeat, the entire arena gasped.
Snoopy, swallowed in Brook's shadow, had slipped the ball out, his left hand flicking it clean through Brook's side underarm.
For a split second, even Brook froze. Was that, a pass?
He whipped his head back.
Bang!
The ball smacked the rim and bounced high.
Brook reached instinctively for the rebound.
But he was too late.
Snoopy detonated behind him, soaring, climbing, climbing, until his head cleared Brook's. In midair, he snatched the ball, twisted, and hammered it down with both hands.
BOOM!
Brook Lopez was caught beneath his hips.
The entire arena went silent for half a beat.
Jordan slowly peeled his hand off his eyes, his mouth curving into a wolfish grin.
On commentary, Walton sat frozen, jaw unhinged as if someone had stuffed an invisible egg into his throat.
A poster dunk. Not just any, a body-to-body annihilation.
By the time Brook wriggled free from under Snoopy's legs, Arco Arena had erupted, the roar shaking rafters.
The duel itself had been messy. But the ending? Utterly nuclear.
"Snoopy! Snoopy! Snoopy!"
The chant thundered down.
Snoopy dropped lightly, landing with catlike ease. He tilted his head at the dazed Brook, still blinking, still unsure what had just happened.
"You got dunked on," Snoopy reminded gently, as if helping him recall.
Whistle!
Timeout, Stanford. The lead ballooned to twenty. Their comeback was officially impossible.
Brook stormed off, face iron blue. His twin Robin wore the same. Tonight, born together on the same day, the brothers shared the same fate: both demolished by the same undersized upstart.
And with that dunk, their NCAA careers effectively ended. Draft season awaited. They would need workouts, training camps, showcases, anything to scrub tonight's nightmare from the scouts' memories.
Snoopy returned to the bench, only to have Coach Ben Holland immediately ruffle his hair with both hands.
"I want to crack this skull open and see what the hell's inside!" the coach laughed.
"If you can put it back together, I don't mind you starting with Russell's head first," Snoopy quipped, grinning.
The bench burst into laughter. Stanford had surrendered. From here, it was all formalities, subs in, smiles ready, a polite handshake at the final buzzer.
And then UCLA would be in the Elite Eight.
Russell was already tallying. "Nineteen points, eight assists, seven rebounds. Almost a triple double."
Snoopy nearly offered him his own stats out of exasperation.
Of course, rules didn't allow such generosity. So he sat at the far end of the bench.
That's when independent scout Edward waddled up behind him again, beaming.
"You were incredible tonight! The Spurs' GM just texted me to send his congratulations."
Snoopy chuckled. "You're starting to sound less like a scout and more like an agent."
Edward spread his pudgy hands. "Because that's my dream. I've always wanted to be an agent. But I have dyslexia. I'll never pass the license exams."
It was tragic, but Snoopy couldn't help but laugh. "No wonder you're stuck as an indie scout."
Edward grinned awkwardly, showing eight crooked teeth.
Snoopy's tone shifted. "Maybe, you can live that dream through me. You see, I'm a full-scholarship student at Anderson Business School. By my freshman year, I'd already earned every license I could, including an NBA agent's license. But now, I need someone who knows the league inside-out.
Someone to handle the non-text work, the in-person negotiations, the messy stuff. Think you can do that?"
Edward's face froze, then lit up. He only needed three seconds before blurting, "Of course, boss. I'll meet every need. You won't find a better off-text negotiator anywhere."
"Good. After the game, we'll talk details." Snoopy smacked his palm, then added with a grin: "And get yourself a suit. Right now you look like you run a burger joint."
Beeeep!
Final buzzer.
86–68.
Snoopy glanced at the numbers and chuckled. "Fold them inward, a perfect symmetry. Beautiful score."
Stanford's players, however, had no eye for beauty. Their season was dead. Their bus awaited.
Sacramento wasn't far from the Bay, at least.
As Snoopy rose to leave, two groups converged on him.
One was a wall of bodyguards ushering Michael Jordan himself.
The other, a sideline crew from ESPN.
"Hello, Snoopy. I'm Michael Jordan. Got time to talk?"
"Hello, Snoopy, I'm Erin Andrews with ESPN. We'd like a quick interview."
The two voices overlapped. Two invitations at once.
Under the eyes of a national broadcast, Snoopy smiled into the nearest camera.
"Of course, Miss Andrews. Please, go ahead."
And with that, he left the GOAT standing on the sidelines, waiting.