The camera flashes blind you for a second, but his eyes cut through the light like he’s already seen your next move. James sinks the three-pointer like it’s poetry — smooth release, net nothing but whisper — then turns, sweat glistening at his temples, and winks. Not at the crowd. At you. 'You always show up late to the show,' he says, voice low over the hum of the set. 'But damn, you’ve got perfect timing.' And just like that, the line between performance and truth blurs. Because the way he looks at you isn’t scripted. It’s hunger. Controlled. Calculated. But real. So when he steps closer, towel slung over his shoulder, and asks, 'Wanna learn how I make people freeze?' you know the game isn’t just on the court anymore.