Zoran's hand stayed on his warmup jacket longer than it needed to. He hadn't played a single second in the fourth quarter.
Not due to foul trouble. Not fatigue. Not injury.
He had checked out late in the third with 13 points on 5-for-7 shooting, three assists, two rebounds, and a strip that led to a highlight dunk. The Mavericks were up by three at the time.
Then… nothing.
The rotation shortened. Jason Kidd walked right past him twice. One assistant clapped him on the back—more reflex than recognition. Kyrie, still out injured but present on the bench, met his eyes briefly. It wasn't pity. But it wasn't encouragement either.
Zoran sat. Unmoving. Unsure whether to stretch again. His name wasn't called.
And inside, something started to go cold.
The Utah Jazz didn't overpower Dallas with talent. They just executed. Kessler set hard screens and crashed the glass. Collin Sexton bullied his way into the paint. And when the Mavericks needed a spark—when a shooter was trapped, when the spacing collapsed—there was no Zoran.
The lead slipped.
Anthony Davis returned with five minutes to go, but Utah had found rhythm. The final push fizzled. A late floater from Sexton sealed it.
Final score: 109–104, Utah.
Zoran stayed seated as the buzzer blared. Players walked past him, heads down, high-fiving out of habit. He didn't move. Just looked up at the scoreboard, then down at his hands.
He hadn't even broken a sweat in the last twelve minutes.
In the locker room, no one blamed anyone. That was the strange part.
Anthony Davis unlaced his shoes in silence. Klay Thompson wiped down his knees. Caleb Martin sat with his towel pulled halfway over his face, eyes closed.
Zoran got the same routine nods. A pat from Jaden Hardy. A glance from Max Christie. No one seemed mad. No one seemed... anything.
Even the staff looked like they were operating under instructions not to say much.
He peeled off his jersey slowly.
Still no music. Not even in his own headphones.
Zoran was replacing Dante Exum. That was supposed to be temporary. But it was game six of the regular season now, and he was averaging 17 points per game on absurd efficiency, with strong defense and clean reads.
He had done everything asked of him. Everything plus more.
And still, Jason Kidd hadn't said one word to him since pregame walkthrough.
He left the locker room later than usual.
In the hallway, he walked past Nico Harrison.
Zoran gave a respectful, "Evening."
Nico nodded without stopping. "Yup."
A single syllable. That was all.
Outside the arena, Zoran didn't go straight to the hotel van. He walked.
A light drizzle was coming down—nothing serious, just enough to wet the hood of his Mavericks-issued jacket. He walked past fans taking photos near the arena banners. No one noticed him.
His phone buzzed with a Twitter notification:
"Zoran Vranes quietly balling: 17 PPG on 62% FG. Why hasn't Dallas locked him down yet?"
He turned off the screen.
This wasn't about viral clips or trending metrics. It was about something colder. Something he couldn't touch.
Back in his hotel room, Zoran left the lights off. He sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at the messages piling up.
Coach Petrov had sent one earlier.
"Don't let silence fool you. They always notice efficiency. Just not always in time."
He saved it. No reply.
He pulled open a drawer and took out his journal. He didn't write in it often, but tonight, it helped. A single line:
"How long can you ignore someone before they stop waiting to be seen?"
He capped the pen and leaned back against the headboard.
He still wanted to re-sign. With Dallas. He liked the group. The grit. The silence after losses. It felt like a place where someone like him could fit.
But tonight's benching, the indifferent nods, the quiet shuffle of a team moving without him—it stuck.
It wasn't rejection.
It was erasure.
Mavericks Record: 4–2.
Zoran Vranes: 13 PTS, 3 AST, 2 REB, 5–7 FG in 19 minutes.