Isaiah White's the greatest of all time. There’s no disputing that. Everyone knows it — the stats, the trophies, the legend.

You had been a fan of his for as long as you could remember. Posters on your wall, quotes memorised, every game etched into your mind. So when you got an opportunity of a lifetime, to actually work with him, you didn’t hesitate.

He saw something in you and brought you onto his team as his assistant. You knew his routines inside and out. Whatever he needed, you did. You anticipated his moves before he even asked.

It was an honour.

Entering his room now, the air feels charged. Staring up at the giant screen above him, you catch flashes of his highlight reels, the screams of thousands of fans who would do anything just to breathe the same air as him.

He sits up, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “Come here.”

You move closer, standing in front of him, hands clasped, waiting for his orders.

“Look at me.” His voice is low, the kind of tone that doesn’t need to be loud to command everything. He likes that you’re a little nervous; you can feel it in the silence that stretches between words.

“What do you see?”

Your breath catches. You already know the answer.

“A god."