Curtain Raisers/Fire raisers [Edited]

June 25, 2003.

Stiles finished changing clothes and put on the suit and tie Sandy had given him.

He sat in the living room, watching TV on the soft sofa, waiting for his cousin and new friend/brother to come downstairs.

Apart from the party he had to attend, Stiles was less worried because Kirsten had developed motherly feelings for him, even though the adoption hadn't been finalized yet.

It hadn't even started, actually. He still had a month and a few days until the new school year began.

Stiles was engrossed in the sports channel.

The San Antonio Spurs had won the NBA playoff finals about two weeks ago.

Tomorrow, the 2003 NBA Draft was taking place, and not just any draft—it was LeBron's draft.

LeBron James was considered the greatest prospect in NBA history, carrying immense pressure, perhaps unmatched in American sports.

Little did anyone know at the time, he would not only live up to the expectations but surpass them.

For a moment, forget about Jordan. LeBron was in a league of his own, whether you called him the GOAT or not.

But in 2003, whatever people thought they knew about LeBron James and his future was far from enough.

Stiles was a die-hard Kobe Bryant fan, but he wasn't biased when it came to the GOAT talk in the NBA.

Who cared who the greatest basketball player of all time was? Stiles was only concerned with the game becoming more interesting.

In this life, he had the opportunity to play basketball professionally.

"Milicic ahead of LeBron James? Soliloquy! This is outright blasphemy! What did you guys smoke before coming on set today?"

Some ESPN commentators and NBA journalists were debating whether Darko Milicic, a Center, should be drafted ahead of LeBron James on television.

Stiles chuckled as he watched this; thankfully, it didn't happen and probably wouldn't happen in this world either.

During that time, Big Men on the court were more attention-grabbing than players in other positions.

A dominant Big Man was crucial, but only if they had legitimate skills. Not everyone could be Tim Duncan or Shaquille O'Neal.

A decent Big Man with limited potential was no different from any other player, or sometimes even worse for the team.

Even if you were defensively oriented like Mutombo, you had to excel on defense, which required ambition.

Good defense was still valued in 2003, unlike in 2015 and onwards, where players couldn't even extend their hands to defend.

The NBA hadn't yet become the era of the Splash Brothers and the overuse of three-point shots seen throughout the league.

Stiles had nothing against three-pointers, but he preferred the old NBA.

After 2015, only the playoffs held some worth, where players were allowed to be a bit more physical.

Stiles also despised the NBA's rules on illegal screens, both on offense and defense. He detested anything that made the game easier.

Every generational talent had the NBA rules tweaked to help or hinder them. MJ, Big Shaq, Curry—zone defense, interior defense, perimeter defense.

LeBron, aka Le GENERAL MANAGER, even had his own offseason rules because of his dominance during the offseason.

Stiles didn't have time to think about conspiracies or care if the commissioners were involved or not.

"What are you watching, Stiles?" Ryan descended the stairs, and Stiles was lost in thoughts about changing NBA rules for his own future draft, aiming to become a great NBA prospect.

"The NBA offseason news," Stiles replied.

"Nice. When's the draft?" Ryan asked as he took a seat next to his cousin, aware that Stiles was a "mildly" respectable basketball player.

They used to play together occasionally when they didn't have to work on weekends. Their lives weren't all sunshine and roses, but that would soon be a distant memory.

"Tomorrow," Stiles answered.

Ryan was also a sports enthusiast, but he leaned more towards soccer, or as the Europeans and the rest of the world called it, football.

"LeBron's finally about to enter the league, man…" Ryan sighed, displaying his basketball knowledge. "He's still skipping college, right? Can't wait to watch him do his thing on the NBA courts."

"You're the only one," Stiles remarked.

"??", Ryan looked confused.

Stiles grinned, but he didn't disclose that he had already seen LeBron's rookie season and had no desire to see him on that lousy Cleveland team.

************************************

At the three-in-one fundraiser party, fashion show, and cocktail reception of the wealthy Newport elites...

♪♫♬🎸

"She looked at me! Isn't she an angel?" Seth pointed out to Stiles and Ryan as Summer took the stage. "Simping."

"She's alright," Ryan responded casually, as if he had dated every hot babe around and had years of experience. "That's your crush, right? Summer?"

"I wouldn't relax if I were you."

"What do you mean?"

"Ask my cousin."

"Stiles, what does Ryan mean?"

Stiles pondered silently, paying little attention to his cousin Ryan or his new foster brother Seth. 'I don't remember the music being this enjoyable to listen to.'

It wasn't the only thing he found surprisingly enjoyable.

His attention was captivated by a girl with perfectly proportioned, nicely shaped assets on the podium.

She had given him a long, curious glance that Seth mistakenly believed was directed at him. Poor Seth...

Stiles was already planning to introduce him to a cute girl who would perfectly match his social awkwardness.

Someone better than Summer, at least in terms of compatibility.

Summer would likely become a hopeless case of unrequited love for Seth after tonight, especially since Allison couldn't accompany him here.

Stiles wasn't one to judge, and he wasn't prudish when it came to interesting and open-minded women.

Anyway, the wealthy residents of Orange County had their quirks.

Perhaps this fashion show for late teenage girls was a Newport exclusive thing.

Stiles couldn't help but cringe as he sat in his seat and watched the fashion show unfold.

He sipped his glass of alcohol-free punch, regretting that he couldn't drink due to American laws.

He wasn't originally from America, which was why he knew that soccer was called football. It was surprising how many Americans weren't aware of that.

♪♫♬🎸

*

*

Meanwhile, inside the dressing rooms for the girls preparing to walk the red carpet runway...

Summer had already made her grand entrance on the carpet, following the fashion show's music, and now it was Marissa's turn.

Summer Roberts—that was the name of Marissa's childhood best friend, along with Holly, her other childhood friend.

When Summer entered the changing room, Marissa was applying makeup, not for her boyfriend but for someone she had noticed in the room...

"You're still not ready? Hurry up! Everyone's waiting for you to close the show!" Summer commented, trying to speak over the loud fashion music.

As for Marissa...

The after-party hadn't started yet, but she was already a bit tipsy, as evidenced by the excessive amount of makeup she was using to hide her inebriation.

A bottle of alcohol sat next to the mirror, the source of her flushed complexion.

"Tell my mom to wait a few seconds; I'll be up there soon," Marissa responded quickly, pressing her lips together as she looked into the mirror.

She didn't appear stressed or rushed.

"Why so much makeup and lipstick? Who are you trying to impress?" Summer asked, slightly annoyed at Marissa's efforts to look more stunning than her.

She was sitting down, preparing to change into her more casual after-party outfit.

"There's something telling me this isn't just for Luke..." she added abruptly, suspicion filling her inquisitive gaze.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm off now," Marissa declared, ready to go, disregarding Summer's teasing remarks.

In her intoxicated state, Marissa could only think about the new guy, Ryan.

**************************************

New edit: The basketball side of things has been discarded, as explained in a note.

*

Author's Note.

You may have thought I was going to leave the best girl from "The O.C." for Seth, but that wasn't the case.

This chapter turned out shorter than I anticipated, but I still like it. So, whatever.

I'm looking forward to seeing you again.