After winning two home games, the Kings prepared to head to Los Angeles for their next match, but Jake had a different plan. Instead of flying with the team, he booked a solo ticket to Las Vegas. It wasn't for the nightlife or the casinos, but for a promise he hadn't yet fulfilled. He landed in the desert city, quickly grabbed a cab, and headed straight to the University of Nevada, Las Vegas.
At the campus gate stood a familiar figure, shifting uncomfortably in the desert heat. Buford, a bulky figure not built for hot weather, was dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief, clearly irritated by the climate.
"You finally made it! It's like an oven out here," Buford groaned.
"Then why wait outside?" Jake teased.
"You think I know my way around this place?" Buford chuckled, and they started toward the campus gym together, bantering along the way.
"Hey, isn't that Jake from the Kings?" a student whispered, noticing the duo as they walked through campus. "And I think the guy next to him is the Spurs' GM." Jake's accomplishments last season had catapulted him into the public eye, and his reputation as a high-profile general manager meant he was hard to miss. Meanwhile, Buford, though a bit less recognizable to the general public, was a respected and experienced figure in the industry.
"See that? People recognize me, too!" Buford laughed.
Jake smirked. "They'd better—you're one of the best GMs in the league."
"Don't flatter me," Buford chuckled, brushing it off. "Let's get this meeting done so we can go eat. I took the day off to be here."
As they made their way into the gym, Buford stopped in his tracks, frowning as he looked up at the second-floor guardrail. There, leaning casually with an expression that suggested he was studying everyone on the court, was a familiar face: Daryl Morey.
Jake's mood shifted too when he recognized him. Morey, a shrewd and calculating figure, was a divisive presence in GM circles. Known for his loyalty to his boss's demands, Morey had earned the nickname "Mo Dog" for his almost sycophantic dedication to carrying out orders. Jake couldn't help but feel wary around him—Morey's presence almost always spelled trouble, and today was no exception.
Morey noticed them as well and, with a polished, businesslike grin, waved them over. "RC! Jake! What are the odds we'd all run into each other here?"
"Darrell, I could say the same to you," Buford responded, returning the smile with equal cordiality. "What brings you out here?"
"Just checking out some potential players," Morey replied. "Our roster could use some depth. What about you two?"
"Same thing, really," Buford said, keeping his tone light. "Just seeing what's out here while we have a few days off."
While the conversation with Morey continued on the surface, Jake's attention was already drifting to the court below, where a group of players were in the middle of training drills. Among them was a tall, athletic figure honing his shooting technique—Christian Wood, an undrafted player with loads of potential. Jake had been keeping tabs on Wood, knowing that, with the right development, the young player could become a solid asset. Wood's talent was evident, but his journey hadn't been easy. As an undrafted player, he'd bounced around and faced a lack of opportunities.
Jake realized that Wood was exactly the type of player the Spurs could mold to their benefit. The Spurs' development program was widely regarded as one of the best, known for transforming raw talent into polished athletes. Jake could envision Wood's potential thriving in such an environment, where he wouldn't be pressured to perform immediately but could grow under the Spurs' system.
Just then, Morey's voice cut into his thoughts. "Any players catching your eye?"
Jake and Buford exchanged a quick, knowing glance. "Not really," Jake said, his voice neutral. "Most of these guys are more suited for the Development League. We're just passing by."
From a distance, the three men looked like old friends, laughing and exchanging pleasantries. But anyone close enough to hear their conversation would have realized that they weren't saying much of substance. They were sticking to meaningless small talk, carefully avoiding any revealing details about their true intentions.
On the way out, Buford turned to Jake, lowering his voice. "What do you think Morey's really up to?"
Jake shrugged. "Who knows. But he's gone now, so we can talk openly."
Buford let out a relieved sigh. "Man, that guy makes me feel like I'm being scrutinized from the inside out every time I'm around him. It's like he's constantly calculating something devious behind that polite smile."
"Same here," Jake agreed with a grin.
Switching the topic to business, Jake asked, "So, what do you think of Wood?"
"Not bad," Buford replied thoughtfully. "Didn't get to watch him as closely as I would've liked, thanks to keeping tabs on Morey, but he's got potential. His defense needs work, but he's got a good frame and decent athleticism. Shooting's coming along too."
"Exactly. He has plenty of room to grow," Jake said. "He could be a valuable player for the Spurs if given the time to develop. With a year or two of training, he could be worth a solid return."
"Good thinking." Buford nodded in agreement, his eyes lighting up at the prospect. "That's the way to think about it. We'll nurture him, and if he works out, he could bring us something worthwhile down the line."
The next day, the Spurs officially signed Christian Wood to a 10-day contract. Though it was a short-term agreement, it opened the door for Wood to start his journey under the guidance of a team renowned for its ability to cultivate and polish hidden talent.
As Jake looked back on his trip, he felt a sense of satisfaction. The day had yielded exactly what he'd hoped for—both for himself and the Spurs. Wood now had a shot to grow within a system tailored for players like him.