The scoreboard burned: 58–53.
Spartan fans roared like a storm, stomping the bleachers, chanting Cody’s name. The dunk still echoed in the rafters like a cannon blast.
Ethan didn’t give it a second thought. He slapped the ball from the ref’s hands.
"Push! Don’t let them ride it!" His voice cracked like a whip.
Vorpal surged forward.
Coonie sprinted to the wing, chest heaving. They think we’re rattled? Not me.
Kai cut the baseline in a blur. Faster. Make them chase shadows.
Jeremy planted at the top, shoulders squared. Switch me, I dare you.
Brandon slammed his fist to his chest, glaring at Cody. Not done. Not by a long shot.
And Ethan calm on the outside, fire inside dribbled into the teeth of the press.
That dunk was their punch. Now it’s mine. Answer quick. Answer clean. Kill their momentum before it breathes.
Darius’ voice cut through the chaos:
"Trap him! Don’t let Albarado breathe!"
The Spartans swarmed—five shadows closing, heat pressing in.
Ethan slid off Jeremy’s screen without a blink. His eyes darted—Coonie curling high, Kai sneaking low, Brandon locking horns with Cody on the block.
Options everywhere. Which one cuts deepest?
The Vorpal bench rose as one, fists hammering, voices cracking against the Spartans’ thunder.
Up in the bleachers, Charlotte Graves leaned forward, knuckles white on her knees. Her whisper fought against the noise:
"Show them, Ethan. Not that you can survive this... but that you own it."
The court slowed to a heartbeat. Ball alive in Ethan’s hands. Five defenders circling. Teammates cutting, screaming, fighting.
This wasn’t just a possession.
It was a test of will, Vorpal’s chance to answer or break.
The ball was hot in Ethan’s palms, rubber pressing into his fingertips as he dribbled near the top of the key. The scoreboard above gleamed like a challenge in neon numbers: 58–53, Vorpal. The Spartans’ dunk still echoed in the rafters, their crowd a tidal wave of noise crashing down on him.
But Ethan’s gaze stayed steady. His chest rose and fell, sweat sliding down his temples.
"Eyes up. Read them. Don’t panic."
Coonie cut sharp to the right wing, defender glued to his hip. Kai slashed baseline, brushing shoulders with a Spartan big who barked, "Switch! Switch!" Jeremy, wide as a wall, planted himself at the top and hammered out a screen, forcing Darius Coleman, Steady D to fight around him.
The Spartans’ defense moved like a trap closing.
"Five of them. All eyes on me. Good... then somebody’s open."
Ethan snapped a crossover left, his sneakers squealing against hardwood. The Spartans’ point guard lunged, nearly reaching. Ethan dipped low, shielding the ball.
Ethan thought (Patience, Ethan. A crack always opens if you wait long enough.)
Jeremy sealed off the screen. Kai popped out weakside, hands ready. Brandon banged inside against Cody, bruised but refusing to be invisible.
The noise blurred, a storm of claps, stomps, and shouts. But in the eye of it—Ethan’s heartbeat.
He drove right. The lane pinched shut immediately, two Spartan defenders collapsing. Cody’s shadow loomed, tall and hungry after his last dunk. Ethan felt the pressure, saw the arms ready to swat.
At the last second, he didn’t rise. He spun, whipping the ball behind his back into the corner where Coonie had shaken free for a breath.
"Shoot it!" Ethan roared, his voice cracking.
Coonie caught. Feet set. Hands trembling just slightly. He fired.
The ball arced high, clean. The Spartans’ bench screamed, hands raised. The crowd gasped.
"Damn it!" Coonie cursed under his breath, already backpedaling.
The ball ricocheted long but Jeremy shoved past his man, arms snatching it out of midair. Gasps again, then Vorpal’s bench erupted.
Jeremy didn’t hold. He flicked it straight back to Ethan, who was resetting beyond the arc.
The defense scrambled, Cody charging back to contest.
For half a beat, Ethan hesitated.
"Take it. Don’t blink."
He rose. Release high, fingers snapping, form pure.
The ball spun, a perfect spiral of leather and sweat, sailing into the thick air. Time slowed.
Charlotte Graves in the bleachers gripped her knees tighter, whispering, "Please..."
The gym detonated. The Vorpal bench exploded, chairs flying as players jumped, hugging, screaming. Brandon slammed both fists against his chest and roared at the ceiling. Jeremy pumped his arms, shouting Ethan’s name.
"YES! HE’S HERE!" Coonie screamed, nearly foaming.
The scoreboard blinked again: 61–53. Vorpal.
But no time to breathe.
The Spartans snapped the ball in. Darius Coleman sprinted it upcourt, calm as ever. "Settle! Run two!" he called, voice sharp.
The crowd’s roar turned into an electric duel of noise: Spartans stomping, Vorpal clapping back.
Ethan retreated, sweat dripping, lungs hot.
"Stay sharp. Don’t celebrate yet. Next stop matters."
Darius dribbled smooth, weaving past Ethan’s arm reach. He kicked left to Malik, who immediately drove hard baseline. Ryan Taylor shifted, but Malik’s spin was lightning. Layup—
Brandon, chest still bruised, came out of nowhere, palm slamming the ball against glass. The rebound dropped straight to Kai, who ripped it down and sprinted.
"Go, go!" Ethan yelled, already chasing.
Kai pushed full speed, defenders at his side. Near halfcourt, he saw Ethan streaking right wing, hand raised.
The pass zipped. Ethan caught, feet skidding near the arc. His man lunged to contest, but Ethan didn’t force it. He slowed, drew two defenders, then slipped it back to Kai, who cut into the paint.
Layup high off the glass, good.
63–53. Vorpal, stretching again.
The Vorpal bench howled, chanting their school name. The Spartans’ coach stormed the sideline, stomping, clapping for calm.
But Darius wasn’t rattled. His eyes narrowed, steady fire. "Ball. My hands," he muttered.
He dribbled across halfcourt, barking at teammates to clear.
The Spartans spread out. The crowd surged. It was one-on-one now—Steady D vs Ethan.
Ethan crouched, arms wide. His heartbeat hammered.
"He’s quick. Reads defenses like a book. Don’t bite. Don’t blink."
Darius faked left, slid right, then spun back. His dribble was low, tight, impossible to snatch. Ethan shuffled, every muscle screaming to keep in front.
Darius rose from midrange, jumper clean.
The Spartans’ crowd erupted, stomping the bleachers. 63–55.
"Shake it off, Ethan!" Coonie yelled from the wing.
The clock ticked: 1:34 left, 3rd quarter.
Vorpal ball again. Ethan pushed it up, sweat stinging his eyes. He signaled with two fingers—"Stack." His guys formed quick: Jeremy near top, Kai baseline, Coonie wide. Brandon fought into position against Cody again.
Ethan attacked. Jeremy’s screen clipped Darius. Ethan drove middle, Cody sliding over to contest.
He rose, then at the last second, lobbed. Brandon leapt, catching mid-air, slamming it through with both hands.
The rim shook. The Vorpal bench went feral. Brandon pounded his chest at Cody "I’M STILL HERE!"
The Spartans snarled, rushing back.
Clock: :48 seconds left.
Darius again. He dished left to Malik. Malik pulled, missed. Rebound Jeremy.
Ethan slowed. Coach waved "Last shot!"
The crowd swelled, every person standing. The clock bled out. :19. :12. :10.
Ethan dribbled, calm, near the top.
"One more dagger. End it strong."
He drove right. Darius stuck tight, chest bumping. Ethan spun back, space barely enough. He stepped behind the line—three.
Defender lunged. Ethan rose anyway. Release high, arching.
The ball kissed net. Swish.
The third quarter ended 68–55.
Vorpal stormed off the floor like warriors, bench players mobbing Ethan, towels waving, fists pumping.
The Spartans retreated slower, Cody slamming the ball down in frustration. Darius, face unreadable, whispered to himself:
"Fourth quarter’s mine."
And above them, the scoreboard glowed:
Vorpal 68 – Spartans 55. End of 3rd.