Ti Remaining: 1:00 Minute
Score:
Orlando Hoops – 102
Vorpal Basket – 98
Only 4 points stood between Vorpal Basket and the coback of the tournant.
The crowd was on edge — cheers and shouts turned into a low hum of anticipation. The gym was electric.
Coach Corson stood at the sideline, arms folded, eyes narrowing.
"If we get the ball back... I know exactly what to do."
He wasn't smiling.
He wasn't yelling.
He was calculating.
"(They're too close... just one mistake, and they'll catch up.)"
Ethan Albarado dribbled up the court with focus burning in his eyes.
Each bounce of the ball matched the ticking clock in his head.
Bump. Bump. Bump.
The court under his feet felt heavier now — the weight of the entire team's hopes pressing down on him.
Behind him ran his brothers in arms —
Lucas. Evan. Ryan. Brandon.
The Vorpal Five.
Ethan's mind raced.
"No room for error. Just one clean set. We score. Then trap. Then score again."
On the bench, the energy was tense — almost unbearable.
Coonie Smith (#6), the brash shooting guard, was gripping the towel draped around his neck, standing up now.
He couldn't sit anymore.
Kai ndoza, the quiet small forward, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes narrowed and unblinking.
He was ntally in the ga.
Jeremy Park (#42), the aggressive rebounder, bounced his legs nervously, muttering:
"Co on, co on... let's go... let's eat."
They were the backup plan.
If the tiout ca... if soone fouled out... or if things got tight—
Ethan would call their nas.
In the corner of the bench sat Josh Turner, icing his injured ankle.
His hands trembled slightly as he held the ice pack in place.
Sweat dripped down his temple. Not from pain...
But from watching his team fight without him.
He watched as Ethan moved like a general.
He watched as Lucas and Evan set up into formation.
Josh clenched his jaw, swallowing hard.
"Just one more minute... Co on, guys..."
"Win this... even without ."
....
The court was tense—heavy with pressure.
You could feel it in the air.
Sweat dripped.
Breathing was loud.
Voices echoed.
Every bounce of the ball sounded like a war drum, pounding through the gym.
Alec Storm stood near the top of the three-point line—arms slightly raised, feet set.
His body was still, but his energy was electric.
His eyes were locked on Ethan, not blinking, not moving.
Then he grinned—a wild, fearless smile.
And he shouted across the court:
"Bring it on!!"
The crowd exploded, cheering, yelling, rising to their feet.
But Ethan didn't even flinch.
He just took a sharp breath through his nose—quiet but controlled.
His face was calm. Focused.
His eyes locked onto Alec like a sniper aiming at a target.
No fear. No hesitation.
He was ready.
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap.
Ethan started his attack.
He launched into a Stutter Dribble—a series of quick, uneven dribbles designed to throw
Alec off rhythm.
His body moved with it—jerking left, twitching right, his shoulders dropping low, then
popping up again.
Each motion was fast, sharp, and unpredictable.
It wasn't just a dribble—it was a trap.
He was testing Alec's reactions, trying to get him to commit too early.
Alec squinted, focusing hard.
"(Trying to shake ? Cute.)" he thought, smirking slightly.
But what ca next wasn't cute.
It was deadly.
Without warning, Ethan snapped into a Killer Crossover.
One powerful step—his foot planted hard—
Then bam—his entire body shifted violently in the opposite direction.
It was smooth. Explosive. A perfect blend of speed and precision.
One second he was in front of Alec, the next he was gone—a blur racing to the side.
Alec's eyes widened.
"SHIT!"
His feet slid the wrong way.
He'd read the move too late.
He staggered, arms flailing slightly to stay upright—completely off balance.
The crowd gasped—one loud, collective intake of breath.
Even Rhiana, watching from the front row, sat up straight, her hands clenched so tight her knuckles turned white.
"That was the Killer Cross..." she whispered, eyes wide.
The gym was electric.
Crowds on both sides held their breath. So were already standing, hands gripping the edge of their seats.
Ethan's killer crossover had just broken through the wall nad Alec Storm.
And now...
Ethan passed the ball sharp, clean toward Lucas.
Lucas caught the ball cleanly at the top of the arc.
The leather thudded into his hands.
He didn't rush. He didn't panic.
He just stared at the basket like it was the only thing in the world.
Alec Storm spun around, eyes widening.
"NO—!"
But it was too late.
Lucas bent his knees.
Form perfect.
Follow-through smooth.
He shot.
Ti slowed.
The ball arced high.
It spun slowly — a perfect spiral cutting through the air.
Everyone watched.
The crowd was silent.
Josh Turner, injured on the bench, gripped his seat, whispering:
"...Co on..."
Coach Corson stood up, hand on his clipboard, not blinking.
Rhiana covered her mouth, whispering:
"Please..."
Even Alec Storm, who had just been broken, could only stare at the ball as it sailed through the air... like it carried the weight of everyone's hopes.
SWISH.
No rim.
No bounce.
Just net.
A perfect three.
The gym ERUPTED.
Vorpal Basket – 103
Orlando Hoops – 101
Only two points ahead.
Only 40 seconds remaining.
People scread.
So jumped.
Others grabbed their heads, stunned.
The announcer's voice cracked over the mic:
"LUCAS GRAVES FROM DOWNTOWN! VORPAL TAKES THE LEAD!!"
Lucas landed softly, his expression still unreadable.
But his teammates charged toward him.
Ethan gave him a thumbs-up from across the court, a tiny smirk forming.
Alec Storm stood frozen...
His heart pounding.
His jaw clenched.
He looked at the scoreboard.
"...No way..."
His voice ca out in a whisper, filled with disbelief.
Coach Corson slapped his clipboard against his palm, trying to rally his team.
"Don't be discouraged!" he barked, sharp and loud.
"We still have a one-point lead!"
The players looked at him, tension tight on their faces. So were anxious. Others were stunned.
Corson's voice grew quieter, more calculated, almost like he was talking to himself:
"...We just have to..."
He paused.
Everyone stared at him, waiting.
"...We just have to run out the clock."
That was the plan. Simple. Deadly. Ti over tactics.
"DEFENSE FORMATION! ROTATE!" Ethan shouted, commanding the court like a general mid-battle.
Vorpal's players didn't hesitate.
Everyone snapped into position—like pieces on a living chessboard.
Ethan had initiated: Defensive Rotations
Evan Cooper moved to the weak side wing.
Lucas Graves stayed front and center, locking in on Alec.
Ryan and Brandon patrolled the paint like towers.
Ethan Albarado? He floated between lanes, reading everything like a strategist watching a war from above.
"(Tsk... they're gonna stall. They want to run the clock out. Smart... but not on my watch.)"
His eyes flicked to the ti.
🕒 38.2 seconds remaining.
"(If they score, we're in trouble... We can't afford to let them run the play out. We need pressure. Now.)"
Alec Storm finally snapped out of it, the fire back in his eyes.
He took the inbound, his grip on the ball tight.
"Let's go!" he shouted.
He dribbled slowly, crossing the half-court line.
Lucas closed in.
Alec wasn't rushing.
He was stalling.
Trying to bait.
He clenched his jaw.
"(Co on. Show your hand... Storm.)"
The defense tightened.
No openings. No gaps. Just pressure.
The tension was unbearable.
30 seconds... 29... 28...
A ticking ti bomb.
And Ethan knew—
If they didn't steal or force a miss,
this might be the end.
....
Alec Storm slowly dribbled the ball at the top of the arc.
His eyes scanned the defense.
Sweat dripped from his chin.
His heart pounded like a war drum — steady and loud.
He knew Ethan was watching him... waiting for sothing.
He focused.
Too focused.
He didn't notice the subtle signal between teammates.
"(If we don't stop this possession, the clock will bleed out. And we lose.)"
His jaw clenched.
His hands balled into fists.
And then—
Like lightning flashing across the sky of his mories—
It hit him.
Back when he was Jonathan Brandit.
The boy who never played again.
The boy who could only study...
...but studied like a madman.
He rembered staying up till 2AM watching hours of ga film.
Not just NBA classics,
Not just WNBA highlights,
Not just high school tournants...
Even simulated basketball AIs, tech-based coaching drills, future international leagues.
He devoured it all.
Why?
Because when your body is gone, the mind becos your only court.
He learned formations, patterns, out-of-bounds strategies, set plays, off-ball cuts, transitions, ti control plays...
And most importantly:
Contingency Plan made by the greeks player
It was in the novel side Chapter of Turning Point
A forr league championship used it way back then in the novel.
Two seconds of a contingency defense that forced a clutch steal.
They called it:
"Ghost Screen Steal."
Not an actual screen. Not a real steal. But a misdirection—an illusion of movent, designed to bait a handler's muscle mory into a predictable reaction.
And who better to pull it off...
...than Lucas Graves.
Ethan's eyes narrowed again.
He whispered to himself,
"(That's it... that's the one.)"
His gaze locked on Lucas.
Lucas was already watching him.
And Ethan...
Just lip-synced the words:
"Rember the Ghost"
Lucas blinked in understanding.
That was all it took.
...
As Alec Storm took the ball up the court.
Head high. Shoulders squared.
To everyone else — he looked confident.
But Ethan saw it...
That microsecond of hesitation.
That doubt.
That single crack in the armor of the "prodigy."
........
Ethan's voice didn't rise.
He didn't need to scream.
His teammates understood the language he used —
The language of trust.
His thoughts echoed:
"(He's going to switch hands right after the second dribble... That's when he resets. That's when he's vulnerable.)"
And Lucas—
He felt it.
He saw Alec's wrist twitch.
That tiny, almost imperceptible motion.
Not recklessly.
Not out of desperation.
But with the precision of soone who knew exactly what would happen.
A fake step left. A quick jab forward like he was going for a screen. Alec bit the illusion — muscle mory did the rest.
The ball was exposed.
And then—
Like a snake striking lightning-fast—
Lucas stole it.
The crowd gasped.
Ti slowed.
Alec's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Wha—?!"
Lucas was already gone.
He sprinted down the court, the ball clutched tightly in his hands.
The court shook with the weight of every footstep.
Ethan didn't cheer.
He didn't move.
He just smiled — eyes glinting with fire.
"(We're not done. Not yet. Not while I'm still breathing.)"
Alec Storm was right behind him.
Chasing with everything he had.
Not just as a defender —
but as a wall standing between Lucas and the basket.
And Alec wasn't alone.
Mason Hayes was flanking from the left.
Julian Reed from the right.
Jaxon was already under the rim.
Albarado trailed the play, reading, calculating.
The court was a storm—and Lucas was caught in the eye.
Alec's voice cut through the chaos:
"No, you CAN'T!!!"
But Lucas didn't flinch.
He'd mimicked Alec's killer speed before. He'd stolen his moves.
And now...
Even if his body was breaking down...
Even if his mind was slipping under the weight of mimicry...
He still had one card left.
The Lookaway Dribble.
A streetball technique he once saw... no, studied in his dreams.
A move designed not just to fake with the body—
But with intention.
He drove left.
Eyes locked on the corner, like he was going to pass.
Alec bit slightly, shifting his weight.
Mason prepped for an intercept.
Julian hesitated, tracking Ethan for a possible pass.
And in that mont—Lucas slamd the ball back with a reverse dribble to his right hand.
His head was still looking left.
His shoulders were turned.
But the ball was now behind his back and veering toward the open lane.
Alec's eyes widened.
"(That's—!!) NO—"
He pushed off, cutting hard to follow.
But Lucas had already slipped through the crack.
Like water through fingers.
Mason lunged.
Too late.
Julian yelled, "Switch!!"
Too slow.
....
Lucas didn't look up—he felt it.
He could feel the floor beneath his feet...
The court...
The pressure...
And the heartbeat of every teammate watching from behind.
"(Just a few more steps... Just a little more...)"
....
But then—Jaxon appeared.
The giant.
The wall.
The rim protector.
Waiting.
And Lucas?
Running out of ti.
Lucas saw it.
Jaxon was in front of him—like a wall guarding the basket.
Tall. Strong. Unmoving.
There was no clear path to score. Not this ti. Not directly.
Lucas gritted his teeth.
His muscles tensed.
Every instinct scread at him to push forward—
But he knew better.
"(Then I won't go through him... I'll go around.)"
In a split second, Lucas shifted his stance—
And fired a pass.
Sharp. Fast. Perfectly aid.
It zipped through the air, straight toward Ethan.
The crowd let out a loud gasp.
"ETHAN!!"
People shouted as heads turned—
Defenders snapped their focus to the right.
Because there he was—
Ethan, wide open on the wing.
Jaxon spun around.
Alec twisted to recover.
Julian leapt to cut off the pass.
For a mont, it looked like Ethan would take the final shot—
The quiet one. The ghost. The finisher.
The whole play had led to this.
Or had it?
Because in that mont...
It didn't just look like a shot.
It looked like the mont—
The one the whole team had worked for.
And the one Ethan had waited to own.
He let the ball skim his fingers, just slightly.
A feather touch.
A redirect.
A misdirection pass.
The ball whipped behind him—
Clean.
Quick.
Perfect.
—
And right into the hands of... Evan Cooper
Waiting.
Silent. Calm. Deadly.
He was already set—feet planted, knees bent.
His hands were ready before anyone realized where the ball had gone.
"(They forgot about ...)"
"(Just how we planned it.)"
The defenders were two steps behind.
Alec's eyes widened.
"NO—!!"
....
But the shot was already in the air.
Smooth.
Textbook.
The kind of shot you don't second guess.
The entire gym held its breath.
Josh Turner sat up on the bench.
Kai clutched his jersey.
Coach Fred didn't move.
Coach Corson's lips parted, whispering:
"...That was the real target..."
—
And then—
BOOM.
Swish.
—
The scoreboard lit up:
Vorpal Basket – 103
Orlando Hoops – 102
—
The arena exploded.
But for just one second
In the echo of that shot...
The court fell silent.
Evan stood there, arm raised, frozen in his follow-through.
He exhaled slowly.
A whisper under his breath:
"(Captain... Evan Cooper.)"
Ethan smiled, whispering to himself:
"That's my guy."
To be continue
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