Score: Horizon 45 – Toyonaka 45
Start of 3rd Quarter
The gym trembled with thunderous energy. Both cheering sections roared louder than before—chants, banners, even the war drums pounded with every bounce of the ball.
Coach Tsugawa stood in front of us, eyes steady, voice low but firm.
"The third quarter decides everything. This is when tired bodies turn to instincts. And the smarter team wins."
He looked each of us in the eye.
"Play with grit. Play with pride."
We nodded. No more words were needed.
This wasn’t a ga anymore. This was war.
I brought the ball up, calling for a stacked screen. Aizawa flared to the top, but Toyonaka switched the coverage like clockwork. No openings. No hesitation.
Rikuya fought his way into the post, muscling against Haruto Senda. He sealed deep—so I lobbed it in.
Rikuya turned, ready to punish.
But Haruto t him in the air like a brick wall.
Smack.
Clean block.
The gym shook with screams.
"THAT’S HOW YOU DEFEND!" Toyonaka’s bench roared.
Haruto landed, arms flexed. Rikuya hit the ground and growled like a waking beast.
He wasn’t Buddha anymore.
He had fully embraced The Titan.
This wasn’t going to be finesse.
This was going to be blood in the paint.
Toyonaka ca back quickly. Yuto dribbled like a machine, signaling a flex set. Their screens cut through our defense like blades.
Masaki posted Taiga, bullying him into the paint.
Dirga called the double.
Too late.
Masaki spun baseline and passed over his shoulder to Haruto, who finished through contact.
45–47.
As we reset, I glanced at Rikuya. His eyes were burning.
"They want the paint?" he muttered, breathing hard. "Then they’ll have to go through hell to get it."
I brought the ball up and let Rikuya work.
He wanted the ball. I gave it to him.
He squared up against Haruto again.
This ti—no floaters. No hooks.
Just brute force.
He backed Haruto down with sheer power, pivoted, then launched off two feet—
SLAM.
"ARGHHHHH!"
Rikuya roared like a beast uncaged.
47–47.
But Toyonaka wasn’t fazed.
Yuto flung the ball ahead to Daichi, who Euro-stepped around Rei for an easy layup.
47–49.
We were trading punches now.
The next few minutes turned ugly.
Bodies collided. Elbows flew. Screens were set like battering rams. The refs let them play.
Rei fought off Arakawa on back-to-back possessions. He finally got free for a corner three.
Clank.
Masaki snatched the rebound, sprinted full speed, and pulled up from deep.
Swish.
47–52.
A 7–2 run.
"Tiout?" Rei asked, panting, blood on his lip.
I looked at Coach Tsugawa.
He shook his head. "Push through."
We in-bounded fast.
I slowed the ga down, waiting for Toyonaka to settle.
Then I burst into motion—one-touch pass to Taiga at the elbow, imdiate cut right.
Taiga handed it back.
Rei ca flying off the double screen.
Catch. Shoot.
Bang.
50–52.
A breath of life.
Toyonaka answered again.
Masaki jabbed, backed down Taiga, spun. Aizawa ca for the double.
Masaki faked the pass, powered up.
Rikuya rose to et him—
Whistle.
Foul. Rikuya’s third.
Masaki hit both free throws.
50–54.
Rikuya bit his mouthguard. "No way that’s a foul."
"You bodied him mid-air," the ref snapped.
"Clean contest," he muttered, walking away.
The crowd was savage now. Toyonaka’s section sang Masaki’s na like a war song.
I had to rally us.
This ti, I pulled Rei to the corner, sent Aizawa to the dunker spot, and called Taiga to screen.
Toyonaka switched again.
Perfect.
I drove left—then threw a no-look wrap pass behind my back to Rikuya.
One bounce.
BOOM.
Two-handed dunk.
52–54.
We weren’t out yet.
Then it got even bloodier.
Haruto elbowed Rikuya on a rebound. No call.
Rei got knocked on a corner closeout—blood again.
Still—we fought.
I dissected Toyonaka with IQ: Lob to Aizawa for a reverse, Skip pass to Rei, top of the arc. Hesitation into a drive-and-dish for Hiroki’s open three.
55–56.
We clawed back.
But champions respond.
Masaki called isolation. The crowd rose with him.
He faked a jab, pulled our entire defense left—then lofted a high lob over the top to Haruto.
Alley-oop.
55–58.
Back again.
I had nothing left but instinct.
Faked the screen call. Drove through two defenders. Saw Haruto creeping up.
I threaded a pass between his legs to Rei.
Layup.
57–58.
But then—the gut punch.
Two minutes left in the quarter.
We had the ball. Down by one.
I ran the set.
Aizawa flared. Rikuya posted. Rei slid corner.
I drove into the lane.
Space opened.
Then Masaki stepped in.
I went for the Euro-step.
WHISTLE.
Offensive foul.
The whole gym erupted.
I stumbled back.
"WHAT?!"
"Lowered your shoulder," the ref said flatly.
Masaki picked himself up with a smirk.
Coach Tsugawa raised his hand.
Tiout.
...
We limped back to the bench.
Rei’s lip was bleeding again.
Rikuya was clutching his ribs.
We were drenched in sweat.
Coach didn’t raise his voice.
He crouched in front of us and said, "This is it."
"They’re playing like warriors. But you’re playing like artists."
His gaze locked on mine.
"Now paint sothing beautiful."
...
Back on the court, the battle only intensified.
Haruto bodied Rikuya again—no whistle.
Yuto tried to break down one-on-one. I stayed in front, forcing a bad angle.
He attacked. Taiga helped.
BLOCK.
Rebound to us.
30 seconds left in the quarter.
I brought the ball up slowly.
"Last shot!" I called.
I dribbled out the clock.
Yuto crouched in front of , hands wide.
10 seconds.
I crossed. Spun. Faked the handoff.
Step-back.
Fired.
60–58.
Nothing but net.
The gym exploded—our section jumping, fists flying into the air.
We took the lead.
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