Extra Basket

The ball was inbounded cleanly.

Vorpal possession.

The crowd had quieted just enough for the sound of sneakers to echo, a whisper of anticipation rising in the tension-thick gym. No more shouting. Just watching.

Lucas Graves caught the ball at the top of the key.

He tapped his chest twice, then pointed forward.

Brandon saw it.

So did Ryan.

They didn't need words.

They remembered the drills. The chaos strat. The way Ethan once made a team dance to his rhythm.

Lucas spread his stance.

His eyes flickered across the Forest's positioning—just once.

And then—

He moved.

(Final shot? No.)

(Plenty of time. Let's bleed them first.)

He scanned.

Evan Cooper came curling around from the weak side, slicing through the elbow as Brandon set a subtle brush screen—legal, but almost invisible. Forest's defenders moved with practiced poise. No wasted motion. No panic. Each slide, each pivot, soft as a leaf in drifting wind.

Elijah stood near the nail.

Not attacking.

Not covering.

Just watching.

His stance was relaxed, too relaxed. But his eyes?

Fixed.

(Still reading me, huh?) Lucas flicked a glance his way. The edge of his lip twitched.

(Well… read this.)

Lucas shifted his weight and drove left.

Kael, their fastest perimeter defender, mirrored immediately. Low hips, fast hands. He was ready. Or so he thought.

Evan relocated to the right wing. Brandon sank deeper toward the block, creating gravity.

Nothing opened.

Lucas picked up his dribble.

Kick out to Evan.

Catch.

Pump fake.

Ayden bit—but recovered fast.

Evan slid sideways, dribbled once, then bounced it back out.

Lucas caught it again—same spot.

Ryan curled off a flare at the top, calling for it.

Lucas waved him off with a sharp flick of the hand.

Then something… shifted.

His posture dropped.

Knees bent lower.

The ball danced lighter on his fingers.

The crowd inhaled.

Allen Iverson's rhythm. That sharp-twitch bounce.

William's foot angle. Toes tilted, deceptive.

Kobe Bryant's triple-threat stance. Elbow tight, eyes locked.

Lucas didn't just mimic.

He fused.

Wove their spirits into one.

Elijah's lips parted slightly. Eyes narrowing.

Micah, still stuck in the corner, leaned forward and muttered to himself.

"What is he doing now…?"

Lucas jab-stepped just a twitch.

Then spun.

Came out of it with a hesitation dribble, right foot dragging like a ghost.

He pulled back.

Elijah lunged.

Too soon.

Behind-the-back crossover.

A flash.

A blur.

Then—a sudden inside-out.

The gym gasped.

Even Kael flinched.

"GO NOW!" Evan's voice cracked from the wing.

Lucas exploded.

Past Kael.

Past Elijah.

A second defender rotated Forest's big, arms raised, body square at the rim.

Too late.

Lucas didn't jump.

He floated.

Not in the way athletes leap but in the way dreamers dance.

The ball left his fingertips at the very peak of his arc. It spun, kissed the air, and sailed over the desperate reach of outstretched hands.

Time slowed.

Forest watched.

Vorpal held their breath.

The bench stood.

SWISH.

Nothing but net.

59 – 57.

Lucas didn't flex.

Didn't shout.

He just landed softly.

Turned.

And walked back on defense, eyes never leaving Elijah.

(Your turn forest watcher.)

As The arena held its breath.

The ball was passed into Elijah Rainn's hands.

He didn't sprint.

He didn't jog.

He walked.

A god descending a mountain.

The crowd buzzed like static electricity, caught between anxiety and awe — but Elijah?

He was still.

He was the eye of the storm.

(I've seen the whole map now...)

(Every rotation. Every screen. Every pass. Every delay cut. I've absorbed it all.)

Step by step, Elijah crossed half-court.

His teammates began moving like cogs in a quiet machine.

Micah slid baseline, swift and low like a shadow under a streetlight.

Kael curled to the free-throw line, brushing past his defender with a shoulder bump.

Tobias fought into position, posting hard against Brandon.

Ayden drifted from the corner, ghosting across the arc, his defender trailing like a broken kite.

But Elijah didn't pass.

Lucas's eyes narrowed. Muscles tightened. He felt it before he thought it.

(He's not setting them up... He's setting me up.)

Evan whispered, low and cold:

"He's isolating. He's coming at us himself…"

Elijah stopped three feet beyond the three-point line.

He squared up.

Not rushed. Not posed.

Ready.

Lucas slid in front, knees bent, weight balanced.

(Alright, Rainn... Let's see what you got.)

Elijah's stance lowered shoulders loose, fingertips relaxed on the ball.

One bounce. Soft.

Two. Quicker.

Then—

Snap! Snap!

The ball exploded into motion.

Jamal Crawford's signature handle. Loose. Whip-fast. Disrespectful.

It wasn't just a move it was an invitation. A challenge.

Lucas mirrored it. Perfect. Clean. No fear.

(I know that rhythm. I've mimicked it too...)

But Elijah wasn't finished.

A sudden shift weight back. Feet planted.

Stepback.

(T-Mac's angle. Shaq shoulder lean. Jordan's timing.)

Lucas launched.

Too late.

The shot was already up.

His fingers couldn't reach it.

Elijah's form elevated, effortless.

His release textbook. Balanced. Beautiful.

The arc soared above them.

Time slowed.

Swish.

The net barely moved. Just a whisper.

Score: 60 – 59. Forest takes the lead.

The crowd didn't explode.

It gasped.

One breath—held tight in 10,000 chests.

As if they'd just realized…

They weren't watching a basketball game.

They were watching warfare made elegant.

They were watching Lucas Graves and Elijah Rainn…

play chess on a burning court.

Lucas landed from his jump contest, feet barely touching wood before he spun on his heel—

Eyes burning, locked in.

But Elijah?

He was already turning.

Already jogging away from the basket, smooth and fluid. No celebration. No grin.

Just…

Control.

The kind of control that came from certainty.

The kind that whispered: This is mine.

Lucas watched him go.

Shoulders tall.

Posture relaxed.

Back turned not in arrogance, but in understanding.

The arena lights framed Elijah in a soft halo. His Forest jersey rippled slightly from his movement. And as he neared half-court—

He glanced sideways.

Not directly at Lucas.

But toward him.

And in that moment, as his eyes narrowed ever so slightly—

A thought formed.

Not loud. Not prideful.

Just curious.

(Lucas Graves... how much do you want to push us?)

Then he turned toward the Forest bench—calm as mist.

Lucas stood there, chest rising.

Jaw clenched.

Hands flexing slightly, like a pianist before the next act.

(He's forcing it out of me…)

(Every drop. Every piece.)

(Fine. Let's go deeper.)

And just like that, the next move was already forming.

Because in this arena, between these two—

Every bucket was a message.

And the reply?

Was coming.

To be continue