Extra Basket

Lucas turned, sweat clinging to his brow, eyes already flicking toward the sideline.

He raised one hand—calm, commanding.

"Set it up," he said, voice low but unmistakably firm.

Evan blinked, then his eyes lit up like he'd just been handed a loaded weapon.

"Triangle Shift. That method?"

Lucas nodded once, sharp and cool.

"Version Three. The one Ethan taught us."

For a half-second, Evan didn't move.

He just breathed.

Then, sucked in a sharp breath—like the gravity of the play finally clicked in.

Ryan, still catching his own breath from the last sequence, turned, brow furrowing.

"You sure?"

Lucas didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

Because in that razor-thin moment between Elijah's perfect no-look pass and Micah's emotionless swish from the corner, a message had been sent.

(A flawless system.)

A blueprint disguised as a basket.

And now?

Lucas was writing the reply.

29 seconds left in the 3rd.

The gym felt like it was holding its breath.

Evan brought the ball up, his dribble low and compact, chest leaning forward, eyes

scanning like a sniper.

Lucas darted to the right wing, brushing against Ryan's shoulder just enough to subtly pull

Elijah's stance off-center.

A whisper of misdirection.

The kind only a player like Ethan would've noticed—and Lucas had memorized.

The triangle began to form.

Each cut was sharp.

Each movement timed to the beat of an invisible metronome.

Forest's defenders hesitated.

Just half a step.

That was all it took.

Their bench suddenly stood—chaotic energy replacing their earlier poise.

"ZONE ROTATE! ZONE ROTATE—!" Tobias's voice cracked over the crowd.

Too late.

Evan sent a bounce pass to Ryan, who caught it like second nature.

No dribble.

No hesitation.

He immediately flipped it back to Lucas—who had now slipped free at the top of the arc, just behind the three-point line.

Elijah read the danger and broke toward him—fast, surgical, zero wasted movement.

But Lucas?

He was already ahead.

Pump fake.

Elijah bit.

Lucas stepped inside the arc—just enough to sell the pull-up jumper.

The defender lunged to recover.

Too far forward.

Too desperate.

Behind-the-back dish.

Fluid. Clean.

Straight to Evan—

Who had knifed into the lane at the exact moment.

Catch.

Step.

Lift.

Layup—

AND-1.

Cheers cracked like thunder through the gym.

The whistle came next—shrill and final.

Foul on Forest.

Score: 64 – 63. Vorpal retakes the lead.

Evan flexed and roared, face flushed with emotion.

The Forest bench slumped.

Defenders stared at each other in stunned silence.

Tobias punched the air in frustration, pacing the sideline.

Ayumi dropped her clipboard, hand over her mouth, awe glittering in her eyes.

Even Coach Fred—a man of few expressions—raised his brows.

The play was surgical.

Precise.

Deadly.

Elijah slowly turned his head, eyes narrowing.

He didn't watch the scoreboard.

He didn't follow the ball.

He watched Lucas—walking past him now. No words. No smile.

Just that same quiet fire burning behind his eyes.

The kind that didn't scream.

It promised.

(Let's do this.)

The arena buzzed like a wire stretched too tight.

Evan stepped up to the free-throw line, the ball handed to him like it weighed the outcome of the entire game.

He didn't blink. Just breathed.

Once. Twice.

Then a single bounce.

Then another.

Behind him, Ryan's voice pierced the moment.

"Let's go!"

Evan didn't nod. Didn't turn.

He just bent his knees, aligned the seams with practiced rhythm, and let it fly.

A clean release.

A whisper through nylon.

Swish.

65 – 63.

The gym erupted. But it wasn't the same kind of cheer from earlier. It wasn't wild. It was electric.

Controlled. Tense. Like people understood what they were witnessing.

Ayumi clenched her clipboard so hard the corner cracked.

Coach Fred didn't even sit—just muttered under his breath:

"He hit it. Damn kid hit it."

But this wasn't over.

The scoreboard ticked.

A few seconds left.

Forest had one more possession.

And Elijah Rainn…

He wasn't walking to the inbound line.

He was stalking it.

A shadow in motion, sweat glistening under the stadium lights, face unreadable.

Lucas glanced at him as he passed by midcourt.

No words. Just eyes.

Elijah didn't blink.

He took the ball from the referee with one hand.

And smiled.

Not wide. Not for the crowd.

Just a twitch.

An edge.

(They think they answered... but that was only my first question.)

From the bench, Tobias was already yelling orders.

Forest's formation spread like a net.

Ayumi stepped forward, hand over her heart.

Evan jogged back into position.

Ryan locked in.

Lucas stood dead center, eyes narrowing.

The court wasn't just hardwood now.

It was a chessboard.

And Elijah Rainn?

He had one more piece to move before the third quarter was over.

The storm hadn't passed.

It was circling back.

3rd Quarter — 14.6 seconds remaining.

The ball was in Ayden's hands.

Forest possession.

He stood at the sideline, fingers twitching, sweat running down his temple as he scanned the court. The crowd hummed low, expectant.

Then—

He inbounded.

Straight to Elijah Rainn.

But this time, Elijah didn't sprint.

He didn't explode off the dribble or drop his shoulders with speed.

He walked.

Slow.

Measured.

Every step sounded louder than it should have, like the court itself was watching him move, holding its breath.

Across the floor, Lucas stood just past the arc.

Tense.

Primed.

A taut wire.

His feet bounced with controlled rhythm, eyes narrowing like a sniper lining up his shot.

(Left side. He'll test me first with a hesitation. Then he'll drop low. I'll catch him mid-drop, snatch the ball, and—)

But Elijah… didn't even look at him.

His eyes weren't fixed on Lucas at all.

They were looking somewhere else.

Through him.

Past the wall of defense.

At—

Kael.

The silent forward.

Kael, who hadn't attempted a single shot all quarter.

Kael, who had stayed invisible.

Kael… who now crept along the weak side baseline like a ghost.

10 seconds.

Elijah crossed halfcourt.

Lucas adjusted, stance lowered, knees bent just right.

Coach Fred shouted from the sideline:

"Stay on him!"

But Elijah didn't break his pace.

Didn't even blink.

He lifted his hand—

And pointed.

Not at the rim.

Not at Lucas.

To the corner.

"Ayden."

Confusion rippled.

What?

Ayden's eyes lit up—he knew the cue.

Without hesitation, he sprinted hard to the right wing.

Evan followed instantly.

Ryan began to slide—

But too late.

Micah stepped out with a bone-clean screen. Shoulder angled. Perfect timing. No whistle.

WHUMP.

Ryan hit the wall of Micah's chest and staggered.

Meanwhile—

Kael darted.

A sharp cut inside from the baseline.

Lucas's eyes widened—

(Wait—Kael?!)

Elijah made his move.

He drove left hard like the play was his.

Lucas bit.

Shifted his stance.

Muscles flared.

But Elijah wasn't even looking at the basket.

His hand flicked behind him.

A no-look pass.

A smooth, effortless snap.

Straight into the hands of Kael—

Cutting behind the defense like a shadow slicing open light.

Wide open.

No help.

No resistance.

One step.

Two.

Kael soared.

BANG!

A two-handed slam that rattled the rim and tore the breath from the gym.

The crowd erupted.

Not wild.

Not random.

This was a shockwave.

A silence-breaking boom.

The scoreboard lit:

65 – 65.

The buzzer sounded just after the ball hit the ground.

Elijah Rainn just walked back with the same slow steps.

Expression unchanged.

Kael slapped his chest once and pointed at him.

Elijah didn't even respond.

He just looked at Lucas.

(Your move now.)

Lucas froze.

Not from fear.

From clarity.

(That... wasn't his move.)

(That was their move.)

The slam still echoed in the rafters, but Lucas barely heard it.

His breath steadied.

His jaw tightened.

Across the court, Forest didn't even celebrate.

No fist pumps. No screams. No taunts.

Just controlled movement.

Unity.

Composure.

The buzzer sounded signaling the end of the third quarter but for Lucas, it felt like something else had ended too.

Buzzer fades.

The court quiets.

The crowd's noise dims not from volume, but from weight.

The kind of hush that only happens before something unforgettable.

Lucas stood near halfcourt.

Chest rising.

Sweat dripping into the collar of his jersey.

Eyes locked ahead.

And across from him—

Elijah.

Still.

Breathing slow.

His fingers curled and uncurled once.

He wasn't tired.

Not physically.

But his mind was sharpening to a razor's edge.

They didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't smile.

Just stared.

Not out of hate.

Not rivalry.

But something deeper.

Recognition.

Of what this was becoming.

Of what it meant.

Of what they were dragging out of each other.

Lucas took one slow breath through his nose.

Eyes unwavering.

(You're not just a player anymore.)

(You're the wall I have to break.)

(Because if I don't…)

(I'll never grow beyond this.)

Elijah's gaze didn't flinch.

Not even once.

(You forced me to change.)

(And I hate that…)

(…but I respect it.)

The horn blared again.

Benches stirred.

Coaches called.

Crowd noise returned.

But they still didn't move.

Until—

Elijah gave the faintest nod.

One inch.

One moment.

But it spoke more than words.

Lucas answered with the same.

Then turned.

Jogged back to the bench.

Final Quarter.

Score: 65 – 65.

Nothing fake.

Nothing easy.

Only fire and storm.

And one final test.

To be continue