CHAPTER 228: CHAPTER 215: VORPAL VS PIEDMONT (5)

Score: Vorpal 51 – Piedmont 49. Four minutes left in the third.

Lucas’s chest heaved, sweat rolling down his temple as he glanced toward Ethan. Their eyes met in the brief lull between plays—two different fires sparking in the same moment.

"This..." Lucas murmured, voice just loud enough for Ethan to hear over the stomps of Piedmont’s bench and the crowd’s restless noise. His yellow eyes burned, alive. "...it feels like a real game."

Ethan’s lips tugged into a sharp grin, his own chest rising and falling with exhaustion, yet his gaze remained steady. "It is a real game." His words cut through the noise, crisp and certain.

Lucas blinked, confused for a moment. Ethan didn’t look at him right away, he turned his head, sweeping his eyes across the entire Vorpal bench, across Ryan’s clenched fists, Aiden’s tense stare, Evan’s nervous bouncing, Josh chewing on his lip, and Brandon’s heavy breathing. Then, only then, did he lock back onto Lucas.

"...It’s just..." Ethan exhaled, shoulders tightening, as though bracing against an invisible weight. "It’s a practice game. It’s not recorded. There’s no trophy. No crowd outside these walls. But—"

He slammed a hand against his chest, his heartbeat thudding like a drum. His voice rose, sharp enough that his teammates turned toward him in disbelief.

"...It’s still a real game. Every second we’re out here, it matters. Every cut, every screen, every possession—it’s us proving we belong."

Lucas’s jaw slackened for a second, then curved into something feral. A grin. The kind of grin that lit fire under a tired body. His hands curled into fists as he muttered, "Then let’s show them... what Vorpal really is."

Ethan nodded once, eyes flashing, before turning his focus back to the court where Piedmont was already lining up their suffocating wall again.

The moment was brief, but it carried through the bench, through the floorboards. Ryan slapped his knee with a growl. Aiden leaned forward, his eyes blazing with renewed focus. Even Evan’s nervous bouncing slowed into something steady, controlled, as if Ethan’s words gave him grounding.

The air shifted.

This wasn’t just practice anymore.

This was war in disguise.

Piedmont ball.

The Spartans slowed their pace again, that suffocating crawl designed to squeeze the life out of opponents. Every bounce of the ball echoed like a drumbeat, dragging the tempo lower, grinding bodies and minds into submission.

Darius Coleman dribbled up the court, posture steady, expression unreadable. His eyes flicked over the defense with the detached calm of a surgeon preparing an incision. To him, it wasn’t just basketball, it was control, discipline, inevitability.

Tank lumbered into position, setting a bruising screen near the arc. Malik curled tight around it, a predator angling for a lane to strike.

"Switch!" Ethan barked, voice sharp as steel. He cut across without hesitation, lungs burning but mind locked in.

Lucas reacted instantly, his shoes screeching against the hardwood as he shadowed Tank just long enough before sliding back, arms wide to choke off the passing lane.

Ethan’s heartbeat thumped. Stay sharp. Don’t let him dictate. This is our possession, not his.

Darius probed, calm as ever. A hesitation dribble, a subtle shoulder dip, then a quick bounce pass threading toward Malik clean, efficient, merciless.

But Ethan lunged, instincts flashing, body cutting in front of the line.

The ball hit Malik’s hands, but the angle was smothered. He adjusted mid-step, pulling back with a sharp jerk. The Spartans’ crowd roared, sensing the grind continue, the trap tightening as the shot clock ticked down.

Lucas’s yellow eyes gleamed under the gym lights, sharp and unyielding. His stance mirrored Ethan’s perfectly. They weren’t just defending, they were syncing, moving as if some invisible thread tied them together.

Malik snapped into a sudden crossover, the ball flicking low. But Lucas struck out with a jab, hand slicing through the air, forcing Malik’s dribble wide.

Ethan rotated instantly, cutting off the angle. Their bodies aligned, closing doors faster than Malik could open them. Together, they funneled him straight toward Brandon, who loomed like a wall in the paint.

"Nowhere to go!" Ethan roared, adrenaline surging through every word.

Malik’s options evaporated. He leapt, desperation cracking through his control, and hurled a kick-out toward Darius. But it was too late—the rhythm was shattered, the clean, grinding Piedmont machine broken for that single possession.

The buzzer blared. Twenty-four seconds. Violation.

Vorpal’s bench erupted, their cheers slicing through the suffocating air. Hands clapped, voices rose, the tide turning by inches.

Ethan exhaled hard, chest heaving. Lucas turned to him at the same moment. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat the gym fell away.

Two quick, fierce grins.

They weren’t just surviving Piedmont’s grind anymore. They were breaking its gears.

Vorpal ball. Ethan wiped sweat off his brow as he crouched low, hands open, waiting for the inbound. His chest still heaved from the last defensive stand, lungs burning, but there was no time to rest. The ball slapped into his palms—solid, familiar, alive.

He darted a glance at Lucas. The boy was already sprinting upcourt, cutting through shadows and light like he owned the hardwood. A quick flick of Lucas’s fingers called for space.

"Run it!" Ethan barked, voice sharper than he intended, but he needed them moving, flowing.

The Spartans reacted fast. Darius slid back into position, shoulders squared, eyes hawk-sharp. Malik floated near the arc, steps coiled like springs, daring Ethan to make one wrong move.

But hesitation wasn’t in Ethan’s blood. Not now.

Push it. Push it. Don’t give them time to set.

He drove hard with his left, sneakers screeching as he crossed midcourt. The ball snapped up and down with perfect rhythm, almost in time with his racing heart.

Lucas flared wide, baiting Tank to lumber after him. Then knife-quick he cut toward the top of the key. Ethan saw the window and fired, the ball slicing through air like a whipcrack.

Lucas didn’t think. He felt. He caught, planted, and drove baseline. Tank’s hulking frame slid over, walling the lane, massive arms raised like a gate shutting down.

But Lucas wasn’t alone. He didn’t need to force it.

He’s there. I know he’s there.

Lucas twisted his wrist, threading the ball back across Tank’s hip. A bounce-pass, low and precise.

And Ethan was waiting already streaking into the gap before the pass had even left Lucas’s hands.

The ball kissed his grip perfectly. Ethan barely broke stride. A blur. A ghost slipping through a collapsing defense.

Two Spartans collapsed, bodies crashing inward.

Too slow.

Ethan snapped his wrist, flipping the ball behind his back. A flash. A risk. A trust.

It sailed into Aiden’s waiting hands.

Aiden didn’t flinch. He rose, body smooth, arc perfect. The ball spun free from his fingertips, floating, then dropping—

Swish.

The net sang.

The gym cracked open with noise. The crowd exploded, a storm of stomps and shouts. Vorpal’s bench leapt to their feet, fists hammering the air.

Score: 53–49.

On the retreat, Lucas jogged up beside Ethan. A crooked smirk tugged at his lips. His chest rose and fell, sweat dripping down, but his eyes glimmered.

"You’re finally doing it with me"

Ethan exhaled, a grin tugging at his own lips despite the burn in his lungs.

"Don’t make me regret it."

The Spartans regrouped, but something in the air had shifted. The crowd could feel it. The players could feel it.

The whistle cut through the gym like a blade.

"TIME!" Piedmont’s coach barked, snapping his clipboard shut with a crack.

The Spartans dragged themselves into their huddle, jerseys sticking to their backs, lungs pulling fire. Sweat dripped, but their eyes were cold calculated.

Darius "Steady D" Coleman crouched low, voice a knife-edge whisper.

"They’re baiting us with that overload crap. Stop chasing ghosts. Stay grounded. Read, don’t react."

Malik "Flash" Johnson rolled his shoulders, a smirk tugging at his lips as he cracked his knuckles.

"Then I’ll torch their weak side before they even set it. They won’t even see me coming."

Cody "Tank" Wilson slammed his fist into his palm, the sound like a gunshot.

"Next rebound? Mine. Nobody else touches it."

Tyler "Skywalker" Brooks spun the ball lazily on his fingertip, grin sharp enough to cut.

"Time to remind these kids why we wear Piedmont on our chest."

Brandon "Brick" Thompson said nothing. His chest heaved like a bull in a pen, eyes locked on Vorpal’s bench.

Hungry. Waiting. Hunting.

Across the court, Vorpal pulled tight into their own circle.

Ethan Albarado, jersey #20, leaned forward on his knees, sweat dripping into his palms. His voice cut through the noise.

"They’re rattled. Don’t let up. The Loop de Hole isn’t just a trick anymore—it’s our blade. Run it again. Force them to bend until they snap."

Lucas Graves, #10, glanced at him, voice softer but unwavering.

"They thought this was just practice. They thought it didn’t matter. Let’s show them they were dead wrong."

The bench fed off it, Kai bouncing his knee like a piston, itching for minutes; Coonie Smith muttering under his breath,

"We got this. Easy. They’re already cracking."

Jeremy Park rubbed his hands together like it was already fate.

The horn blared. Both teams rose, the gym trembling with noise.

To be continue