CHAPTER 229: CHAPTER 216: VORPAL VS PIEDMONT (6)

The horn’s buzz cracked the air, and the timeout broke apart. Piedmont’s huddle dispersed first, their sneakers stomping in unison as Coach Ron’s last command still echoed in their heads:

"We’re Spartans. No panic. Back to our grind. Hit ’em where it hurts."

Across the court, Vorpal’s bench clapped in rhythm, a defiance that buzzed louder than the crowd. Coach Fred stood with arms folded, saying nothing—he didn’t need to. He’d left the huddle in Ethan’s hands.

Ethan Albarado’s eyes were sharp, voice clipped and firm as he looked around at his teammates.

"Me, Coonie, Jeremy, Kai, Brandon. Louie sits. They’re going heavy inside, so we match ’em with size. Crash the boards, and we run."

Nobody argued. Nobody even hesitated. Coonie gave a sharp nod. Jeremy cracked his knuckles. Kai tugged his jersey tighter. Brandon clenched his mouthguard between his teeth.

Even Coach Fred only smirked and tipped his head, as though passing the crown to Ethan without saying it out loud. Floor general.

The whistle blew again, and the five walked out, shoulders squared.

Vorpal Basket

Ethan Albarado (#20) – Point Guard/Leader

Coonie Smith (#6) – Guard

Kai Mendoza (#31) – Guard/Forward

Jeremy Park (#42) – Forward

Brandon Young (#15) – Center

Piedmont Spartans

Darius "Steady D" Coleman – Point Guard

Malik "Flash" Johnson – Shooting Guard

Tyler "Skywalker" Brooks – Small Forward

Cody "Tank" Wilson – Power Forward

Brandon "Brick" Thompson – Center

The crowd rumbled, sensing the shift: Piedmont’s polished starters against Vorpal’s patchwork bench. Not just talent against talent depth against grit.

Piedmont’s First Possession After Timeout

The ball was in Darius Coleman’s hands. Calm as stone, eyes cold as he strolled across half court, the Spartans slid into their formation. Two towers inside. Wings slicing. Everything deliberate.

Ethan dropped into his stance, chest heaving, eyes narrowing.

(They want to test our legs. Fine. We’ll test their heart.)

"Talk! Talk!" he barked, voice snapping like a whip as the Spartans’ motion unfolded.

Flash Johnson burst off a stagger screen, catching the ball on the wing. Coonie was half a beat late one step too far but Ethan slid over, body angled, shadowing him.

Flash jabbed baseline, then swung the ball out to Skywalker Brooks curling high. Jeremy Park was there, chest-to-chest, absorbing the contact without flinching.

The grind began. Shoulders bumping. Cuts colliding. Posts reposting.

Tank Wilson lowered his shoulder, bullying Kai Mendoza down toward the block.

"Too small." Tank growled under his breath.

Kai’s teeth clenched, wiry arms straining.

Not moving. Not an inch.

On the other side, Brick Thompson fought for deep position, chest like concrete against Brandon Young. The crowd could feel the weight of it, the court trembling with their collision.

At the top, Steady D Coleman kept dribbling, patient, waiting for the gears to line up. Always patient.

Finally, he slipped the ball inside to Brick. The big man took it, pivoted, and muscled into a drop-step—

—but Brandon Young exploded upward, meeting him shoulder to shoulder, forearm to forearm.

"NOT HERE!" Brandon roared, his voice shaking the gym. The ball spun awkwardly off Brick’s fingers and smacked the back rim.

It ricocheted high, bodies leaping, elbows clashing.

Kai Mendoza skyed for the rebound, elbows flaring, ripping the ball down with authority.

"RUN!" Ethan roared, already exploding upcourt, thumping his chest once toward Kai like a signal flare.

Kai didn’t hesitate snap. The outlet rifled into Ethan’s hands, and suddenly the floor stretched wide open. Ethan’s sneakers screeched as he accelerated past half court, the ball alive under his palms like it had its own pulse.

The Spartans scrambled, voices cutting sharp: "Match up! Match up!" Their starters backpedaled, but they weren’t set, their spacing jagged.

Ethan slashed hard left, dragging Darius Coleman into the lane with him. Coonie Smith darted to the far corner, hands flashing open, forcing Malik Johnson to chase him like a shadow. Jeremy Park hustled in trail, just enough to bump the Spartans’ bigs off balance.

Ethan’s eyes flicked everywhere at once. (Advantage... right there.)

He planted, whipped the ball behind his back, snapping it into Kai’s stride. The Spartans’ defense swarmed instantly, collapsing on Kai like sharks scenting blood.

But Kai didn’t blink. In rhythm, he kicked it across the court, threading the ball to Aiden White, who was streaking down the opposite wing.

Aiden caught it in motion, rose without a single dribble, clean release, high arc.

Snap! Pure. The net hissed as the ball sliced through.

The Vorpal bench erupted, chairs clattering, voices erupting into one unified roar: "YEAH!"

Ethan clenched his fist, pumping it once as his voice cut over the noise: "That’s how we run it!"

The scoreboard flickered:

Vorpal 56 – Piedmont 49.

For the first time all night, the Spartans’ crowd froze—hushed, staring in disbelief as Vorpal’s bench had just diced up their starters in flawless transition.

The ball barely touched the hardwood before Malik Johnson was already clapping for the inbounds.

"Give it here!" he barked, palms snapping as he ripped the pass and surged upcourt.

Piedmont’s rhythm flipped in an instant—no more deliberate sets, no more half-speed. Malik lowered his shoulder and exploded down the lane like a freight train with no brakes. Jeremy Park slid over, feet planted, chest squared. For a split second, it looked like he might hold.

But Malik’s momentum was a storm.

"OUT OF THE WAY!" he roared, blasting through contact. His body rose with violent force, both hands gripping the ball as if it were nothing more than proof of dominance.

WHAM!

The rim snapped down under the weight of his dunk. The entire gym rattled as he hung there for a heartbeat, eyes blazing, before swinging off and dropping to the floor.

The Piedmont bench erupted. The crowd leapt to its feet, the sound deafening, the Spartans’ swagger suddenly alive again.

Before Malik could even thump his chest, Darius Coleman was already on him, grabbing a fistful of his jersey and yanking him back toward the defensive half.

"Lock the hell in, NOW!" Darius barked, his voice cutting through the noise. "They think they’re running us—no freebies. We make them bleed for every damn point."

The scoreboard blinked bright red overhead:

Vorpal 56 – Piedmont 51.

It wasn’t just a score. It was a declaration. Piedmont wasn’t broken they were pissed. And they were coming back swinging.

The echo of Malik’s thunderous dunk still rattled the gym, the Spartans barking on defense like wolves that had just smelled blood again.

Ethan took the inbound, slowing the ball as he crossed halfcourt. His dribble was steady, deliberate, but his eyes stayed low, his mind burning.

He didn’t look at the rim. He looked at his teammates.

Coonie Smith’s chest was heaving, sweat dripping, but his stance was firm still steady despite fatigue. Kai was still bouncing from that last rebound, energy bubbling but uncontrolled. Jeremy tugged nervously at the waistband of his shorts, glancing too often at the scoreboard. Brandon stood in the paint, wide but uncertain, shifting on his feet like he couldn’t decide whether to post or clear out.

(They’re raw... but raw doesn’t mean useless. I just need the right cut. A way to sharpen them into something Piedmont won’t expect.)

Ethan’s gaze swept the floor, then slid to the bench. He didn’t need to see their faces to feel their weight. The guys sitting there weren’t threatsat least not in Piedmont’s eyes. To the Spartans, they were background noise. Nobodies. Harmless.

(They wrote us off... just like they wrote me off.) Ethan’s jaw tightened, his dribble snapping harder against the floor. (Good. Let them keep thinking that. Their ignorance will be the blade we cut them with.)

He raised his voice, calm but cutting through the roar of the gym:

"Coonie—set it high. Jeremy, corner. Kai, crash weak side. Brandon, seal low. Trust me."

The team hesitated, their eyes flicking between him and the defenders tightening like a vice. But Ethan’s tone left no room for doubt.

Inside, the wrinkle of a new play was already forming in his head—an inversion that would flip the floor upside down and weaponize the very bench Piedmont thought was harmless.

This wasn’t just about surviving the Spartans’ run. This was about striking back.

Ethan clapped his hands twice, loud enough to cut through the roar of the crowd.

"Stack! Stack!" he barked, signaling the play.

The Vorpal bench players snapped into motion, lining up in a vertical "stack" near the free-throw line.

Coonie Smith (#6) at the front, jittery and ready to explode out.

Kai Mendoza (#31) behind him, crouched low.

Jeremy Park (#42) next, wide shoulders bracing like a wall.

Brandon Young (#15) anchoring at the back, a mountain under the rim.

Ethan dribbled at the top of the key, eyes cutting through Piedmont’s man-to-man press. He whispered under his breath, Bait the dog, open the lane.

Step 1 – The Decoy Run:

On Ethan’s hand signal, Coonie darted out first, sprinting toward the wing. Malik bit on the movement, sliding with him just as planned.

Step 2 – The Smash Screen:

Kai cut hard across the paint while Jeremy threw his shoulder into Piedmont’s forward, knocking him just enough off balance. The Spartans’ rotations hesitated.

Step 3 – The Real Target:

Brandon sealed his man deep in the post. Ethan’s eyes flicked—just a beat to sell it—and then, with a snap of his wrist, he rifled a bounce pass straight to Kai, who had slipped into the gap on the weak side.

Kai caught it clean, lifted, and kissed it off the glass. Bucket.

The Vorpal bench erupted, shouting, clapping, fists in the air. It wasn’t flashy, but it was sharp, crisp executed like they’d been practicing it all year instead of minutes.

As the Spartans grabbed the ball to inbound, Ethan jogged back on defense, his lips quirking.

Not just loopholes anymore. We’re writing our own answers now.

To be continue