CHAPTER 232: CHAPTER 219: VORPAL VS PIEDMONT (9)

The buzzer blared, ending the third. The gym swelled with stomps and chatter, but in the Vorpal huddle it felt like a storm bottled tight. Sweat dripped, lungs burned, eyes darted—every player waiting for Coach Mason.

But Mason just looked at Ethan. His voice cracked but carried:

"What are we going to do, Ethan?"

The circle went still. For the first time, the coach had admitted it—this wasn’t his plan to give. This was Ethan’s team to steer.

Ethan, hunched with the towel around his neck, raised his eyes. Calm, but fire simmered under them.

"Alright, listen up." His tone cut through the noise like chalk on glass. "They’re riding Malik and Darius. We can’t match their size or strength straight up... so we don’t. We out-think them."

He jabbed a finger at the board Mason shoved into his hands.

"Evan, you control the pace. No rushed plays unless it’s off a steal. Brandon, stay home—make Darius work for every post touch. Ryan, you shadow the glass. Nothing easy, not a single second chance."

He drew a quick diagram, looping arrows in clean motions.

"Lucas—you and I are the trigger. We’ll run high screens to pull Malik off balance. If he fights over, you slash. If he goes under, I pop the three. They’ll adjust eventually, but when they do? Louie, Josh, Aiden—be ready. Weak side cuts. Baseline slips. We punish every overplay."

Louie’s eyes lit up. "So like... a domino effect!"

"Exactly," Ethan snapped, already folding the board shut. "They collapse on one, another breaks free. Ball moves faster than bodies. Keep it spinning. Don’t stop."

Silence, then Brandon’s deep voice: "And what about you?"

Ethan exhaled, looking each of them in the eye. His grin was razor-thin.

"I’ll take the hits. I’ll bait their defense. Use me as the spark—make them chase me, and you’ll get the fire."

For the first time, Coach Mason didn’t add a word. He just nodded, his hands trembling around the clipboard, pride mixing with shame.

"Then let’s go burn them."

The team rose together, louder than they had all game:

"VORPAL!"

The bleachers felt the vibration before the fourth even began.

Meanwhile Team Spartans

The horn hadn’t sounded yet, but the Spartans’ huddle was heavy with sweat and silence. Their jerseys clung to their bodies, breathing ragged, muscles twitching with fatigue after three full quarters of grinding against Vorpal’s relentless push.

Coach Ron squatted low in front of them, his eyes sharp. He didn’t bother hiding the truth.

"I know you’re all tired,"

he said, voice cutting through the thrum of the crowd. "Every second you’ve been out there, you’ve been carrying this team. And I didn’t substitute the bench because you know why."

Darius, beads of sweat rolling off his chin, leaned forward. "What, Coach? Why hold them back?"

Ron’s gaze locked on his captain. A small, fierce smile tugged at his lips.

"To surpass your limit."

The players stirred, exchanging weary looks. Cody "Tank" Wilson spat to the side, chest heaving, hands resting on his knees. "Coach... we been banging down low all night. You want me to surpass that? My legs feel like concrete."

"Good," Ron snapped. His tone wasn’t unkind, but it carried the weight of command. "Concrete is hard. Concrete doesn’t crack. You—" He jabbed a finger at Cody, then swept his hand over the rest. "—are going to find out what’s left when every drop of gas is burned out. That’s the edge. That’s where champions live."

Brandon "Brick" Thompson rolled his broad shoulders, grinding his teeth. "Man, this ain’t practice... these Vorpal kids are running us ragged."

Ron’s inner thought flickered across his face for a brief second, though he kept his poker mask steady: (That’s exactly what I want. To see just how strong Vorpal Basket really is. To measure if they’re flukes—or the real thing.)

Tyler "Skywalker" Brooks exhaled hard, leaning back against the bench wall. His calves ached from sprint after sprint, but his pride wouldn’t let him fold. "Coach... they’re just middle schoolers. We’re not supposed to let some kids in jerseys out-hustle us."

Malik "Flash" Johnson snorted, brushing sweat from his forehead. "Don’t matter what grade they in—Ethan Albarado’s cooking us. Kid’s got eyes everywhere, like he knows our plays before we even move." His jaw tightened. "Ain’t normal."

Darius raised his hand, commanding calm like a true captain. "Coach... you really think this is how we win? No subs? No breather? Just... force ourselves past what’s human?"

Ron didn’t flinch. His eyes drilled into his players, one by one, as though he was peeling them open. "You think state championships are won with comfort? You think history remembers who coasted? No. It remembers who broke themselves and still kept standing."

The huddle was silent again, the Spartans staring at him, hearts pounding in sync with the roaring crowd beyond their circle.

Ron leaned in closer, voice low, intimate, meant only for them:

"Vorpal Basket is testing us. They’re younger. They’re hungry. And if you fold here, they’ll run this court and write their own story in front of your families, your friends, your town. But if you go past your limit, if you show them what Piedmont Spartans really are—they’ll crumble under your will. Now tell me... which story do you want written tonight?"

Cody grinned through his exhaustion, pounding his fist against his chest. "I ain’t lettin’ no rookie write my story."

"Damn right." Malik said, slapping the floor and standing, fire back in his eyes.

Skywalker straightened his back, jaw set. "One more quarter. That’s all. Then we rest after we bury ’em."

Brick cracked his knuckles. "Let’s smash their inside game. I still got blocks left in me."

Finally, Darius stood, lifting his chin. His voice was steady, calm, the anchor for his team. "You heard Coach. One more quarter. We don’t back down. We become the wall."

The huddle broke with a clap, hands smacking together. The Spartans rose, dragging their tired legs toward the court, but their eyes burned brighter than ever.

From across the gym, Vorpal’s bench watched them rise. Ethan, towel draped over his shoulders, didn’t miss the way Darius led his men. His lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk.

The scoreboard read: Vorpal 68 – Spartans 55.

The horn blared.

The fourth quarter was about to begin.

Lineups (Start of 4th Quarter)

Vorpal Basket

Ethan Albarado – Point Guard (floor general, orchestrating)

Lucas Graves – Shooting Guard (hungry, eyes locked on the Spartans’ guards)

Josh Turner – Small Forward (spot-up shooter, hustle wing)

Aiden White – Power Forward (athletic, versatile, glue guy)

Brandon Young – Center (big body, rim protector, solid screen setter)

Piedmont Spartans

Darius "Steady D" Coleman – Point Guard (captain, steady hand)

Malik "Flash" Johnson – Shooting Guard (explosive scorer, speed demon)

Tyler "Skywalker" Brooks – Small Forward (above-the-rim threat)

Cody "Tank" Wilson – Power Forward (bruiser, unstoppable force inside)

Brandon "Brick" Thompson – Center (enforcer, rim protector, rebounds)

Opening of the 4th Quarter

The whistle shrilled. The ball was inbounded to Darius Coleman.

The Spartans’ captain dribbled across halfcourt, chest rising and falling heavy, but his eyes sharpened. He gestured, calling their bread-and-butter set.

"Flash, curl!"

Malik darted around a down screen from Cody, cutting hard to the wing. The pass zipped into his hands one dribble, then a hesitation. He exploded into the lane.

Brandon Young stepped up, arms wide to wall him off. Malik twisted, dumped it low.

Cody "Tank" Wilson caught, dropped his shoulder like a battering ram. One, two hard bumps into Aiden White, who fought back with every ounce of muscle. On the third, Cody spun baseline.

He rose but Ethan was already rotating

Instead of fully committing, Ethan didn’t leap for the block. He slid, arms angled, forcing Cody into a tougher release. Cody hammered the dunk home anyway, rim shaking — but Ethan had subtly crowded his space, cutting off the and-one.

68–57.

The gym roared, Spartans’ fans rallying.

Vorpal’s turn. Ethan jogged the ball up with his calm, almost unreadable expression.

He waved his hand once the bench’s first true 4th-quarter play call.

"Loop Flex!"

Lucas sprinted baseline, brushing off Brandon’s screen. Josh slid to the weakside corner. Aiden popped high to fake a screen, then immediately rolled into open space.

Darius tried to fight through, but Ethan’s eyes glinted. A single bounce pass, sharp and low, threaded through traffic. Aiden caught it in stride and went up for the soft finish.

Swish.

70–57.

The crowd buzzed. The Spartans’ slam had been answered in two precise passes orchestrated by Ethan, no wasted motion.

Coach Ron stood with his arms folded near half court, his whistle hanging loose around his neck. He didn’t bark orders not in this stretch. Practice scrimmages were where he learned more from silence than shouting.

His eyes flicked from Darius Coleman directing traffic at the point to Ethan Albarado sliding across the baseline, body low, reading the angle.

Good... he’s not ball-watching. He’s studying spacing.

The Spartans swung the ball quickly, Malik curling off a screen. Ethan darted to cover, forcing him into a contested shot. The miss was immediate, but what mattered was Ethan’s timing.

Coach Ron’s brow lifted ever so slightly.

"He doesn’t bite easy," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for his assistant to hear. "Smart kid. Doesn’t chase shadows."

To be continue